Smith relayed a series of depth charges while an RAF crewman radioed coordinates of the mission target. As 19 Royal Navy warships rushed to converge, Smith circled above the lone seaplane as long as fuel held out, updating the Bismarck’s location and speed while dodging anti-aircraft weaponry. British torpedo aircraft attacked the ship, and the following day, wounded and steaming in circles, the mighty Bismarck was sent to the bottom of the Atlantic.

Under American law, pilots dispatched to Britain to accompany Lend-Lease PBYs were limited to roles as observers—which did not include piloting combat search missions. Smith was awarded a Distinguished Flying Cross; however, because violation of the Neutrality Act could have embarrassed the Roosevelt administration, Navy officials delayed formal announcement of his award until after the U.S. entered the war six months later. The rugged American PBY-5, meanwhile, earned a name for itself: The Brits called it “Catalina.”

During World War II, a U.S. Army Air Forces OA-10 Catalina delivered a U.S. reconnaissance team, aided by Filipino locals, to an island in the Japanese-occupied Philippines in 1945.

Two years before, Consolidated Aircraft Corporation’s PBY (short for “patrol bomber” plus the manufacturer code “Y”) was considered obsolete. The model, evolved from 1930s flying boats, was no longer cutting-edge. All Navy orders for PBYs had been filled, and Martin’s PBM Mariner was the expected successor. But Britain’s declaration of war against Germany in 1939 revived the line: The Royal Air Force ordered 106 PBY-5s and gave them the name that stuck. Two months later, the U.S. Navy ordered 200 to perform long-range ocean reconnaissance as part of Franklin Roosevelt’s pre-war Neutrality Patrol.

Cruising at 104 to 115 mph, Catalinas were among the slowest armed U.S. aircraft in service, decidedly ill-suited to aerial knife fights with agile opponents like the Japanese Mitsubishi A6M Zero. Nevertheless, with ocean-spanning range, air-sea rescue capability, and nighttime glide-bombing tactics, the “obsolete” seaplane would play a part in almost every pivotal battle in the Pacific and serve in all other theaters of World War II—frequently in roles it was never intended to fill.

Twin Pratt & Whitney engines, a 104-foot parasol wing, retractable floats, a plethora of gun placements, a fuselage hull for a fuselage—Catalinas were suitable for both air and water and looked it. The airplane’s iconic profile frequently shows up in Art Deco prints of the era. Engine nacelles and fuel tanks were integrated into the wing and, instead of a complex crisscross of struts and wires like older seaplanes, wing support was mostly consolidated into a central streamlined pylon.

Catalinas were purpose-built for long hauls. The longest nonstop flight recorded by a PBY was more than 32 hours, and 15-hour patrols were standard in the Pacific. “Yes, it’s a long time, but it’s easy flying,” James R. McDougall remarked in an oral history interview conducted by the Eighth Air Force Historical Society of Minnesota.

An aviation ordnanceman in a Pacific squadron, McDougall described the accommodations: “Distance was not a big problem for a PBY. You could walk around in the aircraft. You could go back and relieve yourself. We had three bunks where we could sleep.” A small galley included a hot plate and stainless steel water boilers. Early in the war, hot coffee and Vienna sausages were typical Catalina galley fare. Later, crews got Spam. “You could walk around upright without bending over,” said McDougall. “It was not hard to fly, and you could get your rest and stay fresh.”

Crews counted varying from eight to 10, depending on the mission. Though the primary pilot was the patrol plane commander, usually a lieutenant, at least two other crew members were also qualified to fly the aircraft. On long, fatigue-eroding ocean routes, the three-man team worked shifts, rotating in and out of the cockpit.

On his first mission as patrol plane commander of a Catalina, Navy Ensign William Tanner detected a lone submarine loitering aloft by a U.S. destroyer. As his seaplane climbed away from the encounter, however, he was plagued by doubt: Could it have been an American sub? Were we just missed by our own people? Tanner and the crew of his Catalina resumed dawn patrol over Tonquin waters outside the entrance to Pearl Harbor, the site of a large Navy presence on the Hawaiian island of Oahu. It was six a.m., Sunday, December 7, 1941.

Very soon, there would be no doubt: Ensign Tanner’s Catalina had helped sink the first enemy ship of the first U.S. engagement in World War II. Only a mile away and less than two hours after Tanner nailed the miniature sub—an advance scout for the approaching Japanese strike force—Pearl Harbor blew up.

“Under no circumstances, should PBYs ever be allowed to come into contact with enemy fighters unless protected by a fighter convoy,” one of the Catalina pilots who survived the Jolo debacle wrote in his report. Navy strategists agreed: By daylight the Catalina was too slow, too lightly armed, and, initially, lacking crew armor and protective amenities like self-sealing fuel tanks.