China Clipper

by Robert Gandt

  CHINA CLIPPER

  CHINA CLIPPER

  The Age of the Great Flying Boats

  ROBERT GANDT

  NAVAL INSTITUTE PRESS

  Annapolis, Maryland

  The latest edition of this work has been brought to publication with the generous assistance of Marguerite and Gerry Lenfest.

  Naval Institute Press

  291 Wood Road

  Annapolis, MD 21402

  © 1991 by Robert L. Gandt

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  First Naval Institute Press paperback edition published in 2010.

  ISBN: 978-1-61251-424-6 (eBook)

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:

  China clipper : the age of the great flying boats / by Robert Gandt.

  p. cm.

  Includes bibliographical references and index.

  1. Seaplanes—History. 1. Title.

  TL684.2.G36 1991

  629.133’347—dc20

  91-15386

  Print editions meet the requirements of ANSI/NISO z39.48-1992 (Permanence of Paper).

  987654321

  All line drawings by J. P. Wood. Frontispiece map by William Clipson.

  To Ruth Gandt with love

  Contents

  Preface

  1.Musick

  2.Curtiss and Company

  3.Extended Range

  4.Boats for Hire

  5.Trippe

  6.NYRBA

  7.Sikorsky

  8.Teutonic Ambitions

  9.The Latins

  10.The Flying Forest

  11.The Next Step

  12.Pacific

  13.Wings of Empire

  14.The French Flair

  15.Martin

  16.China Clipper

  17.Orient Express

  18.Losses

  19.The Right Vehicle

  20.Boats of the Reich

  21.American Export Airlines

  22.Boeing

  23.War Day

  24.In Service

  25.Requiem for the Big Boats

  26.Dinosaurs and Might-Have-Beens

  Appendix A. Line Drawings

  Appendix B. Charts

  Notes

  Sources

  Index

  Preface

  Why the Flying Boat?

  By the third decade of powered flight, when aeronautical technology had evolved to the contemplation of over-ocean travel, not one major civil airport yet possessed a long, flat, paved surface sufficient to accommodate the weight of an oceangoing transport airplane. Nor was any airline or sponsoring government inclined to construct such a surface. A more expedient option seemed available—the two-thirds of the planet that happened to be already flat, unobstructed, and, incidentally, covered with water.

  Thus arrived the age of the great flying boats. It lasted sixteen years, commencing with the news of the Dornier Do X project and ending with the postwar scuttling of the Boeing boats. This brief episode occurred at a crossroads in history. It was a time when the ancient rites of the sea were joined, for just a moment, with the infant craft of flight.

  From the beginning, its days were numbered. Even the unlikely name—flying boat—was an anachronism. The hybrid craft was regarded just as its name implied—a boat that happened to be capable of flight.

  It was never a wholly satisfactory scheme. “Neither grand pianos nor airplanes belong in sea water,” quipped the critics, with justification. For airplanes, the ocean was a place of peril. Salt water ate like acid into metal components. Flotsam and submerged objects ruptured fragile duralumin hulls. Ice floes lurked like mine fields in northern waters. Giant swells turned sheltered harbors into heaving, mountainous seascapes. Boarding docks and motor launches were required to embark and deplane passengers, often in tossing seas.

  These harsh realities are often blurred in latterday recountings. Histories of the flying boat, like those of the airship and steam locomotive, tend to conjure up nostalgia. Mystique substitutes for fact. Which aircraft was the most “romantic?” The most famous? Appeared in the most headlines? Engaged in the most spectacular flights? Carried the most eminent passengers? Which was the fairest of them all?

  Aeronautical history ought to interweave with function. As a prerequisite to understanding, we must ask unromantic questions: What was the aircraft’s weight? Tare? Wing loading? Power-to-weight? Load-to-tare? Range with a revenue payload? Without? When and where did it fly?

  But there is more. The pure “fact book” disregards the subtle historical nuances of an era. In aviation history, machines are inextricably bound to the lives of the men who construct them, fly them, deploy them, destroy them. The account is punctuated by human pride, greed, courage, soaring ambition, egregious folly. Soulless machines become imbued with the passions of their flesh-and-blood builders.

  People thus count for as much as machines. From the record of the great flying boats, we ought to ask: By whom was this airplane built? Why? By whom flown? What was it designed to do? Did it do it well? If not, why not?

  Why the flying boat?

  The feel and flavor of the flying boat era were eloquently conveyed to me during the past decade by three pioneer captains, Marius Lodeesen, Horace Brock, and William Masland, all now deceased. Further valuable insight was contributed by old boat captains Fran Wallace, Jim O’Neal, Harry Beyer, Bob Ford, Al Terwilleger, Thomas Roberts, and Ken Raymond, all veterans of Pan American.

  Navigator/instructor E. F. “Blackie” Blackburn contributed his knowledge of celestial navigation as practiced on the flying boats.

  Mr. Sergei Sikorsky kindly reviewed the text concerning his father, Igor Sikorsky, and made available the archives of United Technologies Corporation, which are managed by Ms. Anne Milbrooke.

  The considerable resources of Pan American World Airways were indispensable in the research for this book. For this kind assistance I am indebted to Pan Am’s Vice Preident for Corporate Communications, Jeff Kriendler, and librarian Li Wa Chiu. Valuable materials were also contributed by the Martin Marietta Corporation, Dornier GmbH, Lufthansa, British Airways, and the Boeing Company.

  Old friend and colleague, Captain J. P. Wood, produced the excellent line drawings and the appended graphics.

  Of particular assistance with French flying boat data was Stephane Nicolaou of the Musée de l’Air et de l’Espace at Le Bourget Airport. Materials and advice about the German boats were generously given by historian Fred Gutschow of Munich, Germany. Mr. R. E. G. Davies, Curator of Air Transport at the Smithsonian Institution’s National Air and Space Museum, lent frequent help and provided the recently unearthed story of the Martin M-156. A special acknowledgment is owed Dr. R. K. Smith, author and historian, for his forthright critique throughout the production of this work.

  CHINA CLIPPER

  1

  Musick

  Ed Musick had never wanted to be a hero. It was hard to understand, looking at him, why he had been chosen for the role. He possessed none of Lindbergh’s youthful charisma. He was a slender, soft-spoken man, neither handsome nor articulate, forty-one years of age. He spoke infrequently, and then with a sparsity of description.

  Musick was a pilot, which was all he had ever aspired to be. But the events of the past year had changed everything. To his own astonishment, Ed Musick had become the most famous airline pilot in the world.

  It was the afternoon of 22 November 1935. The departure ceremony was scheduled for two-forty-five. The band played a Sousa march while the guest speakers mounted the platform.
Behind the reviewing stand waited the great ship, her massive wings forming the backdrop for the scene. A gigantic flag was stretched across the grass, guarded by 170 boy scouts.

  In the lobby of the seaplane base, Musick saw the map that someone had stapled to the wall. It was a chart of the Pacific Ocean. The inner blue expanse of the chart was mostly empty, containing only a pattern of widely scattered dots connected by a penciled line. Musick could read the names of the dots: Hawaii, Midway, Wake, Guam.

  The Pacific had never been crossed by a commercial airliner. Only eleven days ago, Musick had taken delivery of the flying boat at the Glenn L. Martin factory in Middle River, Maryland. Now he was supposed to fly the new ship westward, across the widest part of the world’s widest ocean. If all went well, he would fly her all the way to Asia.

  There were so-called experts who said it shouldn’t be done. Such an undertaking, they said, was too dangerous, at least for a commercial airline. Such stunts should be left to the military. The Pacific was too wide, too unpredictable, too filled with unknowns. The craft of aerial navigation was still too primitive, and the new radio direction finders had not yet been proven. The new flying boat, they pointed out, had never actually flown across an ocean, not even as far as Hawaii. Musick had heard all this. He quietly went ahead with his job.

  Bombs and rockets were bursting overhead. Sirens wailed from boats in the bay. It was said that a hundred thousand people were lining the shores of San Francisco Bay to watch the departure. A circuslike script had been written by the airline’s publicity department. There would be speeches and a ceremonial loading of mail bags, and then Musick’s sailing orders would be delivered by his boss, Juan Trippe. The entire event was being broadcast by CBS and NBC and transmitted live on seven foreign networks.

  Musick wore the all-black, double-breasted uniform of the Pan American pilot. There were no stripes to denote his rank. Without the white, navy-style cap and the gold wings, he might have been taken for an undertaker. People seldom noticed when Musick came into a room.

  It was only when he entered the cockpit that Ed Musick seemed to grow in size. He would settle himself into the left seat, his brown eyes flicking over every gauge, instrument, knob, and lever. “Meticulous Musick” he was called. He believed in precision in everything from the knot in his tie to the tiniest details of an ocean flight.

  He had a ritual. With thumb and forefinger he would straighten the creases in his trousers. He would adjust and readjust his seat until his hands reached the yoke at precisely the right angle. With a handkerchief he would clean the face of each instrument. His fingers would glide to each lever and knob, turning, setting, making fine adjustments. Not until everything was to Musick’s satisfaction would he give the command, in his soft voice, “Start number one.”1

  Free of her moorings, the great ship glided out into San Francisco Bay. The four Pratt and Whitney R-1830 power plants growled in a low rumble. Behind the flying boat trailed a wake, sparkling in the autumn sunshine.

  She was the largest airliner ever constructed in America. Her sleek lines were a radical departure from the wire-bound, strut-braced machines of her day. Until she was built, no transport aircraft yet existed that could carry both a payload and the vast store of fuel required to reach the distant bases of the Pacific.

  “Captain Musick,” said a voice on the radio, “you have your sailing orders. Cast off and depart for Manila in accordance therewith.”

  The band played “The Star Spangled Banner.” Twenty-two aerial bombs exploded over San Francisco Bay. Ships’ whistles blew, and fire hoses streamed geysers of water.

  Ed Musick eased the four throttles forward. The thunder of the Pratt and Whitney engines echoed from the buildings on the shore.

  The giant ship surged ahead. She was aimed between the spans of the unfinished Bay Bridge. As she swept past, onlookers read the name emblazoned on her bow: China Clipper.2

  2

  Curtiss and Company

  There was something typically American about them. They were dreamers and tinkerers and adventurers—and prodigious achievers. They sprang from the same soil that produced Edison and Ford and Sperry.

  It was more than coincidence that a nation like the United States would produce a Wilbur Wright and his brother, Orville. And it was inevitable that the brothers would be followed by a man like Glenn Hammond Curtiss.

  Like the Wrights, Curtiss began as a builder of bicycles. His fascination with things mechanical led him into experiments with gasoline engines and then, adapting them to his cycles, the manufacture of the fastest motorcycles in the world. Typical of Curtiss, he rode the machines himself. At the Florida Speed Carnival in 1907, he set a speed record of 136.3 miles per hour over a measured mile, a record that stood for twenty years.1

  In 1907 Curtiss became one of five members of a group called the Aerial Experiment Association. Headed by the famous inventor Dr. Alexander Graham Bell, this group dedicated itself, according to its charter, “. . . to get into the air by the construction of a practical aerodrome* driven by its own motive power and carrying a man.”2

  The work of the AEA was both historically significant and controversial. Since 1903 the Wright brothers had held a clear lead in the development of powered flight. But their obsessive secrecy and determination to maintain exclusive rights to their inventions led ultimately to bitter and withering court battles with their rivals. Prominent among these were the members of the AEA and, particularly, Glenn Curtiss.3

  Curtiss’s contribution to the AEA was that of practicality. Lacking the formal education of his colleagues, Curtiss preferred to sketch his ideas on shop walls, measure by thumb, derive his solutions by trial and error. An innovator rather than a theoretical engineer, he was a man most comfortable in the workshop.

  The AEA produced a series of aircraft, beginning with gliders. Their third aircraft, the June Bug, was designed by Curtiss. With this machine, at his hometown of Hammondsport, New York, Curtiss won a trophy sponsored by Scientific American magazine offered for the first officially observed aeroplane flight of a distance of one kilometer or greater.

  Curtiss had begun to think about a seaplane. In a letter for the AEA Bulletin on 19 August 1908, he wrote:

  The scheme of starting a flying machine from, and landing on, the water has been on my mind for some time. It has many advantages, and I believe can be worked out. Even if a most suitable device for launching and landing on land is secured, a water craft will still be indispensable for war purposes, and if the exhibition field is to be considered, would, I believe, present greater possibilities in this line than a machine which works on land.4

  Outfitting the June Bug with floats and renaming it the Loon, Curtiss experimented that winter on Lake Keuka, near his home at Hammondsport. The Loon would not fly. Additional horsepower did not help. The Loon could not free itself from the water.

  This was Glenn Curtiss’s first encounter with the matter of “unsticking” a waterborne aircraft from a smooth body of water. Before he could solve the problem, the Loon ruptured one of its floats and sank into the freezing water of Lake Keuka.

  To a Frenchman, Henri Fabre, fell the distinction of making the first flight of an aircraft from the water. Fabre, who was the scion of a wealthy shipping family, had already produced one non-flying aircraft. In 1910 he completed construction of a machine he called Hydravion. Hydravion’s design owed much to the Wrights: It was a biplane with a forward-mounted elevator, using a system of wing warping for roll control.

  On 28 March 1910, after a previous unsuccessful attempt, he flew Hydravion from the water at La Mède, near Marseille, and traveled 1,640 feet before returning to the water.5

  Fabre’s experiments were generally successful, although the fragile Hydravion had severe limitations and never became a truly practical seaplane.

  With a successor to the June Bug named the Golden Flier, Glenn Curtiss had set the earliest aviation records during the Rheims aviation meet in France in 1909, establishing himself
as the premier American aviator. With this machine, he resumed extensive testing of float configurations.

  “Unsticking”—the vexing matter of water suction around the pontoons—still eluded him. Fleeing the bitter cold of upstate New York, Curtiss established a winter headquarters and flying school on North Island, an isolated sandy island near San Diego. Here he experimented with over fifty various float combinations.

  The navy, meanwhile, concluded that they could no longer afford to ignore these events. To Curtiss’s flying camp on North Island they sent an officer, Lieutenant T. G. Ellyson, to receive instruction.

  “Spuds” Ellyson was a submariner by training. He possessed an engineer’s analytical mind and a zeal for flying.* It was the team of Ellyson and Curtiss that launched the navy into the age of aviation.

  By 1911, Ellyson and Curtiss had devised a float arrangement consisting of a pair of wide, planing “sea wing” pontoons, installed in tandem. Curtiss managed to fly this contraption from the surface of San Diego Bay. He then tinkered for the next several weeks with the design, refining it to a single, twelve-foot-long, flat-bottomed float with small cylindrical outrigger floats installed at the wingtips.

  In a demonstration for the navy, he flew from North Island to the USS Pennsylvania, anchored in San Diego Bay. Landing alongside the battleship, Curtiss and his airplane were hoisted aboard by crane. After he had paid his respects to the captain, Curtiss had himself and his machine lowered back to the water. He took off and flew home to North Island.

  This performance, as well as the successful deck launch and recovery of another Curtiss machine flown by Eugene Ely, was sufficient proof of the airplane’s potential. In May of 1911, the U.S. Navy placed orders for two Curtiss airplanes, designated A-1 and A-2. The age of naval aviation had begun.

  A week after his flight to the Pennsylvania, Curtiss fitted retractable wheels to the floats of his hydroaeroplane. With this configuration he demonstrated a water takeoff followed by a landing on the beach at Coronado, near San Diego. Named Triad because of its land, sea, and air capabilities, Curtiss’s machine entered the records as the world’s first amphibious airplane as well as the first aircraft equipped with retractable landing gear. That year, 1911, Curtiss was awarded the Collier Trophy for his work with the hydroaeroplane.