'Great heavens! But you've only just got your licence, haven't you? Perhaps you're going to fly home now,' he added, jokingly.
'Yes, as a matter of fact I am.'
I had not talked about my proposed trip for fear of failure and being laughed at.
'You're not really!' he said. 'When are you starting?'
'In six hours.'
He was silent for some time.
I ate dinner in a panic. When the porter told me I was wanted on the telephone I got hot and cold with fear that it was something which would stop me. I gasped with relief when it turned out to be the Meteorological Office, telling me that I must not land at Grogak, Rembang, Bima, Reo or Larantoeka in the Dutch East Indies because they were flooded. I could not worry about that. I was up at 1.30 a.m. and ate bacon and eggs.
At 3.15 a.m. I took off across the grass field. This was the first time I had taken off with a full load up. The aeroplane was carrying its own weight in payload. I thought this was the reason for the long and horribly bumpy take-off, but actually the ground, frozen hard, had ripped open a tyre and tube. As soon as I left the ground I felt the tremendous thrill of being off to Australia. The four exhaust stubs belched bluish flames against the night sky. I wobbled about at first both in yaw and pitch, for this was the first time I had steered a course at night. Luckily, I had moonlight at the start, and began to pick out the fields below. I could see the broad bands of hoar-frost along the lee of the hedges. I kept on trying to fly steady and level. I had no blind-flying instruments, and the horizon was vague and indefinite. I set about trying to read the drift, another thing I had not had time to practise. Leaving the coast and flying off into the murky darkness was another exciting moment. The moonlight was cut off by a layer of cloud and the horizon had completely vanished. All I could see was a glint on a small patch of water directly beneath the aeroplane. I hoped to keep roughly level by means of the altimeter, and when I looked at it, the dial was rotating without stopping. I had nothing to judge the height by except the patch of sea underneath. If the waves were small I might be only a few feet above them; if large, I might be thousands of feet up.
I had expected to cross the Channel in about fifteen minutes, and when I was still over water after three-quarters of an hour I began to feel lost. The truth was that I was making a hash of my first night navigation. I had over-estimated the drift, and thought I had crossed the south coast at Folkestone. When France did not show up as expected, I wondered if I was heading into the North Sea. If I had been able to study my map, and use a ruler and protractor, I would have seen quickly what was happening, but there was no light in the cockpit, and I did not like to stop looking out while I worked a torch with the map and instruments. Gradually, I reasoned that the North Sea was an impossibility and that I was headed south towards Dieppe.
At last, an hour after leaving England, a high, whitish cliff loomed up just ahead. I flew along beside the dim, ghostly white face for some 5 miles, determining the compass bearing of its direction. There was only one 5-mile piece of coast running in this direction – I must be north-east of Dieppe. I worked out a fresh course for Paris from that spot, allowing ten degrees for drift; but the wind had dropped altogether, so I was set to the west of Paris. As a bleak, dismal, November grey crept into the sky, I was cold and cramped and attacked by an overpowering desire to sleep. I got a map fix, and worked out a fresh course for Lyon. Dawn broke, the earth was white with frost, the canals and patches of water covered with ice. Smoke drifted lazily above the chimney tops. After seven and a half hours in the air I landed at Lyon. It was a good landing, but the machine tried to slew round at the end of its run because of its flat tyre. I ran 300 yards in my big sheepskin boots, then had an enormous omelette with a bottle of red wine. The tyre was mended for me, and I got away after one and three-quarter hours on the ground.
Climbing with full load to 10,000 feet in order to cross the Alps seemed to take an age. I kept on looking at my watch, and wondering whether I could reach Pisa before dark. I flew over the Cenis Col with 3,000 feet to spare and it was a great relief to have crossed the Alps in smooth air; also to be flying faster on the long descent to Turin after the slow, tedious climb with full load. Everything went well until I ran into rough air at Genoa. Whizz! Whop! Bump! Each bump sent a shower of petrol into my face from the vent of the cockpit tank in front: I tried flying over the sea, but it was worse there. I was scared stiff that the wings would fold up. I bolted back to the mainland again, and was hurled this way and that as I climbed with throttle wide open at the steepest possible angle against the down-draught coming through a col in the hills. The slots clanked each time an extra strong bump stalled the aeroplane. I only just managed to clear the col. Then I flew down a valley parallel with the coast. At first I tried to climb in the hope of escaping the bumps, but each time I gained a few hundred feet a violent downwash of air forced me down again. I felt as hot as if I had just run a mile race.
Night fell, and at last the air became calm again. I plodded on to Pisa, where I could see the aerodrome a long way ahead splendidly lit with a searchlight signalling me. I flew up to it, and cut my motor three times to let them know on the ground that I had arrived, and then shut off to land. Close to the ground I found that it was not an airfield, but bright lights illuminating a long, L-shaped hoarding, half a mile long at the corner of two streets. The searchlight was a powerful beam from a motorcar.
I soon recognised the airfield as a big black space, but there was not a single light showing except from some barracks at one end. My first shot at landing in the dark was a dud; I bumped and went round again. However, at my next shot I landed well and started to taxi in, but the wheels got bogged in the mud. A swarm of soldiers seemed to spring out of the ground and pushed the Gipsy Moth out of the mud, breaking one or two of the ribs in the leading edge.
I asked in French about the lights, and they said that they had expected me to circle for half an hour while they went to find the light operator. The Italians were extremely kind and helpful, but everything had to be discussed at great length. It took four and a half hours of solid talk and argument before I had refuelled, checked over the motor and satisfied the Air Force, Customs and police authorities. They lent me a campbed and I tried to sleep at 10 o'clock, but I was too tired. I had started tired, had put in a strenuous 20 hours, of which 12 had been spent flying 780 miles. I only had two and a half hours sleep before getting into the air again at 1.45 a.m. I took off in the dark with no lights on the airfield, so that I had landed and taken off from an airfield that I had never seen. It was a lovely, fine night when I reached Naples. The sky became overcast, and I was flitting along under the ceiling of a low, wide-roofed cavern. Vesuvius was a magnificent sight with dark, billowy smoke rolling slowly from the cone, and a million sparkling, twinkling lights clustering round the bay at the foot of the volcano. I flew over the Gulf of Salerno into pitch darkness. I could see nothing ahead or below. Presently, flashes of lightning from a black storm cloud lit up the whole area. I was able to dodge this, but later flew into a rain-cloud. I could not see six feet ahead, and glided down until I could distinguish land by its utter blackness in comparison with the less black sea.
I was now flying beside a barren, mountainous country, apparently uninhabited, because there was not a single light visible anywhere. Daybreak was approaching and as the tatty grey storm clouds began to outline the mountains, sleepiness became an agony. I moved anything I could, waved my arms, jumped up and down in the seat, stamped my feet. If I jumped up I was asleep before I landed in the seat. I was primitive man looking at a stark, primeval scene, the black masses of towering mountains, the rugged grey precipices of rock dropping sheer into the sea and the dull surface of the sea flitting out of sight under threatening cloud. Each time I slept I heard separate motor explosions, usually about four, with an increasing interval of silence between them. Then silence, and I woke with a jolt, petrified with fear that the motor had stopped. The first few times this happ
ened I felt certain it had; it was worse when I realised that the motor was still firing steadily at 3,600 times a minute. I no longer had the fright that kept me awake for a few seconds. I took off my flying-helmet and stuck my head into the slipstream. I tried watching the cliffs, but my eyes would not align properly; I saw double. At last day came; I had been flying for six hours. I was tempted to look for one of the three emergency landing-strips on the beach where it widened, for the desire for the aeroplane to roll to a standstill so that I could loll my head against the cockpit edge and go to sleep was overpowering. I had already passed the first of these landing-strips; when I came to the second it was half washed away. Then, at the toe of Italy, sleepiness abated, and I flew on for another age across the straits and on to Mount Etna, looking enormous and solid in her snow cap. I landed at Catania and was stuck there for three hours. Petrol and a Customs officer had to be fetched from the town. When I had everything ready I found my journey log-book was still in the town and I had to wait another hour for it to turn up.
I managed to get in fifteen minutes sleep, which was a godsend. It was obvious now that I could not reach Africa before dark, so I asked carefully about night-landing facilities at Homs. I was assured that the airfield there had everything that could be desired in night-landing facilities. Then I flew over Malta. I thought of stopping there, but I had made up my mind to reach Africa in two days. I flew through a curtain of stinging hail, and a terrific flash of lightning near by made the aeroplane rock. After that, most of the 285-mile sea crossing was in fine weather. The sun set magnificently.
I was thrilled by my first sight of Africa, but surprised to see by the twinkling lights that the terrain sloped steeply up from the sea, whereas I had expected a broad, level sand desert. When I reached Homs it looked small, no more than a village, and there was no sign of an airfield. I thought I had made a mistake, and flew on for 6 to 8 miles to the next promontory of the coast. Looking back, I saw a large reddish light, stronger than any other. When I reached the headland there was not a light in sight ahead, so I returned to investigate the red light. I was disgusted to find that it was a big bonfire in a deserted area of the country. I did not realise that it was lit to indicate a landing-place. I decided to head for Tripoli, 70 miles to the west. If I did not find a landing-ground before that, I knew that Tripoli was an Italian air force base.
There were no lights visible along the coast. Presently I flew into cloud, and could see nothing. I did not like it, with no blind-flying instruments, and no altimeter. Later, I spotted a searchlight ahead, flashing at regular intervals. I thought it was an airfield signalling to me, and it cheered me up. After flying on another 20 miles I could see a magnificent cordon of light, and thought that the airfield was really well lighted up. I began to sing. Later the light appeared to be just as far away. When at last I arrived I found that the airfield was the harbour, and the searchlight was the lighthouse, on the Mole. I circled the town in the dark, but could not see any airfield. Then a starry light flashed 10 miles to the west of the town, and I flew over to that. I could see no airfield boundary lights, and glided down close to the ground, when I found that a motor-car was switching its lights on and off, trying to overtake another one.
Then an unmistakable searchlight appeared in the sky to the east of the town. There were no boundary lights, just the one searchlight which was lowered to the ground as I approached. It was pointing right at the hangars. If I landed along the beam, I should be heading right for the hangars, and I judged that there was only 200 yards between the light and the hangars. I could not be sure of a good landing in the dark after so long in the air. I circled the field, and could see a fine square of flat ground, surrounded by trees. I decided to land on this, short of the searchlight. I glided in steadily until suddenly, wonk! I was jolted forward and found myself held into the cockpit by my harness. The Gipsy Moth had tipped on to its nose. I had an empty feeling of utter failure; it was the end of my flight and my foolish dreams. I was aware of the dead silence that succeeded the motor roar, yet the rhythmic engine beat continued, not only in my brain but in every part of my body. I scrambled out of the cockpit, stepped on to one of the inter-wing struts and from there jumped to the ground. To my amazement I landed with a splash. 'Good God! I'm in the sea.' I listened but could hear no waves. The water only came to my ankles. I started towards the searchlight; a few steps and I floundered on to my knees. Then, stumbling forward, I touched a bank, and climbed up it (it was only a foot high). I felt like Puss in Boots in my long sheepskin boots. I stopped there, filled my pipe, but could not get the cigarette lighter to light.
The searchlight beam started moving, flickered round and settled on the aeroplane. I could see waves in the fabric of the top and bottom wings, and a tear in the wing with the strut sticking through. 'Complete write-off,' I thought, and looked the other way. I tried to light my pipe. I was astonished to see the silhouette of a war dance on the wings of the Moth. Dozens of people dancing hard with their legs lifting like marionettes. Presently I heard the thumping of many feet. Then thirty soldiers came running to the ditch separating them from my bank. They rushed off to the side, found a crossing, then rushed up to me all talking to me at once, and pawing me as if unable to believe I was alive. I borrowed a match and set off with them for the searchlight. The commandant took me to a room in the empty mess and produced some wine. I kept on falling asleep as I drank. An orderly took me off to sleep in the room of a pilot away in the desert. Later I woke up and found myself groping along the wall, dreaming that I was flying, and suddenly all visibility vanished and I could do nothing but wait to crash.
Next morning I went out to find the Moth being wheeled in by a number of soldiers. The NCO in charge, Marzocchi, spoke French, and told me that the aeroplane was undamaged except for a front inter-wing strut and a broken propeller. I just did not believe him; but he was right. My amazement was only exceeded by my joy. I had landed in a dead flat salt pan, covered with four inches of water. It was so flat that coming in steadily I had not known I was down. The wheelmarks could be seen for thirty-five yards before the plane nosed over. This was due to my keeping the tail up in gliding trim.
I had been flying for twenty-six hours out of the forty hours since I left England, and flown 1,900 miles to Tripoli. Of the fourteen hours when I had not been flying I had had two and three-quarter hours sleep, and the rest of the time had been very strenuously occupied working on the aeroplane and clearing formalities. On top of that I had had little sleep after the strenuous day before leaving Croydon. To put it bluntly, I could not achieve what I had set out to do. My only hope would have been to carry more petrol, and make a twelve and a half hour non-stop flight of 1,000 miles each day. The fatigue and time lost during the midday landing made my plan impossible to carry out.
CHAPTER 9
TRIPOLI TO SYDNEY
While I was waiting ten days for a new propeller to arrive, the Italian air force pilots were good to me. They amused me, and I think I amused them. There was Vallerani, for example, who, when he discovered that this was the third propeller I had smashed in four months, suggested a rubber one – perhaps a clever idea. Vallerani was in charge of the engineering section which carried out all the repairs on the aeroplane for me free of charge. There was Guidi, who looked like Adonis with a perfect modern tailor. I called him Topsy. He had a hairnet. I don't know who fascinated me more, the gorgeous Guidi or the ravishing beauties whose signed photographs covered his table and walls.
At last my new propeller arrived, and the Gipsy Moth was ready to fly. I dreaded this moment. The flight out from London to Africa had been almost beyond my powers, and my nerve was shaken. I had never flown in Africa in daylight, and was scared by all the stories I had heard about the air being so thin near the ground that an aeroplane would drop the last ten feet like a stone. The aerodrome officials did not like my going up, partly because there was a fresh wind blowing and the air was sand-laden, and partly because of all the crashes which had oc
curred since I arrived. The wreckage of Lasalle's aeroplane had been found along the coast, and the bodies brought to Tripoli. Lasalle had set out to fly from France to IndoChina. The Italians gave him a tremendous funeral in Tripoli. All the pilots were there, all the consuls, a large squad of soldiers, a troop of Fascists in their black shirts and tasselled caps, and a big band. The coffins were mounted on gun-carriages, and three Italian Romeos flew slowly up and down above the procession. The French consul asked me to represent British aviators, which I did, feeling sheepish because I only had one suit with me (with plus-four trousers), and every other civilian was dressed in a top hat and long tail coat. In the cathedral where the Bishop of Tripoli conducted an impressive service there was a field-gun, machine guns, and crossed propellers, all covered with wreaths. One of the four censers caught alight, and after burning fiercely for a while exploded with a loud bang which added to the impressiveness.
There had been three other crashes in the same week; Jones, Williams and Jenkins were killed on a flight to South Africa; Andre, a Swede, and one of their own Tripoli pilots came down in a Romeo whilst looking for Lasalle (the last two pilots had escaped alive).
My first view of Africa from the air was wonderful; the sea was bluer than I had ever seen it, and away to the south I had my first view of the desert looking like brown liquid which had overflowed from beyond the horizon. I sighed; I wondered if my Gipsy Moth was as strong as before the repairs. There was one way to find out; I started doing aerobatics. I went into one loop too slowly. The Moth stood on its tail and stuck there, then started sliding backwards. I imagined the elevators and rudder tearing off, and kept the controls steady. At last the Moth fell over slowly backwards. It was the worst loop I have ever done. I put the Moth into a spin, but she refused to come out of it, and went on spinning. I thought the controls must be jammed. But it was only my bad flying, and at last I coaxed her into a dive. Finally I had to land over the top of the hangars with only 275 yards between them and an open ditch dug across the airfield. A month earlier I would have thought this a joke; but now my nerve was bad, and I was scared of the ten-foot drop I had heard about. I came in too fast, and overshot. I pretended that I had come down only to look at the airfield, and went around again. By now the whole aerodrome staff had turned out to watch the fun, which made me more nervous. At last I side-slipped between two hangars, with the hangar roofs above me at each wing tip, and landed safely. When the watchers ran out and swarmed round the Moth I thought they had come out to see what was wrong with me, and I felt a fool. When they told me they thought I had given a wonderful exhibition of stunting I burst out laughing. Perhaps that foozled loop had looked spectacular!
The Lonely Sea and the Sky Page 9