Straight on Till Morning

by Mary S. Lovell

  No radio was fitted but there were some blind-flying instruments, though in the light of today’s sophisticated satellite navigation the instrumentation was very basic: a Reid & Sigrist turn and slip indicator, a Sperry gyro ‘direction-finding’ compass and an artificial horizon; finally an instrument which measured the rate of climb called, somewhat nautically, a ‘fore and aft reader’. There were in addition some Smith’s instruments to give engine information, and one fuel gauge which gave a reading on the standard tank only. The auxiliary tanks had no gauges. As each tank became empty it was necessary to switch that tank off with a stop cock, and switch the next on. Percival gave Beryl a schedule of the order in which she should use up the fuel so as not to upset the balance of the aeroplane, and warned her that she must take care to switch the stopcock off, before turning on the next one, or an airlock would be created.

  While the Vega Gull returned to the factory for adjustments Beryl was not idle. Tom had organized a gruelling training routine for her. There was to be no drinking, no smoking. He had already arranged a programme for himself at Heatherdon Country Club near Elstree where Len Harvey was in training for his fight with the American boxer John Henry Lewis. Tom worked with Harvey daily in the gymnasium and did long cross-country runs wearing thick white sweaters. Beryl, staying with Lord Aldenham (a friend she had met through Dupré) at his Elstree home, Aldenham House, joined them in the daily workouts of skipping, running, swimming and horseback riding.

  She spent hours poring over maps with Tom and Jim Mollison, studying the routes and plans of the successful crossings – and the unsuccessful. Jim Mollison, whom she liked but whom Tom despised, was particularly helpful. His own strategy for crossing the Atlantic had paid off handsomely. In fact he had made the ocean crossing in only nineteen hours and it was only after he sighted land that he ran into trouble. Beryl listened carefully. To simplify navigation, Mollison had flown the whole way to Newfoundland on a constant magnetic track, which – with the changing magnetic variation across the ocean – conveniently took him along a line situated between the great circle track (the shortest route) and the rhumb line, or track of constant true bearing. He had allowed for drift by estimating the direction and strength of the wind by observing the drift of the long Atlantic waves, and movement of the cloud shadows. For the first four or five hours, flying at only fifty feet or so, he kept Heart’s Content heading three or four degrees to starboard to counteract the effect of light northerly winds.24

  Mollison was lucky; with good visibility for the first hours he had been able to check his position with several liners which were marked on his shipping chart. When darkness fell he had judged it wise to climb to 2000 feet, where he remained until he sighted the coast. Although it was cloudy, he had been able to get helpful glimpses of the moon and stars. Beryl’s experience in night flying – she had flown over East Africa whenever the call came, day or night – enabled her to fly according to the same plan. She knew that if she could cope with effects of fatigue, and if the engine did not fail her, there was absolutely no reason why she couldn’t make it.

  In late July Tom received the awaited phone call from his Spanish contact. The supposedly secret trip to Spain, in which he flew the fascist rebel leader Marques Rivas de Linares to Franco’s headquarters at Burgos, quickly received unwelcome publicity. Tom and his passenger were recognized at one of the airfields on the flight down through France, and the story ran ahead of him. Warned that his life was in danger, he escaped from the war-ravaged country by car. He suffered many delays, but was cool enough to test his theory that the guards at the numerous road blocks could not read, by presenting papers to them upside-down. Afterwards he returned to England where he wrote his story for the News of the World25 and promised Dessie that he would lead a quiet life for a while. Now he had his sights fixed firmly on the race to Johannesburg and at last he had found a sponsor. He was to fly a Percival Mew Gull owned by Liverpool football pools millionaire John Moores.26

  Did Beryl have any conception of the amount of interest that her flight would arouse? Possibly not. She said later that she ‘simply intended to slip away’, but somehow the newspapers got wind of it. On 18 August an article accompanied by an impressive number of pictures appeared in the Daily Express under the banner headline

  SOCIETY WOMAN PLANS TO FLY THE ATLANTIC ALONE:

  Non-Stop in a light ’Plane.

  Mrs Beryl Markham, thirty-one [actually she was thirty-three] year old English woman pilot, sister-in-law to Sir Charles Markham, colliery baronet, is to attempt a non-stop night from London to New York alone. She will leave London in a British light airplane in about a fortnight’s time…With more than 2000 hours of flying to her credit…tall, blonde, athletic Mrs Markham is no erratic chance flier. ‘Flying is my job. This flight is part of it,’ she said. ‘It is no romantic adventure, but a hard job of work which I want to justify. I believe in the future of an Atlantic air service. I want to be in on it at the beginning. I have worked hard and studied hard for this flight. It is a difficult flight I know – I just don’t like the look of the map. The blue seems too vast between the friendly pieces of land. But I feel I can knock a few hours off the record and prove something for British airplanes and pilots. I had the Atlantic flight in mind for some time, then the chance to undertake it was given to me by a Kenya syndicate interested in aviation. They are backing me right through.

  On the following day more headlines – ATLANTIC HAS NO TERRORS FOR FLYING WOMAN. A photograph of her running away from the camera is captioned: ‘To fly the Atlantic, but she flies from the camera.’ In fact, on Tom’s advice, she wrote a piece for the Daily Express for which she received a small payment.

  Two weeks from now I am going to set out to fly the Atlantic to New York. Not as a society girl. Not as a woman even. And certainly not as a stunt aviator. But as a pilot-graduate of one of the hardest schools of flying known, with 2000 flying hours to my credit. And I have a definite object. It is true that I am known as a society woman. But what of it? The only thing that really counts…is whether one can fly. I have both [A and B] tickets. I can take an engine apart and put it back. I can navigate. I am fit, and given ordinary luck I am sure I can fly to New York. This is to be no stunt flight. No woman’s superiority-over-man affair. I don’t want to be superior to men. I have a son. If I can be a good mother to him, and a good pilot, I’ll be the happiest creature alive.27

  By 1 September Beryl was ready to go. The Messenger had finished its tests and had been passed by its exacting designer Edgar Percival. Beryl flew the turquoise and silver aeroplane to Royal Air Force Abingdon. ‘I’m absolutely satisfied,’ she said. ‘The machine is grand. If she doesn’t get me over nothing will.’ Originally she had planned to fly from Gravesend, but after consultation with Percival she sought and received permission from the Royal Air Force to use the long military runway at Abingdon, which was essential to get that enormous load of petrol off the ground. She had made a test run with only half a load of fuel, and the take-off run was far longer than Percival expected. The Air Ministry was opposed to the flight on principle, warning that it was already too late in the year to forecast a settled period of weather over the Atlantic. Indeed it looked as though their gloomy prognostications were to be proved correct, for from 28 August there was low cloud and scudding rain every day. If she had been able to get away only a week earlier she would have had that rarest occurrence, a favourable easterly wind over most of her route; but on 28 August the weather had deteriorated.

  So Beryl waited, day after long day. All the preparations were made. With the exception of fuelling the aircraft, which Tom said should wait until the last moment, there was literally nothing to do except to wait for a good weather forecast. The delay was particularly annoying because she had originally planned her departure to coincide with a full moon which she hoped would light her way over the ocean. The press dogged her every move, and each morning brought a fresh spate of headlines. They were much of a muchness: ‘Young Mother
Plans Flight Today’; ‘Daredevil Society Woman Leaves Today’; ‘Beauty to Fly Today’. These descriptions at first amused and later infuriated Beryl. She began to feel that they were presenting a frivolous image of her. Every day she waited for a call from the ministry with the weather report, and tried to hide from the press and the endless questions. ‘When do you expect to leave?’ ‘What does your husband think of the flight?’ ‘What does your little boy think of the flight?’ Really, it was too bad! She tried to pass the time by working out at her gymnastic exercises, and she rode Lord Aldenham’s thoroughbred horses around his estate.

  There were several telephone calls from New York: one from John Carberry, ghoulishly checking that she had not ‘chickened out’; and one from Harry Bruno, a New York public relations man who owned the firm of ‘Personal Managers’ whom Beryl had taken on at the suggestion of Mollison. If she was successful in her attempt, Jim cautioned, there’d be money to be made out of it – if everything were handled properly. The opportunity to capitalize on public acclaim would soon vanish, Mollison warned, but Harry Bruno would arrange appearances on radio, lecture tours, official welcomes, and if such a thing were possible, would control the press. Beryl, who never seemed to care whether she had any money or not, but simply spent the same amount whatever her situation, agreed wholeheartedly. Money was not a prime objective but if there was money to be made out of it, well and good.28

  On 2 September after another long day of waiting Beryl dined with a few friends at the Mayfair. It was a small dinner party: Rose Cartwright, Sir Philip Sassoon, Tom, Beryl and Freddie Guest. ‘What I chiefly remember is that Beryl was totally unafraid,’ said Rose Cartwright. Rose had known Beryl since she was Mrs Beryl Purves. ‘She was always fearless. I’ve only ever known two people like it in my life. Beryl was one of them. Some people are scared and they hide their fear, but Beryl never knew fear. Not when she rode the liveliest horse and not when she flew the Atlantic. She simply had no fear of anything. The night before her flight when we dined with her…we were all frightened for her, but she acted as though nothing special was happening. Almost as if she wasn’t going. I remember one of the men teased her about her nose job. She’d recently had a small operation to straighten out the bump resulting from an accident some years earlier. She wasn’t amused. That was the most response we got out of her.’29

  On the 3rd there was fog over most of the country but the forecasts were that there might be a break on the way. The News Chronicle ran an editorial under the heading ‘Atlantic Flights’.

  Mrs Beryl Markham did not take off yesterday for her proposed solo flight across the Atlantic to New York. We hope that she will never take off. The time for these ‘pioneer’ solo flights in overloaded radio-less machines has passed. The only Transatlantic flights which serve any purpose now are those which lay the foundations for a regular mail service. If Mrs Markham were to reach New York she would not have demonstrated anything worth risking her life for. If she came down in the ocean she would cause prolonged suspense to all her friends and considerable inconvenience and expense to all the ships that would have to search for her. We hope that Mrs Markham will think better of it.

  Beryl dismissed the article with a wave of her hand and a sniff. That evening there was yet another party. This time, she forecast, it was a farewell party. Tom had gone north on business. Present were Mollison, Percival and Beryl’s mechanic Jock Cameron. ‘Before dinner Mollison asked her if she had a good watch or a mascot. “No,” she replied. “Then,” said Mollison unstrapping his own watch, “take mine. It’s been across with me twice. It won’t fail you. But mind you it’s only a loan…I want it back!”’30

  This is the story Beryl and Mollison gave to the press. But there was a more practical reason. Beryl did have a watch of her own, but Mollison recommended that she wear two watches. Her own set to Greenwich Mean Time (London), and Mollison’s recording Eastern Standard Time (New York). She would be very tired at the end of her flight, he knew. He told her that to avoid confusion she should make all her calculations in GMT, and his watch could be used merely as a check on local time.

  The forecast on the morning of the 4th was not promising. The ministry said there was a possibility of a break in the late afternoon but it was only a possibility. Before the break – if it came – there was thundery rain and low cloud. Behind it, and they did not know how far behind, was a gale. By now Beryl was thoroughly fed up with waiting. She telephoned Jim Mollison and arranged for him to fly her to Abingdon, telling him she was ‘going this afternoon come what may’. In an interview to the Daily Express, which they published as a lead story, she explained why she had not been able to get away as scheduled, what supplies she planned to take, details of food and drink, the amount of fuel. And she finished with:

  People ask me my feelings about this ocean flight. I have become dreadfully fidgety. It is natural. I am still young and while I am supremely confident I am not particularly anxious to die. But if I get across…it will have been worth it because I believe in the future of an Atlantic air service. I planned this flight because I wanted to be in that air service at the beginning. If I get across I think I shall have earned my place. Don’t you?31

  Just before five o’clock in the afternoon BST (British Summer Time) Beryl arrived at Abingdon with Jim Mollison. She was dressed warmly and comfortably in grey flannel slacks, blue blouse and jumper, a warmly lined Burberry raincoat and helmet. The first news that greeted them was that they would have to wait. A bomber had overturned on the take-off runway and was being cleared. ‘It was the first thing I heard when I arrived,’ she complained whilst chain smoking. ‘I’m glad I didn’t see it, it might have made me feel even more queer inside than I do now. The wind’s to blame apparently. Trouble is it’s the same wind that I’m taking off into…I wish the fire engine and ambulances didn’t have to be so obvious.’ The press reported that she appeared pale, her face set, her lips drawn. Her friends say she was as casual as usual.32

  There were puddles lying all over the aerodrome. The latest forecast was telephoned through. Head winds of forty to fifty miles per hour; low cloud over the water, squalls for the next fourteen hours. Both Percival and Mollison tried to dissuade her. But Beryl was now determined to go. ‘Neck or nothing,’ she said. It was an old hunting phrase, eagerly snapped up by the reporters and used abundantly in the next editions. The Messenger was pushed out of the hangar and refuelled.33

  Tom was not at the airport to see her off. He had gone to Liverpool to see John Moores about his participation in the race to Johannesburg which was coming ever closer. Possibly because of the adverse weather forecasts he assumed Beryl would not make the attempt, and that he would have returned before she took off.

  This must have been a blow to Beryl. Despite her assertions that she was attempting the hazardous flight to stake her place in the prophesied transatlantic air service, the truth was that in her mind she hoped that somehow success would win back Tom. ‘She worshipped him,’ her great friend in later years, Buster Parnell, told me. ‘I think she only flew the Atlantic to get back at him after he’d dumped her for Florence Desmond. In a way I think she hoped she’d be killed – just to spite him.’34 If Parnell’s assessment is correct, her great exit scene was missing the principal member of the audience.

  The only friends to see her depart were Percival and a number of the Percival works engineers. Jock Cameron gave her a sprig of heather. She refused a lifejacket – she would sacrifice security for warmth, she said. Mollison made a play of being concerned about his watch. ‘Don’t get it wet,’ he said. Beryl asked for the Daily Express reporter – he stepped forward and she handed him a letter addressed to his editor. Her basket of food was stowed away – they could hardly find room for it, so confined was the cabin with the huge additional eighty-gallon fuel tank occupying most of the cabin space. She took with her a packet of chicken sandwiches, a ‘chewing’ mixture of nuts, raisins and dried bananas, five flasks of tea and coffee, a hip flask of brandy an
d a bottle of water. Now, after some last-minute discussions with Percival, she hopped up on to The Messenger’s wing and turned to Mollison. ‘Goodbye. Good luck,’ she called to him. She grinned shyly – her appealing boyish grin. ‘Luck, Beryl,’ he replied. ‘You deserve the best.’35

  The runway was a mile long. It was expected that The Messenger, with its 1900-pound load of petrol, would take nearly all of that to unstick. Percival himself swung the propeller as Beryl called out, ‘Switches on…Contact.’ The engine, impeccably tuned, fired first time and roared into life. Immediately, for she did not want to waste a single drop of fuel, she taxied away across the aerodrome in the weak rays of the sun, which appeared through a watery slit in the clouds. The little group of friends, the journalists and the Abingdon workers stood and watched tensely as she sat at the end of the runway performing her flight checks. Then her hand appeared through the sliding side window of the cockpit and waved cheerily.36 She was off on her great adventure.

  One of the biggest hazards faced her right at the start of the flight. Would the aeroplane take off with the enormous load of fuel, within the runway length? Percival and Mollison had previously paced out the runway with Beryl, and placed markers at hundred-yard intervals, with a red flag at the point of no return. One mistake now in the little aeroplane, which was no more than a flying petrol tank, and nothing could have saved her. In the event The Messenger needed only 600 yards of the runway. After the tail lifted, the onlookers noted that Beryl coolly held the aeroplane down to gather plenty of speed and was in no hurry to haul it off. Professionalism had taken over from the nervous tension that had overshadowed her through the terrible period of waiting, which all the record-breakers described as ‘the worst part of it’.