Charles Kingsford Smith and Those Magnificent Men (49 page)

‘I watched Smithy and Pond climb up into the cockpit, warm up the three 200-horsepower Wright Whirlwind motors and then taxi to the far end of the long runway. The
Cross
was loaded with 80 per cent of her full tankage. This was to be one of a series of test-flights, in which petrol load was to be gradually increased, so that both men could become acquainted with the behaviour of the aircraft on take-off under all load conditions.’
²⁴

Stannage watched, mesmerised, as the great plane rumbled down the runway before finally lifting to the skies. He liked this man an enormous amount. (That affection, however, didn’t extend to wanting to join Smith and Ulm on their trip, when they later approached him to be their navigator. An adventure was one thing, a suicide mission quite another).
²⁵

Based on their test flights, the Australians were able to gather more and more information on how their plane needed to be modified, and bit by bit they improved it. Their modifications included redesigning the rudder to make it capable of holding the plane straight if one of the now more powerful side engines failed, then strengthening the fuselage to enable it to carry the modified rudder, and fitting the plane with stronger axles and wheels so they were less likely to collapse under the strain of such a heavy load while still on the ground…

It was hopeless. No matter how hard Ulm tried,
facing the round eternal of the cash-book and the journal
—sustained only by passionate drive, and constant loving and encouraging letters from his wife, Jo, at home—he simply couldn’t make headway in getting money out of anyone, and things were now getting urgent. It wasn’t simply that they lacked the money to make the flight; it was that they didn’t have enough money to pay their daily bills.

Things were so grim that they could not afford to even buy a half-decent meal. As for paying their hotel bill, the worst of it wasn’t that they couldn’t—because that point had been reached several weeks before—but that they were running out of ruses to convince the hotelier that payment was just around the corner. There was a real risk that they would shortly be thrown onto the street.

Clearly, they needed a breakthrough in securing finance, and a quick one. In the short term, all they could cobble together to stay afloat was a series of loans. Keith Anderson’s mother sent them £400. His uncle extended them £600, though on the strict and written proviso that when the flight took place, his nephew would be on board. Most importantly, their great friend Locke T. Harper extended them an enormous personal loan, and arranged for the
San Francisco Chronicle
to take out a mortgage on the
Southern Cross
itself—and the name ‘Chronicle’ soon appeared under both wings, by way of aerial advertisement. Smithy, meantime, cabled his brother Leofric in Australia, asking him to sell the remaining Bristol Tourer and to use the proceeds to hopefully pay some debts they had left behind at home. These, however, were only interim measures, until they could get what they needed, which was serious business backing.

To attract that backing, they needed credibility and, just as had happened six months earlier, it was decided they needed to do something to get their names into the headlines, make everyone sit up and take notice as to just what a fine plane they had and what good aviators they were. Why not set about breaking the world record for the longest time aloft, which then stood at fifty-five hours, twenty-two minutes, thirty-one seconds and was held by two Germans, Cornelius Edzard and Johann Risticz, who achieved it on 5 August 1927.
²⁶
That
should impress a few folk. At least, just the idea of it impressed the Associated Oil Company, which promised, at Ulm’s behest, to pay off their American debts if they did indeed break that record.

If successful, the flight would have three outcomes. Firstly, and most importantly, the aviation manager of the Associated Oil Company promised to clear all their debts.
²⁷
Secondly, it would allow them to test all their theories about long-distance flying during an actual flight and modify their plans accordingly from what they’d learned. And finally, Kingsford Smith could put himself to the personal test, to find how he would perform under such conditions.
²⁸

10 January 1928. It had come to a coin toss.

Three Kiwi men had started out with the dream of being the first to fly from Australia to New Zealand across the Tasman Sea, and yet, after all was said and done the only plane they could afford to buy to make the attempt—a single-engined Ryan B.1 Brougham monoplane by the name of
Aotearoa
, G-AUNZ—could only hold two of them.

So what else could they do? Captain Ivan Knight was devastated to lose the toss. So it would be Lieutenant John Moncrieff and Captain George Hood who would do the honours.

In high excitement, Hood and Moncrieff took off from Richmond air base at 2.44 am on Tuesday, 10 January 1928. Before them lay a journey of 1450 miles to Wellington. With an estimated flying time of between fourteen and seventeen hours, this should see them landing to a heroes’ welcome late the following afternoon, New Zealand time.

And New Zealand was ready for them, all right. For the previous few days the New Zealand papers had been in a fever of anticipation about the attempt, and an enormous crowd of spectators and journalists built up at Trentham racetrack when the likely time of arrival approached. As they waited for the plane, the centre of attention was the attractive wives of the two men, Dorothy Moncrieff and Laura Hood. They were alternately laughing with each other and gazing to the west, whence their husbands were due to appear, and the atmosphere was gay and celebratory. This really would be an achievement, and it was to the good that the record of a trans-Tasman flight would be set by New Zealanders and not Australians.

At six o’clock at Trentham racecourse the mood was fever pitch as all eyes strained to the west, everyone wanting to be the first to spot them. At 7 pm there was still no sign, but nor was there undue alarm. Who knew what kind of headwinds they had met over the middle of the Tasman Sea? Why, they could be anything up to a couple of hours later than planned, or maybe even three.

And yet when nine o’clock came and went and there was still no sign, there was no more giggling from the wives, just an earnest, unbroken gaze to the skies,
willing
their husbands to appear. The large crowd didn’t like to keep glancing at their watches, as it sort of seemed disloyal, but they couldn’t help themselves.

9.20…9.30…9.45…still nothing. And so the evening dragged on like a sad leper.

By 10.30 pm, a pall of gloom hung over the racecourse. No-one wanted to say it, but everyone feared the worst.

Finally, at 1 am, Dorothy Moncrieff looked at her watch and said slowly, ‘Their petrol has now given out.’
²⁹
She went home.

San Francisco, 17 January 1928. After four aborted attempts on the world endurance record, they were ready once again.
³⁰

The runway at Mills Field extended for just less than 5000 feet and, now that the
Southern Cross
was fully loaded with fuel equalling the weight of sixty-eight men, the reckoning was that the aviators would need every drop of it. True, there was a downside in that a levee had been built around the western end of the field to keep high tides out—meaning that at the end of the runway there was effectively a wall facing them—but they would just have to live with that. At least they
hoped
they could live with that, because it simply didn’t bear thinking about what would happen if, so heavily laden down with fuel, they were to hit that wall. (Though the likelihood was that all that would be left to put in their coffins would be their molten tooth fillings.)

In the normal course of things, at the moment that the pilot opened the throttles at one end of the runway, the plane would buck forward rather in the manner of a frisky horse that had just felt the touch of a spur…but not on this occasion. The
Southern Cross
was so heavily laden that at first there was only barely perceptible movement along the runway, and then for the next 100 feet or so, the plane sort of waddled forward at walking pace. Finally, though, her speed built up enough that she really was rushing down the runway, and at the 2000 feet mark had achieved 90 miles per hour. But still no lift. Three thousand feet…4000 feet…

And then to the moment.

In Kingsford Smith’s own words: ‘We charged on. Some instinct peculiar to airmen told us that the old bus would make it. The gallant plan was now “all out”. When we were still about 300 yards off the wheels left the ground for a few inches. Then they settled again.’

The last hundred yards!

‘We deliberately pushed forward the controls. The effect was to drive the machine downwards. At that speed the contact with the ground developed into a bump. We had bounced the now flying machine over the levee.’
³¹

Even then, however, danger was stalking close, with death riding shotgun as the
Southern Cross
flew on, only bare feet above the water, which would suck them down in an instant if they just touched it. It was a desperate mile later before they had burnt enough fuel to rise even a small height above the ocean.

From this point, the key, as Smithy saw it, was to ‘maintain a nice balance between the maximum speed for safety and the minimum speed for consumption. This meant holding the plane at stalling point all the time—a highly risky proceeding with an overloaded machine. Nevertheless we had to save fuel in every possible way.’
³²

How to stay aloft in such circumstances?

By
concentrating
, fiercely. For hour after hour after freezing, mind-numbing hour, as the sun fell and rose and fell again, they kept flying circles above San Francisco. In the cramped cockpit Kingsford Smith and Pond were pretty much hating every moment of it, but were equally determined to claim the record if it could possibly be done.

Back at their hotel, Keith Anderson was writing a long letter to his fiancée, Bon Hilliard, venting his extreme frustration. He and Smithy had pretty much conceived the dream of flying the Pacific together, had planned it over years, worked their way through all the problems together and it had been
his
uncle who had provided the crucial cash to keep them afloat on the specific condition that his nephew be one of the pilots, and yet…

And yet here Anderson was, six months in America, three months with the
Southern Cross
, and he had still never been allowed to pilot it! Well, he had just about had enough of the whole damn thing and certainly didn’t mind telling Bon all about it. He missed her desperately and it was only worth being away from her if the Pacific flight was actually going to take place with him as the co-pilot, which at this time seemed like a real long-shot, as far, faaaar above him, the
Southern Cross
kept going round in circles…

Circle after circle. Smithy and Pond kept flying and flying. On and on and on, closely monitoring their petrol consumption and getting progressively more depressed as it became obvious that they were unlikely to break the record.

At 7.30 am on the second morning, Kingsford Smith sent a message over the wireless to the ground:

Southern Cross will be compelled to land at 9.30, running out of fuel. She cannot lift enough fuel for more than 50 hours. It is just liveable up here. That is all.
³³

They landed at 10.13 am, 19 January, after fifty hours and four minutes in the air.

The absurdity, of course, was the difference in press coverage that staying aloft for a few more hours would have made. Their achievement had been considerable to stay aloft for so long, but there were no prizes for second. They had not beaten the German record, so no-one particularly cared…

Least of all the New South Wales government. Even while Smithy and Pond had been in the air attempting to beat the record, the newly installed government of Premier Thomas Bavin had sent a strongly worded cable to the effect that the flyers’ time was up. The money had been guaranteed if they could make the flight within six months, and that six months was now gone. Therefore the offer was withdrawn. The government insisted that they sell the
Southern Cross
for whatever they could get for it, and return home on the next steamer.

It looked like they were finished. Their own money was so long gone that they were feeling genuine hunger pains, and so broke that they couldn’t even afford to smoke a cigarette they hadn’t cadged. Their one bit of relief was when the
Tahiti
was in port and they could sneak aboard to get some free meals from their old friend Hal Litchfield. And then it was back to real life again.
³⁴

Affording accommodation at the Roosevelt Hotel was now out of the question, and they moved to a series of progressively cheaper and nastier hotels, interspersed with nights spent sleeping on couches at the hangar.

Those guys? Just some crazy Australians who have this idea that they can fly the Pacific. Been trying for months. Look, if you can spare a dime, buddy, give them a sandwich. They’ll appreciate it, and they’re not bad guys.

If there was an upside, it was that they were all losing so much weight they would be able to load up even more petrol, should they ever be able to get off the ground and head south-west.