She has gone now; the roar of her four mighty engines no longer resound through the San Francisco night air as her throttles are “two-blocked” for take-off. People no longer set their watches when they see her blinking lights knife through gathering patches of evening fog as she climbs out over the twinkling city lights of Oakland. The parade has passed, the giant lies still, a memorable saga has ended.
“She” was the Martin Mars, the most majestic, efficient, and reliable seaplane transport craft that ever became airborne. The most spacious, comfortable, and “uneventfully eventful” air carrier in the aviation game. A monarch of the sky, correctly billed as the finest 75¢ ride in the military service (75¢ being the price charged officer personnel for their meal aloft), and the safest, too.
The Mars was first put on the drawing board in 1937, the product of a dream on the part of the late Glenn L. Martin and which proponents of land-based aviation did not consider visionary, but rather, downright foolish. Still, as the senior surviving member of a group of doughty air pioneers who advocated seaplane flight as far back as 1910, Mr. Martin persisted in a view which foresaw great if not unlimited possibilities for the mammoth flying boat which could successfully operate from almost any sheltered waterway in support of combat or pure transport requirements.
Mars originally took shape as a long-range patrol bomber, having been given her basic engineering start in September, 1938. Laboriously fitted together on a home-grown, handmade basis, the seventy-two-ton behemoth took final form by the summer of 1941. The intervening years from design to final assembly had changed somewhat her avowed mission (from patrol bomber to transport), but she was still designated XPB2M-1—Experimental Bomber, 2nd version, built by Martin, 1st model—a long-winded tag, but a craft which was destined to fulfill all of the requirements.
Construction statistics emphasized the size of the future Pacific Queen. Into the air frame was crammed 7j miles of wiring, over three million rivets, 60,000 pounds of aluminum, almost thirteen tons of steel, 750 pounds of rubber, 650 cubic yards of fabric, 2,000 pounds of copper, tin, and zinc, 300 gallons of paint—and twenty-four separate telephone outlets for internal communications.
Out of a contract which represented an initial outlay of almost eight million dollars emerged a seaplane giant the likes of which the aviation world would not see again until her successor came along almost two decades later. From the deep recesses of the Baltimore factory’s largest hangar burst into view and into print an airplane which had the cubic capacity of a fifteen room house within the confines of her 117-foot double-decked hull, whose wing tip dimensions measured only 100 feet shorter than a regulation football field, and whose gross weight of 144,000 pounds embodied the ability of air-lifting over twenty-five tons of payload. With the unveiling of the Mars the day of the water- based transport aircraft had truly arrived.
Of interest is the manner in which the name was determined. Far from trying to associate the plane with the god of war, factory representatives had been casting around for a production name which started with the letters m-a-r (in abbreviation of “Martin”). “Mars” was suggested and the sobriquet struck, as did Mariner, Marauder, and Marlin on subsequent military aircraft manufactured by the company.
Equipment and accessories were installed in the PB2M, and the great “iron” bird took to the air on her first test flight on June 23, 1942. Now that war had come to America each acceptance trial was conducted, not in the spirit of routine day to day evaluation, but in terms of the maximum potential which the craft could muster. While still the property of Martin, the Mars (by this time affectionately dubbed “the Old Lady”) used her Middle River, Maryland, seadrome as a jump-off point in a series of record shattering flights. Eased into the air by Mr. C. T. Robertson, then Senior Test Pilot at the Martin plant, the PB2M flew a 32-hour and 17-minute endurance run on October 5 and 6, 1943 in racking up 4,600 non-stop miles over a course bounded by New York, Baltimore, Norfolk, and Cape Cod—thus exceeding the international closed course endurance record for seaplanes by about 50%.
Not content with cracking established marks the Old Lady showed off for the high ranking civilian and military critics aboard by climbing a minimum of 300 feet per minute with two engines inoperative, and making acceleration “g” pull-outs from dives which imposed a stress of over 210 tons on her wings—the approximate weight of a Coast Guard cutter! Demonstrated here were the built-in safety factors which were destined to protect a total of a quarter of a million passengers, ultimately carried by all the Mars without death, injury, or accident to fare-paying personnel. The Navy was in ecstasy and Mr. Martin wore another feather in his cap.
The Navy formally accepted delivery of the PB2M in December of 1943 and promptly put her on the transport firing line, flying the plane all over the Western Hemisphere in order to best determine her “slot.” Final delivery was made to Air Transport Squadron TWO in February, 1944. The choice was a natural in that this, the military establishment’s only multi-engine seaplane transport outfit and second oldest airline in the Navy, had been herding the Consolidated PB2Y Coronado over Central and Western Pacific air supply routes for \\ years previous and thus stood as the activity most qualified to fly the new sky giant. With the Mars in action the increase in naval air lift accomplishments became a matter of record. Within a few days after acceptance she flew her first trip to Hawaii, disgorged a 20,500- pound cabin load, gassed, loaded up, and winged back to VR-2’s home port at NAS Alameda, all in the space of 27 hours and 28 minutes.
Delivery figures bounced upward all the way to the front lines as the PB2M completed 78 round trips to the Central and Southwest Pacific before being retired from service early in 1945. During the campaign for Iwo Jima she delivered 120 cargo tons of blood plasma to WestPac in a single month, and before being put out to pasture she had carried three million pounds of vitally needed air freight across the Pacific. News of the Old Lady’s accomplishments even reached Japanese school children, as the Mikado’s propagandists, with typical exaggeration, published a lead story in a primer used to instruct Nippon’s moppets, to the effect that the aircraft could carry 70 tons of bombs alone. The Mars was good, but not that good.
Meanwhile, Martin engineers had been busy. Having been apprised of the fact that directional control of the Mars could be substantially improved by substituting a single for the twin tail, they went into a huddle with the Bureau of Aeronautics and came up with essentially the same flying boat, but now fully configured to transport lines. Eighteen were ordered at a cost which came to 3.5 million dollars each. Final assembly on the first ship of the new series was completed on March 21, 1945, and the aircraft designated JRM-l-Utility transport, Martin, 1st model. Besides the single tail innovation, three feet were added to the hull length, gross weight was increased to 148,500 pounds, and range boosted to a maximum approaching 5,000 statute miles by the addition of larger fuel tanks in the hull.
Contract cancellations at the end of World War II reduced anticipated construction of eighteen JRMs down to the five whose hulls were then completed; a mistake later publicly acknowledged by one of the Bureau’s top Admirals, when he stated, “We had eighteen of these ships on order, but chopped them off after they built five. Now we wish we hadn’t.”
The JRMs upheld the tradition of the Old Lady, and then some. The first of five deliveries was made to Air Transport Squadron TWO in February, 1946, as the Marshall Mars touched down in the Alameda seadrome for the initial time. By early summer, 1946, the Marianas, Hawaii, and Philippine flying boats had also joined the VR-2 line and the Pacific run was finally augmented in earnest.
Records were established with almost monotonous regularity. In fact the Hawaii Mars set a record for setting records as she transported a 35,000-pound cabin load to Honolulu (a seaplane mark), evacuated 100 litter patients on the return trans-pac (greatest number to that time), air-lifting 120 people as she did so (another seaplane achievement of the day). All these accomplishments were entered in the record book within the space of forty-eight hours.
May, 1948, saw the final JRM delivery to the fleet. Having been tested at NATC Patuxent River for almost a year, the Caroline Mars was re-engined with the Pratt & Whitney “corn cob,” a power plant which displaced 4,360 cubic inches as against 3,350 for the Curtiss Wright unit which powered the other four ships. Take-off horsepower was increased by 500, to 3,000 available and maximum gross weight was thereby upped to 165,000 pounds. Cruising air speed was increased thirty miles per hour with the new power package.
On the return hop of her first trans-pacific flight, in August of 1948, the Caroline Mars showed military and civilian planners that the concept of seaplane mobility and efficient transport was here to stay. Having been formally christened by Mrs. D. C. Ramsey, wife of the then Commander-in- Chief, Pacific, she lanced her way from Honolulu to Chicago, non-stop, a distance of 4,728 statute miles (still a seaplane mark). Not content to coast, she hauled a record payload of 68,327 pounds from Patuxent River, Maryland, to Cleveland, Ohio, a month later.
Work horse characteristics were not displayed by the Caroline boat, alone, however. Between 1946 and 1950 VR-2 averaged five round trips per week to the “islands” with some special flights going as far as Japan. Indeed in 1946, until load requirements dropped off, regular runs were also made to Majuro, Sangly Point, and Saipan. And between times the Pacific Queens were turned into showboats. Annapolis midshipmen on their summer cruises were flown in splendor to various military establishments on both coasts. Captain Fortune of radio and television fame, originated a children’s program aboard one of the flying giants. The aircraft were in constant demand for static display at air shows and civic expositions, and at each of these over 2,000 people a day would walk in amazement through the cavernous hull, note the operation of the internally located crane (which could lift and transport through the use of overhead rails, a 5,000 pound load), and view a flight deck larger than the entire cabin of a DC-3 transport.
Military and civilian VIPs, taking heed of the fact that the Mars, with her foam rubber lined semi-reclining seats, foot rests, hot food and drink availability, and comfortable built-in bunks for the most senior of them, presented the finest ride in Uncle Sam’s fighting establishment, flocked to her ramps at Honolulu and Alameda.
The passenger was always king. SN sat next to ADM if that was the way seniority stacked the load. Riding in such spacious surroundings, many passengers took to roaming the various compartments, asking questions of personnel at the different crew stations. There was always room and time for a good stretch and a coffee break as the big ships droned to or from Hawaii under a star- spangled sky. Parents would invariably take their children up to the “front office” where they sat on the co-pilot’s knee while happily playing airplane driver.
Concerning the operation of the Mars, efficiency was always the byword. Until the advent of the R7V Super Connie and the R6D Liftmaster on the Pacific run, she proved 28% more efficient than other transports operated by the military and in some cases out performed civilian carriers by 51%. In 1946 Commander Naval Air Transport Service issued a memorandum in which it was stated that the Mars was carrying 3½-4 times as much cargo as was the largest land-based craft flying over the same routes, and in only 3½ more hours.
During the trying times of 1948, imposed as the result of Flog Wing and MATS planes being withdrawn from the west coast in order to link the chain of supply in the Berlin Airlift, the five queen ships of VR-2 were left virtually alone as the airborne supply force for components of the Pacific Fleet. Scheduling seven round trips per week the distinguished old girls rose to the occasion and maintained such an enviable availability rate that they drew a commendation from then DCNO, Air, Admiral John D. Price, for their trouble. Indeed, the Mars came within an eyelash of going to Germany, too. Crews were alerted, bags packed, and flight plans filed for the first stage of a journey which would have seen the flying of short haul river runs in support of beleaguered Berlin, each load grossing more than 40,000 pounds of groceries. The plan was called off a scant two hours before departure time in that vital supplies had to be carried westward.
Unique flights were flown on so many occasions that they could almost have been called an order of the day. In November, 1948, a freighter carrying elephants and rare tropical birds bound for American zoos, ran out of food while still 1,500 miles at sea. Replenishment was effected as the Mars dropped twenty bales of hay and buckets of worms, in floatable containers, alongside the distressed ship. On May 19, 1949, the Marshall Mars set the all time world’s record for airlifting passengers on a single flight as she transported 301 members of a carrier air group, plus a crew of seven, from Alameda to San Diego. Each Christmas saw the JRMs turned into Santa’s sleigh as they taxiied into the dock with thousands of pounds of toys for hundreds of underprivileged children being feted and entertained by personnel of VR-2. The interests of science were served on one trip to Hawaii as over 2,200 insects, in strategically placed cages, were treated to a new “kiss of death” insecticide spray in order to test its effectiveness. And on one eastbound crossing, made noteworthy because an embarked Vice Admiral helped brew the passengers’ coffee so that the crew could view the lava spewing Mauna Loa, a seaman was prompted to comment on his reaction sheet: “This is the only flight I have ever been on where coffee was served by an admiral, and an erupting volcano by the crew.”
The Mars record which crew personnel spoke of most, with quiet pride, was the feat of carrying almost a quarter of a million passengers in perfect safety. This accomplishment was attributed to a combination of superbly trained flight personnel and the rugged durability of the flying boat itself. “Return emergencies” (REMs they’re called in the trade) sometimes dotted the statistics page of a squadron flight report, but the high flying ladies of the Pacific never stood in jeopardy. Indeed, on two occasions an engine actually tore itself loose from the airplane (the result of excessive vibration caused by faulty propeller blading) and though the plane commander reported that while listening to the radio, he had heard the rescue center, aircraft in the vicinity, and God, all “loud and clear,” both flights were concluded in an otherwise uneventful manner.
On another flight, during the Korean campaign, with the Mars returning stateside from a special trip to Oppama, Japan, two engines malfunctioned, necessitating their being shut down. Another engine developed trouble and was able to maintain little more than cruising speed, so was not much help. That left only one plant, turning up full blast, to keep the craft airborne. Still the Mars completed the run to Alameda, one wing cocked high to offset yaw, “two out, one running, and one walking,” as the pilot put it. She always came home.
Only one accident marred an otherwise unblemished slate. In April, 1950, while on a routine test hop out of Honolulu, the Marshall Mars caught fire in the air, the result of a gasoline leak at one of the engines. The aircraft landed just off the entrance to Oahu’s Keehi Lagoon where the crew fought the flames and than abandoned ship when the fire got out of control. There were no injuries, and no passengers were embarked.
Mars flights continued to the Central Pacific, at the rate of three round trips per week, until early summer of 1956. Then, with the arrival on the operational scene of the Convair R3Y Tradewind, her runs were slowly slackened off as more personnel received interdepartmental transfers to the new aircraft for crew qualification training.
The first of the proud old sea monarchs to retire from active duty was the Philippine boat. Supported by her ungainly beaching] gear, she was towed over to the landplane side of NAS Alameda, there to be maintained in a “fly-away” status pending final disposition by the Bureau of Aeronautics. The Caroline and Philippine Mars followed suit at intervals of approximately three weeks until, at the last, only the Marianas tugged at her mooring lines in the dock. She flew her last trans-pacific flight, August 18-22, 1956, receiving a memorable Aloha as she departed Honolulu and a helicopter escort upon taxiing out of her San Francisco sea lane for the last time. Bands played, admirals waxed eloquent, and many a nostalgic tear was shed. Five days later she was hauled from the water and the story ended. From drawing board to pasture just under two decades had elapsed.
So the Mars is gone now. Passengers no longer press their faces to her ports in order to catch the first view of Diamond Head looming out of an azure sea, or of the Golden Gate Bridge majestically astride the San Francisco headlands. The wind which once howled past her fuselage now only sighs through her struts, and sings a low and eternal requiem. Her accomplishments are all that remain: flying an equivalent of over 23 round trips to the moon, racking up a total of 87,000 accident free flight hours, establishing lift and distance marks which will not soon be surpassed, and leaving memories of the most comfortable ride ever offered.
* Pidgin English: the corruption of “. . . no better, this kind.” A term used by the “island boy” of Hawaii in describing something he regards as perfect.