From Paradise Cove, scene of many a moonlight picnic on the Marin County shore of San Francisco Bay, six big navy seaplanes taxied out with a mighty roar one noon last week. With their 30 officers & crew they comprised Patrol Squadron 10-F, bound for Honolulu's Pearl Harbor. Except for excited San Franciscans who lined the city's hills to watch the takeoff, there was little commotion over what was to be the longest formation flight ever attempted—2,400 mi. The Navy did not think of it as a remarkable flight but a routine transfer of equipment and personnel by air. On San Francisco Bay weather was almost too good. Loaded seaplanes need a brisk headwind or a slightly choppy sea to help them pull up from the water. The ships of 10-F huge Consolidated sesqui-planes with 100-ft. wingspread and twin Wright Cyclone engines, were each loaded to the gunwales. After a half hour's fruitless taxiing over glassy water Plane No. 4 hoisted herself into the sky. Thirty minutes later the flagplane piloted by Commander McGinnis got off. For nearly two hours they circled over the bay while the remaining four charged up & down and smaller planes taxied around to kick up a swell. Finally a shout went up from the bridge of the U. S. S. Gannet, where stood Admiral David Foote Sellers, Commander-in-Chief of the U. S. Fleet: "He's up!" Plane No. 5 had found a breeze off a point of land, had climbed on it. At five-minute intervals her sister ships followed her and then in triad formation Squadron 10-F hummed out through the Golden Gate, bent a great circle course over six patrol boats anchored at 300 mi. intervals across the Pacific. Next morning the commanding officer of the naval station at Pearl Harbor received a radio message: "REQUEST PERMISSION TO LAND AND MOOR AT ASSIGNED BEACH. . . . MCGINNIS." At noon, just 24 hr. after leaving San Francisco, the squadron roared over Diamond Head and Waikiki to a pretty landing on Pearl Harbor and a thunderous welcome from the proud folk of happy Honolulu. There was little for the officers to report. All had gone well. Plane No. 5 had been separated from the squadron by fog a couple of times, but had resumed her place without difficulty. The squadron's fuel tanks still contained enough fuel to carry it on to Midway Island, some 1,200 miles westward.
Unionizer Out
The man who organized the Air Line Pilots Association is a big, fiery six-footer named David Louis Behncke. He was born on a Wisconsin farm. During the War he was a crack bomber and machine gunner. Today he holds every possible military and civilian pilot's license, has some 8,324 hr. on his log with never a serious crackup. For five years he flew the mail west out of Chicago for United Air Lines. Two years ago Pilot Behncke whipped the pilots' union together from the ranks of the ineffectual National Air
Pilots' Association. At first his idea of A. F. of L. affiliation was scorned by most flyers, who feared a loss of professional prestige by rubbing shoulders with locomotive engineers. But after Errett Lob ban Cord cut pilots' wages the Association solidified, grew to 675 strong. Last week President Behncke was out of a job.