At the Up Front we don't just look into the future of aviation, but also its past. That begins with this series looking at one of the most stunning, yet near-forgotten, acts of skill in civilian aviation history: the flight of the California Clipper in December 1941.
The morning of 6th January 1942 was cold. This wasn’t unusual for New York, the night-shift air traffic controller at LaGuardia’s tower thought, but it did mean he’d have to wrap up extra warm when he headed home.
He looked at his watch. It was 5:54 a.m. Two hours to go, then. Two hours more to stay awake. Boredom was the curse of the overnight shift. There were no planes to manage so it was always a struggle to keep alert. But rules were rules and the tower had to be staffed at all times. It made sense, he supposed, pouring himself another cup of coffee, but with America now at war surely there were more important things for a trained air traffic controller to-
LAGUARDIA TOWER LAGUARDIA TOWER. OVER.
The sudden burst of sound from the radio caught him by surprise and he scrambled to try and stop his cup of coffee from falling to the floor.
LAGUARDIA TOWER LAGUARDIA TOWER. THIS IS PAN AMERICAN CLIPPER NC18602 INBOUND FROM AUCKLAND NEW ZEALAND. DUE TO ARRIVE PAN AMERICAN MARINE TERMINAL LAGUARDIA IN SEVEN MINUTES. OVER.
The confused controller gave up trying and let the cup drop, shattering on the floor.
This made no sense, he thought. It was still before six and there were no seaplane flights due. Then, another wave of confusion hit him: New Zealand was — almost literally — on the other side of the world from New York. There was no Pan Am route between there and the East Coast.
The internal intercom next to the radio suddenly crackled into life.
“Erm… LaGuardia… this is Flight Watch at the Marine Terminal. Did you hear that too? Sounds like we got ourselves a surprise visitor!”
The controller grabbed the intercom.
“What the hell are we supposed to do with him?! He can’t land in the seaplane channel in the dark! And where the hell did he pop up from anyway?!”
“I guess we’ll just have to hold him until daylight.” Flight Watch replied, sounding just as baffled. “I just hope he has enough gas.”
The controller reached for the radio and thumbed it on.
“Pan American Clipper 18602.” He said. “This is La Guardia. The Seaplane channel is closed until daylight. You will have to hold for about an hour before we can clear you for landing, over.”
The reply came swiftly.
LAGUARDIA ROGER. NO PROBLEM. WE CAN DO THAT. OVER.
The controller paused for a second. He still couldn’t believe this was happening. If Flight Watch hadn’t heard it too then he’d have probably have imagined he was dreaming. In the end he couldn’t resist. He had to ask again.
“Sorry Pan American Clipper 18602 but say again. Confirm your departure point. Over.”
There was a brief pause, and then the pilot’s voice came over the radio crisp and clear, leaving no room for doubt.
I SAY AGAIN, INBOUND FROM AUCKLAND, NEW ZEALAND. BY WAY OF THE LONG WAY ROUND. OVER.
San Francisco, December 1941
To Captain Bob Ford, a veteran pilot for Pan Am, 1st December 1941 was just a day like any other. Europe was at war, but for now at least the USA was staying out of it. This meant it was business as usual on the West Coast at Treasure Island, the place from which Pan Am’s clipper services departed on their regular scheduled flights across the Pacific.
This didn’t mean tensions weren’t high. Like most other Pan Am employees involved in the airline’s Pacific services, Ford was aware that relations between the USA and Japan had been worsening for some time. Whilst few expected that it would come to war, even the airline itself had recognised that it was no longer impossible.
By 1941 Pan Am was a leviathan of aviation, largely thanks to the vision (and often cutthroat business practices) of one man — Juan Terry Trippe.
Described by President Roosevelt as “the most fascinating Yale gangster I ever met,” Trippe had spotted an opportunity to make money as the aviation age dawned and had set about building up an aerial empire. It had begun with a simple government contract to run mail to Cuba, but by the forties Pan Am had grown into a passenger and cargo carrier that spanned the world.
Trippe was a man who liked to push the boundaries of aviation. Nothing represented this better than Pan Am’s glamorous “Clipper” services. By 1941 these stretched right across the Pacific, connecting the US West Coast to the likes of Hawaii, China and New Zealand.
The fleet of planes that serviced these routes consisted entirely of flying boats. They were the only aircraft with the range to get there. Even they couldn’t do it non-stop. As a result, Pan Am had been forced to build a huge network of refuelling stations and bases on islands and atolls across the Pacific. It also required a remarkable aircraft – the Boeing 314.
Over 100ft long and with a wingspan of over 150ft, the Boeing 314 remains one of the largest commercial aircraft ever to take to the sky – indeed it would hold that record up to the introduction of the 747. The 314 could carry up to 74 passengers and required a crew of 11 to operate. It was the only plane with enough range to fly the long legs required to island hop from San Francisco, USA to Auckland, New Zealand.
“Hold dinner for me”
The Boeing 314 that Ford took command of that morning was the California Clipper. His crew was mostly his usual one, with one exception — the radio officer, Jack Poindexter. Poindexter was Chief Flight Radio Officer for Pan Am’s entire Pacific division, more likely to be found behind a desk than a radio set. The California had been fitted with new radio equipment though, and Poindexter wanted to see it in action. When he discovered that the flight was without a second radioman for the first leg of her trip (the short hop to Los Angeles) he volunteered to come along.
“I’ll be a little late tonight,” he told his wife on the phone. “But hold dinner for me.”
Off to Hawaii
Poindexter soon regretted his decision. Upon arrival in Los Angeles, he called his wife to let her know he would shortly be heading back, but was then approached by Oscar Hendrickson, the California’s Flight Radio Officer, with some bad news. The second radioman meant to join the California in Los Angeles was now also unavailable, dispatched to hospital with suspected appendicitis. Poindexter instantly knew that meant. Pan Am regulations were that no clipper flight could take off without two radiomen — a necessity given the 15-to-18-hour flight legs often involved. With no relief crew available, that meant Poindexter was the only man who could take his place.
Despite having brought no spare clothes or money with him, he was now going to have to accompany the flight all the way with them to New Zealand.
When the California took to the sky that afternoon, the sun glinting off her metallic grey hull, it was with Poindexter sat next to Hendrickson. As the flying boat turned and headed towards Pearl Harbor, he cursed his luck.
Poindexter had no way of knowing that things were about to get even worse. Somewhere out there in the Pacific, a Japanese battle fleet was doing the same thing.
Honolulu and Beyond
The California arrived at the Pan Am marine facility at Pearl Harbor on 3rd December, completing the longest leg of her outbound flight in the process. There they were joined by one more crew member of the crew — John Mack. Outgoing and gregarious, he presented a contrast to the quieter, more stoic Ford. Despite their differences, both shared a love of flying and a belief in the importance of a well-run, disciplined crew. They complimented each other well, and Ford was happy that Mack would be his First Officer for the rest of the journey.
Pearl was a popular stopover spot with the clipper crews. The hotel facilities were comfortable and the presence of the US Navy on the Island meant there were plenty of things to do. Despite his taciturn appearance, Bob Ford was a keen surfer and kept a board stashed at the Pan Am facility there. Soon he was out riding the waves while the rest of the crew relaxed, playing volleyball, cards, or sunbathing.
All the crew, that is, except Poindexter, who was soon out in Honolulu trying to find somewhere to buy a couple of spare shirts.
A Day That Will Live in Infamy
“Jesus H Christ!”
Eugene Leach tore off his headphones and pushed himself back from the desk, as if trying to escape the enormity of what he’d just heard.
It was now 7th December. The California had left Pearl Harbor three days before. Until now, the journey had gone smoothly. Having stopped off as planned at Canton Island, Fiji and New Caledonia they were now halfway to their final destination: Auckland, New Zealand.
Leach, another Pan Am radioman, had joined the flight at New Caledonia. He wasn’t rostered to be part of the crew, but his own aircraft had experienced issues. In return for passage to Auckland he’d offered to help Poindexter and Hendrickson out on the California. Ford had agreed. Since take-off, Leach had been listening for local signals coming out of Auckland. That was when he’d picked up the news.
Rod Brown, the plane’s Second Officer, was near enough to witness the radioman’s reaction. What the radioman said next would be seared into Brown’s brain. Decades later, he would remember it word for word.
“The Japs have attacked Pearl Harbor!”
The expression of horror on Leach’s face quickly dispelled any doubt in Brown’s mind that this was some kind of joke. And then the reality of what this meant hit him:
They were now a civilian flight over a hostile Pacific Ocean. Even worse: They now had no route home.
Brown told Leach to keep the news quiet from the other crew or passengers. He then headed into the cockpit to warn the captain. Ford took the news quietly and calmly.
Leaving Mack to fly the aircraft, Ford headed back to the radio desk. He quietly asked Leach to find something, anything that could confirm what he’d just heard.
Sweeping the radio spectrum, Leach managed to pick up a faint signal from Noumea, the Pan Am ground station in New Caledonia. The station appeared to be broadcasting a short morse code message on a constant loop. Leach translated it, then with a shaking hand gave it to Ford.
PEARL HARBOR ATTACKED. IMPLEMENT PLAN A.
For a moment there was silence on the flight deck. Then, Leach and Brown watched as Ford reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a sealed brown envelope.
Ford was, by design, the only member of the crew to whom the last part of the coded message made any sense. For some weeks now, every clipper captain had been handed a sealed envelope on departure. They had been given strict orders not to open it, on pain of immediate termination. They were told to open it only if the unthinkable happened. Pan Am had been quietly preparing for war.
The California’s captain opened his envelope.
To: Captain, PAA Flight 6039 — SFO-LAX-HNL-CIS-SUV-NOU-AUK and return flight 6040.
From: Division Manager, Pacific Division
Subject: Special instructions to avoid hostile military activity.
Pan American Airways, in cooperation with the Chief of Staff, United States Army, Commander-in-Chief, Pacific Fleet Operations, the Secretary of War and the Secretary of State, has agreed to place its fleet of flying boats at the disposal of the military for whatever logistical or tactical purpose they may deem necessary at such time as hostilities break out between the United States forces and the military forces of the Imperial Japanese government.
In the event that you are required to open and read these instructions, you may assume that hostilities have already occurred and that the aircraft under your command represents a strategic military resource which must be protected and secured from falling into enemy hands
Ford read on, finding the section for Plan A. He was to continue on to the nearest friendly Pan American base known to be unoccupied by the Japanese. Turning back for Noumea would be dangerous at this point, so they had no option but to continue to Auckland.
That meant flying through skies that they could no longer be confident were friendly. Luckily for the crew and passengers of the California, Ford had been a Navy pilot before joining Pan Am. He knew exactly what to do. They needed to get off their regular route — it was the first place any Japanese forces would sweep — and find a new path to Auckland.
Rod Brown was dispatched to the map table with orders to find them a new route to Auckland. Meanwhile, Leach was ordered to shut down the radio. From now on they would continue in radio silence.
This done, the news was broken to the rest of the crew and passengers. Then, one by one, all internal and external lights were extinguished. They would be flying dark now. Before returning to the cockpit, Ford carried out one last, almost symbolic act. He unlocked his flight case and pulled out his old service revolver. When he slid back into the chair beside John Mack, it was strapped to his hip.
In the darkening skies over the Pacific, The California Clipper’s war had begun. And she was a long, long way from home.
This series will continue next week.
