Charles Kingsford Smith and Those Magnificent Men (88 page)

In the DC-2
Uiver
meanwhile, Captain Parmentier had been at his wits’ end to know quite what to do, other than to momentarily leave the controls in the hands of his co-pilot while he conducted a small religious service for the crew and passengers—though this was more to keep morale up, rather than the genuine expectation that the Lord might get them down on a wing and a prayer. Knowing that their only hope was to stay near civilisation, he had continued to circle the town, when at last he spotted a ‘blazing crescent’ of headlights at the eastern end of the town.

An airstrip! The wonderful people of Albury had turned a light on for them, and at exactly the right spot. Coming in low for a quick look-see, the Dutch air captain turned and made his approach for a landing from the north-east. It was 1.15 am on the morning of 24 October 1934.

The people, huddled in their cars, watched closely as this visitor arriving from another world, all bellowing big radial engines and twinkling landing lights—a bloody
massive
thing I’m telling you—suddenly filled their windscreens, descended and landed safely on the sodden soil.

Waiter! More tea! And blankets! And pumpkin scones and beds in local hotels for our new friends!
¹⁹

And a wonderful night was had by all…

The following morning the Alburians turned out in force and with 120 people divided between two ropes, all hauling together—and heave, and
heave
, and
HEAAAVE
—managed to pull the plane out of the mud and get it on its way. Despite the delay, the
Uiver
still managed to finish second overall, and win the handicap section. No, on this occasion the passenger airliner had not surpassed the two-pilot screamers as the King of the Skies, but its finishing position of close second was the surest indication that that era was about to begin—the more so when Roscoe Turner’s Boeing landed just two hours behind
Uiver.
Roscoe had himself had a ‘helluva trip’, seeing things that he had not known previously existed on heaven or earth, chief among which were the beautiful bare-breasted women in sarongs he had spied when passing through Bali. Once all the fussing was over, he declared, he wanted to return to Bali, to ‘buy me an acre o’ tits, and walk on ‘em barefoot!’
²⁰

A good sport, he was also noted for being quick to congratulate the victors.

‘Mr Scott,’ he boomed, ‘I certainly do congratulate you. It sure was an honour to breathe the fumes from your exhaust…‘
²¹

As to Jim and Amy Mollison, they had been forced to retire at Allahabad, in India, after having terrible engine trouble. The chief engineer there was amazed to find three empty whisky bottles in Jim Mollison’s cockpit.

Overall, of the twenty competitors who began the race, seven finished within the sixteen-day time limit, and another two afterwards.

A few days after the first celebrations had begun to die down,
Uiver
, while on its way back to Europe, again swooped low over Albury racecourse and dropped a package. In it was a cigarette case attached to a Dutch flag on which was written a message: ‘
To all our good friends in Albury, we salute you and say farewell.
’
²²

Queen Wilhelmina of the Netherlands shortly afterwards awarded to the Mayor of Albury, Alf Waugh, the Order of the Orange Nassau, and sent personal gifts to particular people who had gone out of their way to help those in the plane. For its part, KLM made a handsome donation to Albury District Hospital of 1000 guilders, the equivalent of £180.
²³

Amsterdam’s main newspaper, the
Telegraaf
, ran many letters of praise to the editor, including one who waxed particularly lyrical about ‘the unknown Australians who gathered in cars at Albury, despite terrible weather, at dead of night. Thanks to you, we walk the streets today with smiling faces. Here’s to world comradeship and to the Australians!’
²⁴

Still in Fiji, Kingsford Smith was asked by the
Fiji Times
for his view on the result of the Centenary Race and he did his very best to be gracious…nearly pulling it off.

‘It was a stout showing on Scott’s part,’ he told the journalist. ‘I am very glad to see it. I have a shade more horsepower and would probably have bettered his time, but I was handicapped by the petrol loading they allowed me. I am disgruntled. It was stated that with a load, owing to its undercarriage, the Comet was able to get under way very fast, but I myself can get off very fast with a big load of petrol.’
²⁵

Famous last words?

As it happened, that was not always the way with the Altair. After Tommy Pethybridge had finished repair work on its wings and fitted new spark plugs, and a local weather phenomenon—the
thangi walu
, or eight-day wind, with its low cloud and rain—had abated enough, Smithy and Taylor were able to take off from the sodden Albert Park to re-position at Naselai Beach for departure on the afternoon of 24 October, with full fuel tanks.
²⁶
With the
thangi walu
still strong, it was always going to be a close-run thing…

At two o’clock they commenced their take-off run on the narrow, curving strip of beach, its width reduced by the windblown waves of the rising tide. Alas, a sudden gust gripped the Altair, causing it to swing uncontrollably at 60 miles per hour into the surf, engulfing the wheels. Only Smithy’s instant and instinctive airmanship saved the aircraft from certain catastrophe. The motor, now at full bore, drove streams of water from the propeller over the entire plane, while the wheels threatened to sink into the softening sand.

Lady Southern Cross
shook herself clear of the rising tide, like a big, angry, wet blue cattle dog; Smithy using judicious bursts of throttle to help pull her above the high watermark. Taylor could only pray and marvel at his skill. Finally, the plane shuddered to a halt and they could assess the damage.

For a further four days the crew luxuriated in Fijian hospitality, staying on board the government’s vessel HMCS
Pioneer
in Suva, per courtesy of the genial Captain Mullins, for three nights and then with islanders on the final two evenings. At last the weather cleared with only some scattered cumulus dotting the sky and nary a sign of the high cirrus clouds which portend deteriorating conditions aloft. At 6.08 am, Fiji time, on 29 October, Smithy opened up the Altair’s Wasp engine—this time with no dramas—and the take-off was both very fast and flawless, as they tore away to the eastern skies.

At 2.30 pm they spotted the Phoenix group of islands which had so frustratingly escaped Smithy on his previous trip across the Pacific—the sign they were looking for that they were on course. All well and good, and it was a time for quiet reflection. ‘As we roared across the placid ocean I could not help reflecting how different were the circumstances on this occasion. Then, I had had three companions; now, only one; then I had three engines; now, only one; then I was flying in triumph to my native land; now, I was flying from it.’
²⁷

It was not long, however, before there would be no more time for quiet reflection…

About twelve hours out from Fiji, just after evening fell, they hit a wild tropical storm. Smithy tried to get above it, but at 15,000 feet, it was as fierce as ever and the rain was hitting their windscreen like bullets from a machine gun. Once again flying blind, as sudden gusts of wind battered them from every angle, Smithy was himself being hurled around in the cockpit. With his brain feeling foggy at this altitude due to lack of oxygen, he kept turning the landing lights on and off, anxiously checking that the driving rain had not damaged the fabric cover of the leading edge of the Altair’s wooden wings, when he saw something that froze his heart. The airspeed indicator had fallen from 130 miles per hour to just 90 miles per hour, and the plane had turned sluggish, like it was suddenly flying through honey. Then the airspeed indicator suddenly snapped to zero and the Altair’s left wing dropped. The blind-flying instruments showed a steep bank to the left and
stayed
there, meaning they were in a spin!
²⁸

At other times Smithy might have been tempted to think that it was a problem with the instruments and not the plane. But in an instant there was no doubt that they really were in terrible trouble, as he heard the deathly, familiar
whoosh-whoosh
sound of the wings whirling round and round through the airstream. Two decades earlier he had been in a similar situation after being hit by a Hun in France, but then he had been able to pull out of the wild spinning by pushing forward on the stick, in the method pioneered by Harry Hawker. Now, bracing himself against the seat, he pushed the Altair’s stick with everything he had in him, as he jammed both feet onto the right-side rudder-pedal, but still the
Lady Southern Cross
kept plummeting seawards, entirely out of control. He cut the engine, causing the plane’s klaxon horn—wired to sound the alarm if the engine’s revs fell below a certain level when the undercarriage was not extended—to start wailing its warning of impending peril:
aah ooo gah
,
aah ooo gah.

Nothing
worked.

Was this, indeed, the end?

Even in the extremity of the situation, however, one thing gave Smithy solace. It was that behind him, Bill Taylor sat quietly, knowing that they were in real trouble and equally that the only person who could get them out of it was Smithy and, therefore, panic on his part would not be helpful. To Smithy’s mind, Bill’s silence was his way of saying, ‘Look mate, you’re in charge, and I know you can get us out of this bloody mess’.
²⁹

And finally, when Bill did speak, it was in a voice of calm, even as they continued hurtling downwards.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked through the speaking tube.

‘I don’t know. She won’t give any more power, that’s all.’

Smithy tried with everything he had in him, ramming hard on the opposite rudder—as in the side of the rudder opposite to the way they were spinning, which in this case was left—and shoving the stick forward. Still nothing.

Hurtling…hurtling…hurtling…and spinning all the way. Smithy continued to try everything he could think of.

‘I’m sorry, Bill,’ he finally said quietly, ‘but I can’t get her out.’
³⁰

In the back, Bill Taylor was amazed at Smithy’s calm and his courtesy, even in the extremes of their situation. He was apologising for their coming death, and the fact that he couldn’t find the solution to whatever the problem was.

As to Bill Taylor’s own equanimity in the face of death, he was in fact so controlled he had time to reflect on it. He felt no horror at his impending departure from life on earth, nor sadness that he would be separated from his loved ones. ‘It simply seemed,’ he thought, that he and Smithy ‘had flown out from the earth and a dawning of real consciousness was near, a consciousness which seemed to bring light on all things, which held some happy revelation to the mystery of life and which seemed the most natural sequence of events.’
³¹

Still, he was at least concerned enough to ask Smithy: ‘Do you mind if I have a go at her?’
³²

‘Yes, go ahead,’ Smithy replied calmly, as he felt Bill’s inputs on the stick and rudder pedals.

And Bill Taylor really tried. He pushed the stick fully forward and jammed his foot on the opposite rudder to the direction of the spin, but with absolutely no effect. Smithy took over the controls and still the altimeter showed that their altitude continued to fall, now below 6000 feet…

And then, an instant later, just when it seemed as if everything was lost and they would crash into the sea, he heard Smithy say calmly, ‘I’ve got it’.
³³
And so he had.

The plane stopped spinning and entered a controllable dive, from which Smithy was able to slowly pull out of to level off and, even though they were still flying through honey, the immediate crisis had been averted. They now probably had as long as twenty minutes to live instead of just a couple, which seemed like sheer bliss at the time. Somehow, by heaving everything every which way, Smithy had managed to pull her out of the spin, but he still had not found the cause of the problem.
³⁴

As it turned out, however, in just a few minutes everything slowly returned to normal and Smithy explained what had happened. Just as, a couple of years before, Charles Ulm had inadvertently bumped an engine magneto switch that had nearly sent them into the Tasman Sea, on this occasion he had, instead of flicking the landing light switch, mistakenly flipped the switch to the landing flaps!

Once he realised the mistake, he raised the flaps, which eliminated their drag and everything had slowly returned to normal. They flew on through the now smooth night air and at daybreak the following morning began scanning the horizon for a sign of Hawaii.

Just after eight o’clock,Taylor heard Smithy say nonchalantly through his earphones, ‘Land ahead’, for all the world as if he had expected nothing less. Taylor, whose navigational skills had got them to this pinprick in the Pacific, was not so blasé about it, and felt an enormous surge of pride—the more so when Smithy briefly veered to starboard to show his co-pilot in the second cockpit a view of that wonderful mass of coral, sand and swaying palm trees. Success!