by Carol Baxter
Boredom soon set in. After his years in the military, student life lacked the Boy’s Own adventurousness he was used to—the thrill, the camaraderie, the feeling that, in protecting the nation, they had a higher purpose in life. More importantly, dental students with little money couldn’t afford to fly. And he lived to fly. He applied to rejoin the RAF and was granted a short service commission from April 1921.
Volunteering for the forces on India’s North-West Frontier, he was sent to 31 Squadron, which policed the rebellious Afghanistan and Waziristan border regions. By early 1923 he was back in England where he was on sick leave for a few months. The remainder of his commission was spent performing administrative duties at RAF training schools, first at Halton in Buckinghamshire and later at Manston in Kent.
During these training school years, he developed quite a reputation, although not because of his piloting skills. With a view to a post-RAF future, he and his father purchased an automotive garage at Wendover, not far from the Halton base. Naming it the Red Rose Garage, they installed a manager until Bill was available to run it. With his easy access to automobiles, he became the person everyone wanted to know when a trip to London was proposed. But after they alighted from the hair-raising ride, he was the last person anyone ever wanted to travel with again. Always game, he accepted a challenge to ride a bucking bronco at an international rodeo at Wembley Station where he used his Australian outback riding skills to great success. This spawned his nickname, ‘Bronco Bill’. And when the RAF finally adopted parachutes in 1925, he was among those who volunteered to demonstrate them.
His daredevil attitude to life wasn’t suited to the civilian world. When he was transferred to the RAF reserves in April 1926, boredom again set in. He wanted to be back in the air. As Bill dreamed and schemed, Lindbergh conquered the Atlantic and the aviation world changed forever.
As Chubbie and Bill continued their preparations, the Manchester Guardian’s aviation journalist professed himself glad the deteriorating weather had halted the ‘insensate craving’ for flying the Atlantic that had developed over the previous few months. Instead, with summer coming in the southern hemisphere, legitimate air tourists would soon be out in their Moths and Avians, showing the world that the aeroplane was a practical, reliable and pleasurable means of travel. The flights to the dominions were generating the most interest, he reported, among them Mrs Miller’s.
The Australian press was also intrigued by their venture. Melbourne’s Table Talk advised that two great flights to Australia were again drawing the world’s attention to their southern continent. From England, Captain Lancaster and Mrs Keith Miller were attempting to match Sir Alan Cobham’s feat, except that Cobham had flown a large powerful seaplane whereas they were flying a small ‘land’ plane. And from America came the news that Charles Kingsford Smith and his companions would soon cross the Pacific in the Southern Cross, an epoch-making endeavour if they survived the journey.
Other aviation experts expressed mixed feelings about the flight of the Red Rose—the name Bill had chosen for the plane—or ignored it altogether. The Aeroplane’s editor was tactful: ‘For some reason or another, this particular flight does not seem to be taken very seriously by those who have seen the preparations for it being made at Croydon.’ In truth, Croydon’s aviators were treating the whole exercise as a joke and laying bets that Bill wouldn’t get much further than France. He was considered little more than an amateur because he had sat at a desk throughout most of his RAF service. By contrast, Charles Kingsford Smith and Bert Hinkler were already acclaimed pilots when they set their sights on the record books.
The experts wondered if Bill even had the skills to undertake such a hazardous journey. The most serious threat came from the lengthy water expanses he would have to cross in his single-engine Avian. The last stretch across the Torres Strait to Australia was the most dangerous. Some experts maintained that any ocean flying in a single-engine plane was nothing but a foolish stunt. Others thought that the sturdy Cirrus engine should carry it successfully to its destination. The Aeroplane concluded: ‘For the good of British aviation in general one may hope that the attempt will meet with better success than is generally predicted.’
Then there was the issue of Bill’s female passenger. Was it just a publicity stunt? The general consensus was that a female passenger on a record-breaking flight was nothing but a dead weight. Whether Chubbie would prove a help or hindrance, only time would tell.
Meanwhile, the press made the occasional reference to Hinkler’s dreams of a flight to Australia. ‘When Bert Hinkler does start off in his Avian for his native Queensland (which he is sure to do with the utmost secrecy),’ wrote the Manchester Guardian, ‘we shall be very much surprised if he does not lower all records for speedy travel.’
Bill knew about Bert’s plan. He wasn’t worried. His aviator friend had struggled for a decade to finance his own Australian flight. Surely, the odds of him miraculously finding funds overnight were slim. Besides, Bert was busy. Recently, he had garnered accolades when he flew 1200 miles non-stop from Croydon to Riga, Latvia, in thirteen hours. Currently, he was preparing his Great Circle flight to India. By the time he finished that trip and acquired enough money to pursue his Australian dream, the Red Rose would have completed its five-to-six-week journey. Bert might later make a faster flight but he wouldn’t win the acclaim for the first light-plane flight to Australia.
And in these days of aviation glory seeking, few remembered those who came in second.
Chapter Three
Chubbie’s father would have rolled in his grave if he had known she would spend most of her English holiday preparing to fly home to Australia in a flimsy open-cockpit aeroplane with an unknown married man. Of course, it wasn’t how she had imagined spending her holiday either. Still, it meant that her trip was ending with more fanfare than she could have expected if she had departed as she had arrived: alone on a ship. She and Bill were the guests of honour at a farewell party hosted by the nation’s pre-eminent aviation official, Air Vice Marshal Sir Sefton Brancker, Britain’s Director of Civil Aviation.
Sir Sefton was a visionary who saw the potential benefits of civilian air services between Britain and its dominions. An ardent advocate of long-distance flights, he was among those who supported the Red Rose’s venture and had offered advice and assistance to ensure its success. He had written letters of support to Australia’s Prime Minister, Governor-General, and Controller of Civil Aviation, letters that Bill and Chubbie would carry with them. And as the date of the Red Rose’s departure drew near, he organised to hold the farewell party at the prestigious Murray’s Night Club in Soho.
There, among the glitz and glamour of cabaret London, as they twirled under the chandeliers to the jittery beat of the latest dance tunes, Chubbie had her last taste of the exhilarations of 1920s London. The vibrant city—indeed the entire world—would be vastly different by the time she returned.
When she chatted to their host, he asked about her luggage. It was a subject she’d been too busy to think about until a short time before. Restricted to only a few pounds, she had bought a small leather pouch and had stuffed it with a single change of lightweight underwear, a clean shirt and pair of shorts, a small comb and mirror, a box of powder, and a sponge bag containing a tube of toothpaste, a toothbrush and a small cake of soap. Sir Sefton told her that it was essential she pack an evening dress—a chiffon frock, perhaps—and a pair of evening shoes. While Britannia no longer ruled the waves, its imperial presence still dotted the globe. Social events would be organised at some of their stopping places and she would feel mortified if she had nothing to wear but her shorts or flying gear.
Heeding his advice, she raced into town the next morning and bought a black ninon-and-lace evening frock and a pair of black satin shoes, both weighing barely anything at all. She stashed these and a pair of silk stockings in her bag. She would silently thank Sir Sefton every time she had occasion to wear them in the weeks that followed.
Near midnight on Thursday, 13 October, Chubbie and Bill motored down to Croydon, where they were staying overnight to ensure an early departure. Bill’s wife and five-year-old daughter, Patricia, accompanied them, while the baby, Nina, was left in the care of others.
When they threw back the curtains on Friday morning, they were hoping to see a blue sky or at least high, unobtrusive clouds. Instead, the pilot’s bane greeted them. A thick gauze-like fog cloaked everything—buildings, trees, even the usual sounds of the morning—as if a giant eraser had swooped in overnight and obliterated their surroundings.
Chubbie pulled on her flying gear: a striped sweater, knickerbockers, thick stockings and sturdy brogues. As she stuffed her toiletries back into her bag, she hoped that the next time she tugged them out she would be across the Channel in France.
When they reached Croydon airport, they gave the Red Rose a final once-over, trusting that the weather would have improved by the time they were finished. A large continental airliner took off but returned a short time later, forced back by the fog blanketing southern England and the Channel. As it landed, airport officials hoisted the forbidding red flag. No more planes would be permitted to depart until the weather conditions improved.
Chubbie and Bill tried not to chafe at this new delay. Last-minute hitches had already forced them to reschedule their departure date a few times, preventing Sir Sefton and Australia’s High Commissioner, Sir Granville Ryrie, from attending. The High Commissioners’ wife, however, had said she would still christen the Avian although she would delay her arrival until she was certain of their departure.
As the hours ticked by and the red flag remained stubbornly in place, Chubbie and Bill and their well-wishers retired to a nearby hotel for lunch. Bill’s parents accompanied them, his mother dressed in an outlandish purple costume with a red cross on her cap. Maud had looked at the tiny silver plane squatting insect-like on the airfield and had registered the danger of her son’s flight. Tugging at his sleeve, she begged him not to go. When she failed to dissuade him, she passed him her little silver St Christopher medallion for luck.
Joining the party at the pub were Australian holidaymakers and expatriates whom Chubbie had befriended during her six-month holiday. Bill’s RAF buddies accompanied them, among them Bert Hinkler. A good sport, he was hiding his disappointment that Bill had beaten him—to the starting blocks, at least. As they both knew, the Red Rose had a long trying trip ahead of it and anything could happen along the way. Departure celebrations and press attention didn’t take out the record. Landing in Australia did. Until that happened, the record remained anyone’s for the taking.
Tempted by the mouth-watering aromas of hot pies and roast dinners, they all feasted and celebrated, toasting Chubbie’s and Bill’s health with champagne. Bundles of telegrams were brought out and read, some from British well-wishers, others from Australian friends. Chubbie’s husband wished them every success in their journey. A group of her Melbourne friends invited them to lunch at the Quamby, a women’s club in Melbourne, at their earliest convenience. Chubbie cabled back, ‘You bet we will.’
When they returned to the airfield, the red flag was gone.
Photographers swarmed around them, snapping pictures, while newsmen pestered them with questions. Asked about her decision to make the flight, Chubbie declared, with publicity-conscious fervour more than truthfulness, ‘I am an Australian and have always wished to be the first woman to fly from London to Australia.’ She laughed off the journalists’ remarks about risks and hardships, and said that she couldn’t wait to get started.
Naturally there were the inevitable questions about her luggage. When she showed it to the journalists, one quipped, ‘This is probably the smallest amount of luggage ever taken by a woman on a journey of this length.’ She had set a record even before the Red Rose took off.
Bill talked about the route and reiterated that it wasn’t a stunt flight, that his aim was to show the feasibility of flying to Australia in a light plane. He said that he would only fly in fair weather, even though this would slow them down, because he didn’t want to risk compromising the success of the flight. Asked about his female companion, he said she was cool and capable and had a fine air sense. In fact, she seemed such a natural flier that he had fitted the plane with dual controls so she could take over when he was tired.
At 2.20 pm, the High Commissioner’s wife swept in with her daughter and handed Bill two letters. One was from her husband to Australia’s Prime Minister. The other commended the fliers to all the world’s nations on behalf of the Australian Government. She scattered rose petals over the plane and christened it the Red Rose. They were ready to go.
Chubbie accepted a bunch of white heather for luck. With a final beaming smile and cheery wave, she climbed onto the lower wing and into the open front cockpit. Only the top half of her head could be seen above the cockpit rim.
As Bill prepared to climb into his own cockpit, Kiki gave him an affectionate goodbye kiss and then left with their daughter, saying that she preferred not to see him taking off. Every aviator’s wife would have heard about Lindbergh’s terrifying take-off from New York for his historic flight, when his fuel-overladen plane cleared the power wires at the end of the runway by mere inches.
Chubbie and Bill donned ear protectors to minimise the engine’s drone, then pulled down and adjusted their goggles. As a member of the groundcrew pulled the propeller, the engine roared to life with a throaty growl.
At 2.37 pm, as twenty-five photographers and cinematographers captured the historic moment, the Red Rose rolled across the field, increasing speed until it lifted off smoothly. The crowd roared its approval.
As it climbed into the white sky, a giant Fokker came in to land. No one watching the take-off would forget the image of the two juxtaposed planes, a mosquito dwarfed by an eagle. Few could help but wonder whether such a minuscule machine could really travel 12,000 miles across half the globe to Australia.
The Red Rose circled the aerodrome twice as a farewell. Flanked by two other planes, it turned south-east and disappeared over the horizon.
The aftermath was anti-climactic. Instead of heading straight to the Channel and soaring across it to commence their adventure, they had to stop at Lympne aerodrome for customs clearance.
There, Bill telephoned his father to discuss the one item that hadn’t yet been finalised: insurance. The insurance companies had also doubted that such a tiny plane could reach Australia without serious damage.
‘To hell with them,’ Bill seethed when his father told him that none of the insurance companies had weakened. ‘We’ll go uninsured.’
His pragmatic engineer father argued that they mustn’t travel without insurance.
‘If we don’t leave now, we never will,’ was Bill’s simple response.
Unmentioned was the humiliation—the jokes, the teasing—if they scuttled back to London after all the celebrations.
Around 4 pm, they took off from Lympne and steered towards the English Channel. They were determined to spend the night in France, even though they had only an hour to fly there. However, the aviator’s witching hour was approaching. Sunset. It was best not to be airborne after darkness had fallen.
Chapter Four
Heavy fog wrapped around them. By dead reckoning alone, they knew they had crossed England’s shoreline, the demarcation zone between land’s relative safety and the lethal sea. Yet a Channel crossing without a water sighting lacked any sense of magic. It wasn’t the exciting start to their journey Chubbie had been dreaming about.
Before they left Croydon, they had been advised to rethink their overnight stop as they wouldn’t make Paris before nightfall. Abbeville was a reachable alternative, a market town and regular stopping point on the London-to-Paris commercial route. But Bill hadn’t had time to recalculate his compass settings. As the weakening light warned that dusk was approaching, he pulled out his book of strip maps for the region and turned to the relevant page. Reading maps whil
e flying in an open cockpit plane was a tricky exercise. Over the engine’s drone, he yelled to Chubbie, ‘You take her.’
Chubbie turned around in her tiny cockpit and gaped at him. Did he really want her to fly the plane? Already? Realising that he did, she detached her joystick from the cockpit’s side clip and slotted it into its socket, securing it with its pin. Grasping the knob firmly with both hands as if she would have to fight it for control, she pulled it towards her. The nose lifted and the plane shot up sharply into the fog-laden sky.
‘Put her down, you clot!’ Bill screamed.
She shoved the joystick forward and the nose dropped—too far. Gradually, by moving the stick forwards and backwards, she managed level flight. She turned her head to see Bill’s reaction. He wasn’t looking. Face down, with his head under the cockpit rim, he was examining his maps.
She kept flying, making joystick adjustments when air pockets bumped them around. Bill had told the press she was a ‘natural’ and his lack of concern served as a confidence booster for her. As she felt the freedom of soaring weightlessly through the sky combined with the sense of power at being in control of such an extraordinary vehicle, a change swept through her. By the time Bill had taken control again, flying had taken over her soul.
Luck continued to elude them. They crossed paths with the setting sun before they reached Abbeville. Ahead, all they could see were the soft white lights of a large town, as if the plane had turned upside down and they were gazing at a star-filled constellation in an otherwise dark sky. But none of the lights lay in distinctive parallel lines. Abbeville wasn’t expecting them and hadn’t turned on its airfield lights.