Charles Kingsford Smith and Those Magnificent Men (91 page)

At 12.20 am on the morning of 15 May 1935, the
Southern Cross
roared down the Richmond airstrip and headed towards New Plymouth, some 1300 miles away. On the tarmac behind them, they left Smithy’s wife, Mary, his aged mother, Catherine, and his niece, Beris, who was, of course, married to John Stannage—all of them heavily rugged up against the cold and sombrely ruminating on the same emotion that always pressed at such moments…the desperate hope that the aviators would be all right. All else being equal, Smithy should land late the following afternoon New Zealand time.

Racing towards the rising sun, the night would be compressed, meaning that dawn was not so far away, which was comforting to Smithy as, like most airmen, he found night-flying a debilitating exercise.

Well before dawn was due, he saw dead ahead a large black blot in the eastern starry night that could only be a massive storm. ‘Johnnie,’ Kingsford Smith called over his shoulder to Stannage down the narrow passageway that was again open, now that the large petrol tank previously blocking it had been removed. ‘Ask Sydney if there has been a change in the weather. Look at that!’
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In Arabella Street—as in many homes around Australia and in New Zealand, where families stuck close to the radio—the Kingsford Smith family took the news of the storm with equanimity and gallons of tea. It was the view of the matriarch Catherine, for one, that her Chilla had gone through so many storms that there wasn’t one out there that could bring him down. The near-octogenerian had been afraid so many times before, and he had always turned up safely, that she refused to put herself through it again. Otherwise, most people were simply stunned at the wonders of modern radio—they could actually hear John Stannage, with the muted engines in the background, giving reports of the journey, even though the plane was hundreds of miles away, and occasionally they could even hear Sir Charles Kingsford Smith himself!

For once,
for once
, this storm didn’t prove to be too much of a problem and when the blessed dawn did welcome them back to the land of the living they were above the sort of lovely, white, billowy clouds that are to airmen what daisies are to the earth bound—the loveliest things imaginable to skip your way through. Things were looking up.

Smithy handed the controls over to Bill Taylor, so he could stretch his legs and have a chat to Johnnie—who, in turn, had taken a break from his radio duties to prepare a breakfast for them of hard-boiled eggs, sandwiches and coffee from a black thermos flask. All seemed right with the world as, happily munching and sipping away, they worked out that they had already knocked off at least half of their journey. Then something was suddenly up.

Bill Taylor, his mouth agape beneath his trim moustache, handed over to Smithy and pointed through the windscreen. Just back from the centre motor, which lay before their cockpit, they could see a tiny but angry sliver of flame coming from the point where the exhaust was connected. At first glance the situation didn’t look
too
dangerous, as it seemed that just a little bit of welding or some such on the manifold had come unstuck. And yet, as they put their breakfast aside and watched, mesmerised, the flame got bigger and the gap on the exhaust manifold widened. Something had to give…and it did.
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While they were travelling at well over 90 miles per hour, at an altitude of 3000 feet, a solid piece of the exhaust manifold broke loose and was hurled by the slipstream straight at the starboard propeller…And where was Roland Garros or Anthony Fokker when they were needed? Two decades earlier, both men had mastered the art of getting small bits of metal through whirring propellers without causing any damage, and it was still possible that this could happen on this occasion. Alas, at speed, the piece of manifold hit and broke off a large chunk of the wooden starboard propeller, instantly causing the
Southern Cross
to vibrate appallingly—almost shaking them out of the sky.
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At this point only a master pilot could have kept them in the air, but again, the
Southern Cross
was fortunate to have one on board. Realising on the instant what had happened, Smithy hauled the wheel into his chest to point the nose of the
Southern Cross
up high and bring her to just above the point of a shuddering stall. With a deft flash of his right hand he cut the magneto switch of the starboard engine and it windmilled, reluctantly, to a stop. Now the vibration had mercifully ceased, and with the Old Bus barely flying—her nose so high in the air—they could see the damage. One blade of the propeller had broken off about two-thirds from the tip and was wafting back and forth pathetically. For all that, Bill Taylor, witnessing Smithy’s manoeuvre first-hand, was stunned at the instantaneous, precise and intuitive skills displayed and, as he told John Stannage shortly afterwards, Smithy was pretty much the only pilot in the world who could have pulled it off.
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The first that any of the many people following the course of the trip in Australia and New Zealand knew of the drama was the urgent voice of Stannage as it crackled through the static:

Prop gone on starboard motor! Please inform all stations stand by. Please ask all stations stand by. May not be able to hold height.
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Which left them where, precisely? Out in the middle of the Tasman Sea, with one engine useless and two engines snarling under the severe strain of having to work so hard to keep them aloft. It was just before seven o’clock in the morning, Australian time, and the immediate question to be answered was whether to keep going or to turn back? Again, Smithy was quick with his decision. To avoid the storms and heavy headwinds that were reported ahead, he immediately turned the plane for home, while Taylor worked out the proper course to get them to the nearest strip of hard sand on Stockton Beach just south of Port Stephens, on the New South Wales coast.

And then they faced the next problem. Their weight was too great to maintain altitude on just two engines and they were already starting to sink towards the Tasman Sea. ‘Have to dump some weight!’ Taylor shouted to Smithy. ‘Shall I go ahead?’

‘Anything, except the mail!’
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Smithy yelled back. It was a decision that, frankly, rather underwhelmed Taylor in their extreme circumstances, but Smithy was the captain, and he didn’t argue, simply going back to pass on the order to Stannage.

For Smithy’s part, there was never any question: he wanted to do all possible to save that post, the
King’s
post, and wouldn’t even consider dropping it, unless he had the permission of the Postmaster General.

To further lighten the load, however, Bill Taylor activated the dump valve on the main tank to lose 100 gallons of petrol, then moved to the cabin’s navigation table to try to plot exactly just how many miles up Shit Creek they actually were. All the while, John Stannage continued to report to the world both their position and their plight, his voice crackling with tension.

7.07 a.m. Have to dump the lot, I think. Blast it. Can’t keep height. Hope they have a fast destroyer at Garden Island. What a hard end for the old Cross. Will get position. Stand by a sec. Bill has marked on chart that we are near the figures 166 W. Long.
¹²

‘Come quick! It’s Smithy and he’s in real trouble. I’ve just been listening to the radio, and they’ve cracked a propeller and lost an engine. They’re trying to get back home now, but it looks pretty bad!’ Quickly, around Australia and New Zealand, the word spread—a real crisis was at hand.

Aboard the
Southern Cross
, at least, the release of the fuel had lightened the load considerably and, to Smithy’s feel, the plane was now behaving less like a rock with wings—but it was clearly not enough to save them as they continued to descend.

7.15 a.m. Looks like we are going in. Gee! It’s cold. Get that? Get that? Just climbing 100 feet. Get that?
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At the La Perouse receiving station of Amalgamated Wireless Australasia Limited, as soon as the
Southern Cross
’ messages were picked up, a general alert went out to government departments with relevant jurisdictions, including the Navigation Department, so that the course of the stricken plane could be plotted and those ships in her vicinity could alter course to try to save them, the same way Harry Hawker had been saved fifteen years earlier, should Smithy have to ditch her in the sea. All news organisations were also soon onto the story, as a desperate scramble began to get the drama into print and onto the streets. New-fangled things called ‘news flashes’ interrupted regular radio programming as breathless announcers told the troubles of the
Southern Cross
, with Kingsford Smith and his crew teetering on tragedy.

7.25 a.m.…Don’t let them worry our wives unnecessarily. Thank God, we have this marvellous radio set. My antenna must be nearly in the ‘drink’ by now.

7.34 a.m. Wish you could see Smithy clawing the air, he’s a world beater; makes a few feet and then tries to save the other two engines.
¹⁴

Despite John Stannage’s nose beginning to bleed with fright, he felt certain that if anyone could keep them aloft then it was Smithy, as he watched him ‘holding the plane with hands and feet, juggling, fighting, and coaxing her, getting that little bit extra that only he could get from his old machine’.
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Somehow Smithy managed to hold the plane perpetually in the zone that was just two or three knots above stalling, and a knot or two below the speed that would have the broken propeller turn again and shake the old girl to bloody bits.
¹⁶
His injured left foot ached from the constant pressure on the rudder to counter the thrust of the good port Whirlwind against the drag of the mortally wounded starboard engine.

And yet how much did the Old Bus actually have left to give? As the Australian coast edged a little closer, the port engine was clearly starting to show the strain. It began to trail blue smoke, and the gauge in the cockpit showed that it was losing oil pressure—which was beyond serious, as oil was the lifeblood of the motor.

There had been 11 gallons of oil in that engine when they had taken off from Mascot but God only knew how much was left now, as the blue smoke indicated that a lot of it had been burned and she was getting hot. At least, after experimentation, Smithy had found the best altitude to hold the stricken plane, where the denser air helped to keep them aloft and yet still gave them enough height to act in case they lost power.

9.27 a.m. Holding 500 feet at just below full revolutions, making very poor headway against this foul head wind, and with only two motors. Hell, that port motor keeps spitting, and every time it does, I feel like she’s going to quit, and we’ll go straight down.

There might have been some comfort for them if they’d had a life raft on board the
Southern Cross
or even a few simple life jackets, but they did not. Why? Because—in the words, almost, of the Frenchman Charles Nungesser a decade earlier—‘The idea,
mon cher
Coli, was to reach New Zealand by flying over the water, not swimming there…’

By now every ship in the Tasman had been notified of the drama in the skies above them, and the pilot boat
Captain Cook
was about to leave Sydney Harbour at full speed to try to intercept them, just as a visiting British destroyer, HMS
Sussex
, was also being prevailed upon to come to the aid of one of the Empire’s favourite sons. At Mascot, Charles Ulm’s modified Avro Ten,
Faith in Australia
, had been loaded with flotation gear and was being urgently prepared for take-off, as a crew was being sought to man it. Ideally,
Faith
could meet the
Southern Cross
and then escort it back, available to circle overhead and mark the position if the plane did have to come down. On city streets all over Australia and New Zealand, newsboys were scurrying hither and thither and blaring the news, with a poster by the Melbourne
Herald
setting the tone:

HERALD

KINGSFORD SMITH IN GREAT DANGER

In London, Australian Prime Minister Joseph Lyons had been told of the situation and had instructed that he be kept informed of developments as they arose.

Back on board the stricken craft, John Stannage continued to be filled with admiration for the
Southern Cross
’s ability to keep going. Even in the extremity of the situation Stannage had time for a few philosophical thoughts: ‘Is it fantastic to think that a man-made mechanism can possess a soul—a spirit, a personality, call it what you will? A man may become attached to a car so that it becomes almost part of him. He is the brains and the machine is the body. The dear old Southern Cross always seemed to be something more than the sum of her parts. She had spirit. She had feeling. Certainly she had a sensitivity of response to her skipper.’
¹⁷

In this case, ‘a newly made inanimate piece of iron’, which did
not
have a soul, ‘practically tore the vitals from the stout old bus; yet she still staggered on when her master was forced cruelly to spur her on’.
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