John Delach

On The Outside Looking In

Tag: aviation

January 29, 2025

Demise of Pan American Flying Boats

It didn’t take long after the end of the war for Pan American to abandon its flying boat service in favor of a new generation of land planes, particularly the Douglas DC-4, the Lockheed Constellation and the Boeing Strato Cruiser.

Captain William M. Masland ended his book about his ten-year experience operating these “flying boats with wings” with a final chapter about the end of his career flying these unique airplanes. He gave the chapter a simple yet haunting title: Requiem.

In December of 1945, my crew and I waited in Lisbon for Joe Hart and his crew to bring us a ship for the return to New York. This would be winter time, long way round by way of Africa, South America and the West Indies. The route was by now well established, but I sent a message to New York asking them what schedule they wanted us to follow on the return passage.

“We  don’t care,” was the answer. The Atlantic Division had a new interest, land planes. The DC-4’s were operating and the Lockheed Constellations could be  expected any day. They’d forgotten all about the flying boats.

I soon discovered that the passengers and crew all wanted to be in New York for Christmas, so we flew for three days and most of three nights, stopping only for fuel, finally landing at Bowery Bay at two o’clock in the morning the day before Christmas. This marked the last flight of a Pan American boat into New York.

In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, courageous seafarers explored the watery world. In the twentieth century the great flying boats in similar fashion explored the atmosphere that surrounds the globe. Now the boats were finished, gone where the sailing clippers went.

The night watchman met us, no one else. No flags, no bands, no speeches, just the night watchman making his usual rounds. There never was a quieter end to a brave and glorious era.

American Export Airlines was the first airline to offer regularly scheduled landplane commercial flights across the North Atlantic. Using DC-4 aircraft, it began passenger services from New York and England via Gander on 24 October 1945. PAA started its own flights through Gander very shortly thereafter, also using DC-4s. By the start of the new year, it scheduled five DC-4s per week from London via Gander and two more from Lisbon via Gander and the Azores. A typical DC-4 flight New York-London with a stop at Gander was 17 ½ hours.

Pan American soon upgraded its fleet of aircraft. The first Constellations were delivered on 14 January 1946 and the first Stratocruisers in 1949. All of these flights also stopped at Gander.

The flying boats quickly faded. The last Boeing B-314 operating across the Pacific was the California Clipper withdrawn in 1946 and the last B-314s to go were those operating between Baltimore and Bermuda in late 1951.

In 1947, PAA moved all operations from LaGuardia’s Marine Air Terminal to the  New York International Airport in Idlewild, Queens on Jamacia Bay. Nick-named Idlewild, this facility was re-named after John F. Kennedy in 1964 after he had been assassinated.

The Marine Air Terminal fell on hard times after Pan Am left for JKF. Eventually, it was named a national historical landmark and it was refurbished by the Port of NY and NJ. Today, Delta operates their Boston and DC shuttles from this terminal.

Transatlantic flights continued to improve as newer and aircraft with longer ranges joined their fleets. The introduction of the Douglas DC-7 C Model in 1956 and that of the Lockheed L 1049 Super Constellation in 1955 finally enabled fights to by-pass Gandar. But the success of both these airliners was short lived as the Boeing 707 Jetliner entered Pan American’s trans-Atlantic service in 1958…and that is a whole new story for another time.

Important Notification:

Dear Reader, Unfortunately I must suspend On the Outside Looking In until March due to a medical issue that requires me to undergo a radiation regiment until then. I look forward to rejoining you once this regiment is behind me.

See you on the other side.             

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January 22, 2025

The First Flight Around the World: Part Two

Bahrein, January 25, 1943: Having reached our destination, we awaited our orders. An army captain flying through gossiped, “Of course you know that you have to wait here until the Casablanca Conference is over. Then you are to fly Roosevelt, Churchill and Stalin out east to meet the Generalissimo.” 

He rattled on while the crew sat mouths open and eyes popping. The First Officer and I did what we could to keep the crew busy and it wasn’t until almost two weeks later that we finally received orders to embark for Ceylon. As we approached our destination, Trincomalee, we managed to make our approach in dirty weather. Visibility was only one mile, less in rainsqualls. We found the pass to China Bay and half-mile beyond it the R.A.F. moorings in Malay Cove. And that was that. In the lounge, I discovered there had been a sudden and complete change in military thinking. General Wedemeyer and two aides on their way east would now be our passengers. Disappointed, but greatly relieved that the plan to put Roosevelt and Churchill on the same plane through unfriendly skies across a wide and little frequented ocean had been scrapped.

Our next destination was the northwestern coast of Australia. We knew our airplane was overweight by one ton. I took a deep breath and opened the throttles. The engines responded with a smooth, even roar. We raced across the bay toward a low spot in the hills. We put all our blue chips on the table and the clipper lifted off easily. We were airborne at eight-fifty, local time, two minutes early. It was now the sixteenth of February and the weather remained cloudy forcing us to continue navigating by dead reckoning until well after sunset. Two hours later the upper clouds vanished allowing the navigators to shoot three stars for a fix.

This first fix in ten hours of dead reckoning showed a navigational error of thirty miles. Not perfect, but not bad, an average error of three miles every hour. I took a two-hour break before re-assuming command just before day break. We were in a slow decent and an hour and a half later we leveled off at one thousand feet. It was now broad daylight and the last of the clouds had vanished. A half-hour later land came up out of the horizon ahead of us. And the automatic pilot tracked us directly over the Fraser Lighthouse, the marker for our arrival.

After one circuit of Exmouth Gulf, we located a fueling tender and landed four minutes later. Colonel Arnold came aboard in a foul mood. His relationship with PAA had soured and I sensed that he decided to blame us for the president’s cancellation. He flew with us on a short hop to Perth where we picked up twenty-six homeward bound U.S. Naval officers. Arnold left us there together with General Wedemeyer and I never saw either of them again.

We left Perth in the late afternoon so as to make a daylight landing in Brisbane where we began the long road home. After leaving Australia, we first stopped at the beautiful harbor in Noumea, New Caledonia where we slept on cots. From Noumea, we were forced to stay south of the equator for the next two days before heading Northwest for Pearl Harbor. Remember, this was early 1943 and the Japanese still controlled most of the Central Pacific including Wake and Guam.

Our route took us by way of Fiji and Canton Island with an overnight stop at each. The next morning, we decided to postpone our flight to Honolulu to tackle the repairs needed to restore the engines that had given us trouble back to working order. It was a beautiful night and we were soon airborne. The sun was three hours up when we landed at Pearl Harbor after a flight of fourteen hours. That night at dinner in the Moana Hotel, our entire passenger list came trooping into the dining room in good spirits, dropped a lei around my neck, and presented me with a handsome pen-and-pencil set, a generous thing to do.

After our first attempt to fly to San Francisco was aborted because of engine problems, we corrected the issues and left Pearl Harbor the next day. On arrival, fog was the problem, but I followed the letdown we devised eight years before for the China Clipper to deal with the fog. We flew south overhead the Oakland beacon before letting down. When about over the San Mateo Bridge, turned back and had the whole bay ahead of us to land where the fog was the thinnest and the steam traffic was nil.

We checked into the St, Francis Hotel, two to a room. The next day provided the first chance  for the crew to let their loved ones know they were still alive and almost home. The lineup of crew members at the telegraph desk was overwhelming. I moved on to take care of other business., leaving the hot blood of youth to pour out its affection via Western Union.

Next afternoon, we set off for New York and home with “just one more river to Cross.”

Our flight across the continent in a seaplane would be as long a flight as we had attempted, more than twenty hours. There was no help to be had from the westerly winds that night; the high-pressure saw to that. The ship would be heavy at departure, too heavy to top the cloud-covered Sierras. Well, all right, then, go under the clouds.

We did, wriggling through the San Bernadino pass under the cloud deck and clearing the trees, or whatever it is that passes for vegetation in those parts, by a positive figure, and that covered that problem, with the whole night ahead of us for coping with the next. We aimed for Atlanta by way of Fort Worth. From Atlanta, we could either continue to New York or turn south for Miami and clear skies. At mid-watch I turned the ship over to Austen and climbed into my berth in the aft crew quarters. When Mc Goven woke me, I asked him how we were doing.

“Ten minutes ahead,” he answered. “The winds are a bit better than forecast.”

I went forward to the flight deck. Tonight, the engines all sang in harmony. We had a half-hour to go to Atlanta. Time to make a decision. I sat down at my desk and over a cup of coffee went through the radio messages It still came out the same, everything north of Charleston was subject to overcast and fog, everything south, sunshine.

Prudence said, “Play it safe. Go to Miami, wait for the front to clear New York and fly home tomorrow.”

But conscience said, “You have flown into unknown places with worse weather. You know the Jersey coast. Go home and quit stalling.”

The first officer entered the flight deck, a questioning look on his face.

“We’ll carry on to New York, Mr. Austen. I’ll relieve you on the hour.”

Hours later it began to turn light in the east. Near Baltimore we peeled off the airway and headed east across the pine barrens of Jersey groping our way down through the layers of cloud that looked like torn and dirty laundry. We found the ocean somewhere north of Cape May, returned to the beach, and followed the line of the surf. We flew toward New York harbor passing Wildwood, Ocean City, the steel pier at Atlantic City, which called for a short climb to clear it. Then Ocean Grove, Asbury Park, and finally, Sandy Hook. The ceiling here was higher. We came up the East River over the bridges, not under, and landed in Bowery Bay at nine twenty in the morning, double daylight-saving time.

Ed Mc Vitty stood on the dock to greet us, a broad smile on his face.

“They took it for a joke when you sent us the message from Honolulu saying you’d be here this morning when the offices open but I told them to have the beaching cradle on the railway by nine. It’s ready for you now.”

“Sorry to be twenty-minutes late, Ed. We had a problem in San Francisco getting security data.”

“Never mind, Bill. If you didn’t make it when the office opened, at least you’re in good time for the coffee break.”

And so ended that voyage, the long way around the world, crossing the equator four times, through unfriendly skies, thirty thousand miles in all.    

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November 20, 2024

How Port Washington Gave Birth to Pan Am’s Transatlantic Operations: Part Two

Denise Duffy Meehan

Edited by John Delach

November 2024

(In 1937,) Pan American World Airways proved that commercial aircraft crossing the Atlantic on a scheduled basis was now feasible. That understanding encompassed Port Washington and fifteen hundred watched the return of Clipper III from Southampton, England to Port. 

Still, those that would make money on the routes had a long way to go. Aircraft capable of making the crossing was a priority. The Sikorsky S-42B, used to pioneer the northern and then the southern Atlantic was inadequate for the task. It had required 2,300 gallons of fuel, 160 gallons of oil  and 1,995 pounds of spare equipment to make the first survey. While nothing was spared operationally, little in the way of amenities was provided for the crew. Their meals consisted of celery, olives, soup, salad and strawberries. And, while the high cruising altitude with open windows to aid in celestial navigation (at times 11,000 feet) required heavy outer garments, the flight suits were not fur-lined as reported.

After proving that it could be done, Pan American set out to get aircraft to make it all feasible. In 1938, Europeans did fly surveys over the Atlantic, and boats representing Air France and Lufthansa utilized the Port Washington facility. Finally, on March 3, 1939 technology caught up to reality  when Mrs. Roosevelt christened the “Yankee Clipper,” a Boeing B-314. She was taken on a shakedown flight from Baltimore, over the southern route to Marseilles arriving on March 3 and along the northern route between Baltimore and Southampton on March 28.

The first transatlantic airmail departed from Port Washington on May 20 returning on May 27. The first revenue passengers departed from Port Washington for Marseilles June 28, 1939. Thereafter, weekly service over northern and southern routes was routine from April through November. Eventually, four B-314 flying boats served on the routes.

The airship had come a long way in comfort. Constructed at a time when industrial designers had come into their own the interior of the Boeing was a crossbreed between a gentlemen’s parlor and a chrome environment. There was room for a crew of 12 and about 34 passengers. The bulk of these being the well-to-do with enough to do the daring. A large lounge and sleeping bunks were some of the finer features, features that ironically still turn up in the first-class sections of aircraft today.

While the boats, as they were floated into the landing docks were impressive, the spit and polish of the crew taking over their craft at the first bell, then boarding passengers at two bells, was dramatic. However, the reality of the Port Washington base was disappointing. What would resemble a third world airport today housed facilities such as Customs, Immigration and Public Health, along with the operation division of the airline.

The “terminal” was modest with few amenities. But, this, after all was just a temporary headquarters. Condos would soon be all that stands where aviation once was grand.

 (This planned development never saw fruition. World War II and the cold war prolonged Port Washington’s role in aviation. Grumman had a plant there during World War II as did Republic during the Korean War. Post war utilization by Thypin Steel, an importer, followed and by the time they left the property in the early 1980s, the site was deemed thoroughly polluted and uninhabitable and too poisonous to ever support condominiums.)

The writing had been on the wall, or more correctly on the lease, for a permanent home even before the first transatlantic passengers ever departed Port Washington. On May 20th  Mayor Fiorello LaGuardia and Pan American chairman, C.V. Whitney had signed a lease for an airport at North Beach. Today, we know it as the Marine Air Terminal at LaGuardia Airport. Ironically, after more than 40 years, Pan American returned to that terminal basing its northeastern shuttle operation there.

Port Washington’s place in aviation history did not end in March of 1940 when the boats left town. Grumman operated Plant 15 there from April 1942 until the end of the war ) making parts for the navy’s TPF Avengers, that carry a torpedo or bombs.) The company even provided a 12-inch reinforced concrete road, now called Sintsink Drive, which was bombproof, making it possible to move materials after an enemy attack. Republic Aviation took over the facilities during the Korean War, manufacturing wings for F-84 jet fighters there.

Soon enough, perhaps only the concrete road and a commemorative plaque at the Town Dock will be all that is left of Port Washington’s aviation claim to fame.

Editor’s note:

MS Denise Duffy Meehan ended her piece by thanking William M. Masland then living in nearby Manhasset for all of insight he gave to her in writing her piece. Masland was the navigator on the first transatlantic survey in 1937. He eventually became a Captain of the Flying Boats himself and, when the US Navy requisitioned all of Pan American’s Flying Boats after Japan attacked Pearl Harbor, Masland went on to become a Commander in the Naval Reserve, a position he would hold until he retired in 1962.

He wrote a book about his history and experience with Pan American Flying Boats called “Through the Back Doors of the World in a Ship That Had Wings,” a title, only an engineer would love. His book originally sold for $14.95. Today, if you can find a volume, expect to pay  the market value. for example, it cost me $94.00 plus shipping and handling. (I asked my family to buy it for their eighty-year-old father for Christmas.)                             

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November 13, 2024

How Port Washington Gave Birth to Pan Am’s Transatlantic Operations: Part One

The article I am about to present was written by Denise Duffy Meehan for a publication called, Good Living. I have had an aviation love of Pan American’s Flying Boats and everything about them since I was a child. My godfather flew for Pan American starting as a flight engineer on the Boeing B-314s and retiring as a pilot flying the Boeing 747. Being paid to fly doesn’t get better than that.

One of the facts that enhances my attraction to these fabulous machines is how brief a period their careers spanned. The entire reason for their existence was due to the fact that when the routes across the Atlantic and the Pacific were first proposed, Pan American faced major gaps in land-based airports large enough to support these giants especially, runways long enough for take-offs and landings. By the end of World War II, these gaps had mostly disappeared and large land-planes were soon available to enter service.    

Port Washington isn’t exactly an international destination. Yet there was a time, some 50 years ago ( now 87 years) when this bay community was aviation’s eastern gateway to America.

It all began in 1937, when a fledging airline with grand ideas, Pan American World Airways, determined to conquer the North Atlantic, as it had the Pacific, the Caribbean and the eastern coast of South America to Brazil.

Port Washington was chosen as the eastern terminus of the circuitous route that included New Brunswick, Newfoundland, Ireland and finally, Southampton, England. Why it was chosen was a combination of geographical merit and available resources.

The airships that challenged “The Pond” were called flying boats because, in a sense, they were. As water-bound as tadpoles, (they were giant forerunners of today’s seaplanes) the boats required long stretches of smooth water to get aloft. So, the shelter of Port Washington’s Manhasset Bay and the expanse of the Sound beyond Plum Point gave Port Washington a leg up on other waterfront communities in the race for the international sea-airport.

But it was the seaplane facilities of the American Aeronautical Company, manufacturers of the Savoia Marchetti airplane that sealed the deal. The company had constructed a waterside facility in 1929 – operating it as a test base for its S-55 and S-56 aircraft (available for a mere $7,373 fly-a-way) and as a rental hanger / ramp called the New York Seaplane Airport. Pan Am purchased the 12-acre parcel in 1933, intending to use the large hanger for storage while continuing to lease space in the smaller buildings to private seaplane operators.

In 1936, this small hanger made a minor stand in aviation history by hosting two German flying boats exploring the airspace over the Atlantic. The Aclous and the Zepher were distinctive as they were the only aircraft of the class to be launched via catapult from a mothership, the “Westfalan.”

No doubt this German effort and other great aviation rivalries added to the zeal with which the Pan Am base was fitted for the U.S. Airline’s own surveys. (Survey was the official term used to describe the testing of heretofore uncharted air routes.) Announcements of the upgrade to over-ocean airbase was made April 2, 1937. On June 18, Pan Am’s first commercial passengers to be flown over the northern Atlantic were carried from Port Washington to Bermuda. In order to gain landing rights in Crown territories, the U.S. agreed to permit Imperial Airways, the British Precursor to BOAC and later British Airways to land in Port Washington.

Icing conditions forced the airlines to relocate Bermuda service to Baltimore the following November. Weekly service from Port Washington resumed April, 1938 and again in 1939. Rates to Bermuda in June of 1938 including air, hotel and meals were $172 per person for seven days and $262 for 16 days in Depression dollars, this translated into a tariff that only the patricians could afford.

When it came time to chart the vast ocean that until then only daredevils as Linberg, Wrong Way Corrigan and Beryl Markham had flown, it was predetermined that surveys would be done reciprocally. Pam Am would depart Port Washington on July 3, 1937 in its Clipper III, with Captain Harold Gray and a crew of seven aboard at the same time Imperial Airways “Caledonia” with Captain Wilcockson in command, left Southampton, England for Port.

All backers (Imperial was not only flying for the Crown but also France and Germany) would share their results and the unwritten rule was that all glory would get equal pay. So, even though the Pan Am boat reached European landfall on target and within six minutes of its estimated arrival time and Caledonia missed Newfoundland altogether and had to backtrack, arriving one and a half hours late, the press gave them equal standing.

While this example of one upmanship is dear to the hearts of the crew who flew her, other aspects of the 15-day, 7,000-mile Clipper III flight interest historians. Among them are the fact the first airline weather map made for the North Atlantic was utilized and the first “commercial’ aircraft siting of an ice berg was reported to the U.S. Coast Guard.

Even though Captain Gray responded to the Irish press that the trip “was a nice little joyride,” it was hardly a lark. Navigation prowness and extreme vigilance accounted for dead-on landfall at the River Shannon, but it was strong nerve that actually got the crew there.

Being the 11th aircraft to succeed after 86 attempts to cross the Atlantic was less important than the other points the survey set out to prove. As one newspaper reporter put it, Pan Am proved that crossing the Atlantic was out of the realm of stunt flying and within the grasp of commercial aviation. And that grasp encompassed Port Washington. Fifteen hundred spectators turned out to greet the Clipper on her return home.           

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