Second Wind

Last year Pan American Airways' Samoan Clipper, out of Samoa for Auckland, N. Z. on the first commercial flight between the U. S. and the Antipodes, crashed, killing famed Pilot Edwin C. Musick and her six-man crew. Despite this shattering setback, Pan American stuck stoutly to its plan for a regular San Francisco-New Zealand passenger and airmail service. It ordered six Boeing 314s, biggest plane ever assembled in the U. S. (payload: 40 passengers, 5,000 Ibs. of cargo), earmarked three for its transatlantic service, the rest for its Pacific venture. Because Kingman Reef and Pago Pago, Samoa, stops 2 and 3 on its original route, provided inadequate facilities for the huge Boeings, Pan American constructed new landing bases on Canton Island and Noumea, New Caledonia, otherwise held to the same route, which now goes San Francisco-Honolulu-Canton Island-Noumea-Auckland.

Fortnight ago the trim, silver-bodied California Clipper winged out of San Francisco Bay on its first dress rehearsal. At its controls, in luckless Pilot Musick's place, was tough, tanned oldtimer Captain John Tilton; in her vasty belly a ten-man crew, 18 assorted observers. Some 17 hours later in Honolulu she stopped briefly, knuckled down to the remaining hops. Last week, seven days, some 7,500 miles from starting point, she taxied across Auckland, New Zealand's handsome, big harbor, fit as a fiddle, her test passed 100%. Proudly wired Pilot Tilton: "We received a warm and enthusiastic greeting from our friends 'down under' who welcomed the California Clipper as a precursor of an air service putting New Zealand within four days of the United States." When she gets her CAA certificate, she will start a bi-monthly service, reinforced by the Honolulu and American Clippers.

Meantime a tiny city is abuilding on Canton Island, only overnight stop not yet ready for guests. Last week a freighter steamed south with equipment for a 24-room transients' hotel, including an air-conditioning system, bar, shower baths.

America

At Newport News, Va. one noon last week Anna Eleanor Roosevelt cracked a bottle of U. S. champagne over the steel prow of the biggest, costliest (34,000-ton, $17,000,000) passenger ship ever made in the U. S., christened her America. As 30,000 well-wishers gave a lusty cheer, America glided sedately down ways slicked with 45,000 Ibs. of grease. Proudest man there was Chairman of the Maritime Commission Rear Admiral Emory Scott ("Jerry") Land, under whose supervision United States Lines' big* liner had been constructed. At scoffers he scoffed: "For the dogmatic and somewhat cynical gentlemen who tell us that our country has neither the background nor the aptitude that makes for success in maritime affairs, I have little sympathy. . . . The United States of America has a maritime tradition."

Not a new name in the U. S. maritime tradition is America. During the War of 1812 the privateer America took more than $1,000,000 in spoils from British ships. In 1851 the sailing yacht America set a new New York-Le Havre record of 20 days, 5 hours.

Unhappily U. S. shipping's heydey lasted only through 1845-60, when clipper ships, competing in the tea and opium trade, raced and beat Britain's mighty merchantmen to China. The Civil War becalmed U. S. shipping. Internal industrial development, geographical expansion and lowered transcontinental freight rates all but scuttled it. When World War I exploded, the U. S. had no merchant fleet worth mention, had depended on foreign vessels, which were immediately withdrawn from service. Feverishly she began riveting 2,000 bottoms for war trade, but by the time she had them afloat the shooting was over, world markets had collapsed. Because of high operating costs, U. S. shipping could not compete profitably with foreign carriers, and building costs and wage standards had skyrocketed. As the war-built vessels became obsolescent (a modern ship's average lifetime is 20 years), U. S. shipping had no stomach for replacements.

By 1936 U. S. shipping had scraped bottom. Of the six great sea powers, Great Britain, Japan, Germany, United States, Italy, France, the U. S. ranked fourth in tonnage, fifth in ships with a speed of 12 knots or over, sixth in vessels ten years old or under. The U. S. Government belatedly determined to build itself a merchant fleet. To that end it set up a Maritime Commission, with a smart financier named Joseph Patrick Kennedy as chairman; next-in-command: bluff, ruddy Admiral Land.

Dirtiest weather facing the Commission was in the form of labor strife. When President Roosevelt appointed Chairman Kennedy Ambassador to Britain, Admiral Land inherited it. No man to shillyshally, he straightway championed labor unions (". . . collective-bargaining organizations provide a basic stabilizing influence and are therefore most desirable"), but violently attacked union hiring & firing control on Government-owned ships. He also stepped up the Commission's program to launch 500 new vessels within ten years. Private operators, running on slender budgets, were given operating and construction subsidies.

By last August the Commission's course began to look like a good one. It had 1) developed standardized designs for two types of cargo ships, 2) placed under construction or launched 70 vessels, 3) adopted plans for 24 Pacific Coast ships, 4) established three training stations equipped to turn out some 3,000 merchant marines a year.

Big day of the Commission's ten-year program was last week's launching. Scheduled to begin transatlantic service with U. S. Lines next spring, she can carry 1,219 passengers, travel at 22 knots. Her safety devices would keep her afloat though three compartments throughout the length of the ship be flooded.

The launching was auspicious. Day after the launching ceremonies, in her syndicated column My Day, Mrs. Roosevelt reported: "In spite of my usual anxiety I broke the bottle without any difficulty."

Caravaneers

Last February the Interstate Commerce Commission, which supervises all vehicular interstate haulage for hire, was confronted with an odd request. A man named Clarence Young Rose wanted permission to continue to operate what he called Georgia Caravan Camps Inc., which consisted of an annual cross-country trip of a large group of adolescents in a fleet of truckbusses, led, for cash, by Mr. Rose. Before granting the license, the ICC thought it wise to have a good look at Clarence Young Rose and the Georgia Caravan Camps Inc. Its findings: Clarence Young Rose is a big handsome 51-year-old bachelor from Atlanta. His friends call him a "terrific salesman." It was in that role, nine years ago, that Mr. Rose organized his first traveling educational institution, and by 1938 it was something of a success. If not typical, that year's junket was at least interesting. Into ten Chevrolet trucks piled 198 youngsters, 33 camp counsellors, a great deal of baggage, a doctor and a trained nurse. In Promoter Rose's sock was $9,000 (of which he appropriated $1,100) contributed by parents as spending money for their offspring. For the trip, each "caravaneer" (Mr. Rose's term) was also charged from $200 to $475, depending on how much work he did en route. The cavalcade chugged westward on a 9,000-mile tour of 24 States. Whenever time permitted, the counsellors held lessons in history and geography, as prescribed in Promoter Rose's circulars. At night everybody pitched tents and, if the opportunity presented itself, Mr. Rose went off to town. Midway across Wyoming Mr. Rose, finding himself short of funds, organized a little side-trip into Yellowstone Park. For this he collected $4,000 extra. In Portland, Ore., broke again, he asked families back home for a "loan" of $50. Some parents anted up, others said it was the next thing to kidnapping. To molify his charges, who were growing testy, Mr. Rose then trucked them down the coast to Hollywood, presented each girl with a corsage, engaged tables for a Cocoanut Grove dinner dance. His profit from this little party was $2,500. It almost was more: instead of paying the bill he persuaded a caravaneer to pay it with a bum check. Only after the hotel had detained them both two days did Promoter Rose come across with the money. Undaunted by the tribulations of the 1938 trip, when it was ended Promoter Rose began drumming up trade for his 1939 season. He had already collected $4,930 from prospective caravaneers ("My bird dogs"), when the ICC opened its investigation. To inquiries into a 20-cent-a-day-per-person food allowance, Promoter Rose blandly explained: "Some times we get a little something added to it, and then sometimes we get a little something taken away. . . . We will be camped in a desert, and the head cook will walk up to me and say, 'We haven't got no syrup,' and even after nine years that he has gone on these trips with us, he will look around for the corner grocery store where there is no store in 20 miles of there. . . . Yes, sir, it is an unusual camping experience." Last week, having given all these facts, and many another, considerable attention, the ICC's examiner thought it best that Mr. Rose didn't operate his caravan any more.

* But no rival for the Queen Mary (81,235 tons) or the Normandie (83,423 tons). America's tonnage compares with The Netherlands' Nieuw Amsterdam.

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