by P Fitzsimons
To which, the short answer was that deference had been paid, with people on both sides of the Pacific obliged to engage in a mad scramble to try to find a way around the fact that Kingsford Smith—despite being warned from all sides, both in written and verbal form, that it would be a disaster if he did so—had imported to Australia a potentially lethal aeroplane that had little more certification than a tomato box. And yes, they knew he was probably capable of flying a tomato box if it came to that, but not without bloody certification he couldn’t.
Smithy would not back down.
‘I am sick of all the delay,’ he thundered to the press, ‘and the difficulties which are being placed in my path. Why cannot the Australian Government observe the spirit of the law, rather than the letter?’46
The deadline for leaving Australia loomed closer. As to a rash of rumours that Smithy didn’t actually want to compete in the race at all, the pilot had a firm answer: ‘If my critics think that I am frightened, then they can accompany me on the race…‘47
Finally, a compromise of sorts was reached. Australia’s Department of Civil Aviation agreed to give him a restricted Certificate of Airworthiness, which would enable him to fly to England at least, but he would be constrained to a maximum gross weight of 6700 pounds, which was to say, 394 American gallons of fuel instead of 510 American gallons.
Smithy, finally brought to ground by rules and officialdom, had no choice but to bow and agree to have the wing tanks of the Lockheed sealed. The bottom line was that with the fuel capacity reduced, he would have to make nine stops on his way from Mildenhall to Melbourne, instead of just five—all but eliminating his chances of winning the race. But he had to try.
The remaining question was, would the Royal Aero Club in London accept this as sufficient certification to allow him to enter the race? Smithy phoned the club and stated his position, and the RAC promised it would come back to him with their decision. That decision came via a 2.15 am phone call to Smithy’s home on 29 September 1934—he could enter subject to restricting his fuel capacity to 300 gallons—and he and Taylor took off from Mascot less than four hours later.
Before they knew it, they were all the way to Cloncurry—it was still only 2.30 in the afternoon! This sense that they were flying into the future, in a machine that made their past look impossibly slow and old fashioned was heightened when only a short time after landing they were stunned to see heading towards them from out of the dusty skies nothing other than the Southern Cross herself! On assignment to take government geologists on a survey of remote parts of the Northern Territory, the old girl was being piloted by Harry Purvis, a Kingsford-Smith Air Services stalwart, who was also a skilled engineer.
‘Would you mind checking the engine for me,’ Smithy asked him immediately upon landing, ‘and giving the airframe a general run over?’
Frankly Harry would. He was exhausted, but as Smithy was, after all, his boss and a fine fellow he reluctantly agreed.48 Which was just as well, because in no time at all, Purvis was horrified to note a dozen serious cracks around the cowling of the new plane, the conical metal cover that was effectively a bonnet around the aeroplane’s extra powerful engine that Smithy had had specially fitted, perhaps producing stronger vibrations than the cowling was designed for. All the cracks stemmed from the rivet holes.
Cloncurry was without the means to have the plane repaired, so Smithy and Taylor had no choice but to return to their starting point. Frustrated beyond measure, Smithy nursed the plane back to Sydney and immediately employed that city’s foremost engineering firm, Holder and Stroud, to try to repair it.
When, in fact, it proved beyond repair, the company set about spinning a new cowling from scratch. There was endless to-ing and fro-ing, putting extra people on and working in late shifts, but when all was said and done, it took—as 30 September, 1 October, 2 October, 4 October dribbled by—too long to make the trip feasible.
By now, to get to Mildenhall by the deadline and be in shape to race back he would have to break the Australia to England record just to reach the starting line, supervise a four-day overhaul of the Altair prior to the race start, obtain final clearances, rehearse and organise his ground crews, and procure petrol and oil supplies.49
No matter which way Smithy cut it, and he cut it every which way, there was just no way he would be able to get to England in time for the race either in the Lady Southern Cross or an alternative plane from America and then get both himself and the plane in shape to win the race. Finally, he was left with no option, and on the morning of 4 October 1934 he was obliged, with a very heavy heart, to cable the race organisers:
Deeply regret on account of delays and the difficulties of completing the job, that I am unable to participate in the Centenary Air Race. Please accept this as formal withdrawal, coupled with sincerest best wishes for the winner and the safe carrying out of the most spectacular air race in the history of aviation.
C. Kingsford Smith50
The criticism began. Coward! Cur! Sell-out! Obviously he was pulling out of the race because he was chicken, because he knew his American plane would be beaten by the good ol’ British planes.
They had a cracked cowling did they, and so couldn’t fly? Diddums. Good thing all the people in the country with cracks in their car and truck bonnets didn’t take the same approach, wasn’t it? Or the country would dinkum grind to a halt, wouldn’t it? Huh? Huh? HUH?
He began to receive vicious letters, one even accompanied by a white feather. When the first lot arrived at his office at Mascot, Smithy’s face turned ashen with shock.51 As Smithy noted one more time, ‘A nation’s hero may become a nation’s whipping boy overnight.’
In the middle of the maelstrom, Smithy was particularly pleased to receive a cable from Charles Ulm, then in America: Tell Kingsford Smith, I will obtain a suitable plane in U.S.A. and fly it to London for him.52
It was a singularly kind offer from his old mate, whatever their differences had been, but after looking at it closely Smithy had to decline. Time, which he had so often trounced in his many record-breaking flights, had now defeated him.
Well, the hell with the lot of them. On the afternoon of 5 October, Smithy and Bill Taylor were in Smithy’s office at Mascot, both of them feeling lower than a snake’s bellybutton when Smithy opened the Times Atlas to page 102, laid it before Bill, and looked at him meaningfully. It was a map of the Pacific Ocean.53 They would bloody well fly that, is what they would do, and be the first to fly it from west to east. Bill nodded his head, and it was done. They would fly the Lady Southern Cross, and Smithy would sell it on arrival to retrieve the money provided by his backers.
This announcement in no way quelled the many attacks on him, and on 13 October 1934, Smithy made a personal reply in a front-page diatribe he penned for—of all papers (given how bitterly it had attacked him during the Coffee Royal affair)—Smith’s Weekly, aimed squarely at his critics. Entitled ‘HIS CARDS ON THE TABLE’, and emblazoned across the top of the front page, Smithy got straight to the point: ‘I’ve done some foolish things in connection with the big air race. I admit them. But I’m no squib. I know there are people who say I am. I know there are others who contend that I’m pleased to be out of the race; and others again say I’m wholly and solely to blame for being out…And about this “squibbing” business. Have a look at the map, you “squib” critics! See whether an England-Australia flight—looks, I say—any worse than a flight across the Pacific…
‘Well, I’m putting my cards on the table—I’m saying my piece. I’m out of the race. That’s a punch in the solar plexus. But, worse is that squib talk. That’s hitting below the belt. Anyway, I’d like anyone who says I’m a squib to say so in my hearing. And don’t get the idea I’m thinking of legal action.’54
Even then, Kingsford Smith was barely clearing his throat, as over the next two thousand words or so, he acknowledged all his mistakes, even as he took aim and shot down the bulk of other charges made against him. He explained the reasons be
hind choosing an American plane, and noted that many of his critics probably drove American cars, so where the hell did they get off?
The damaged cowling? Glad they mentioned it: ‘I know there are critics who assert that a small matter like cracks in the cowling would never have held me up if I didn’t want to be held up. I know they’ve been saying that cracks in the bonnet would not hold up a car. Maybe not. If a bit of bonnet comes adrift, it would not sheer away a rear wheel. But if a bit of cowling breaks off—as it certainly threatened to do so on the Altair – it would be immediately whisked into the slipstream and bashed against the tail. If you’ve got any imagination you may be able to figure out what a piece of metal travelling at anything up to 280 miles per hour could do to a vital part of a plane. I may be a mug, but there are limits to the risks I take…‘55
It was a bravura performance from Kingsford Smith, a bit of elegant writing mixed with closed-fist thwacks at his most trenchant critics, and acidic little pats on the heads for those who thought they were critics but simply didn’t understand—well, now he hoped they did. He finished: ‘It is primarily because of my backers that I am tackling the Pacific flight. They are going to be paid. If I pull this off there will be money for them and for me; and I’ll certainly be able to sell the Altair in America. Anyway, I’ve put my cards on the table. I did my best, but the fates were against me. I’m sorry.’56
Bravo! Bravo!
Encore! Encore!
Almost on the instant, the public mood towards Kingsford Smith changed, so powerful a case had he made. Because, apart from being a superman, it was now obvious he was just like them. He had made mistakes, and was man enough to acknowledge them, and apologise to those people he had let down. From delivering letters accusing him of cowardice, the postman was for the next week getting a hernia carrying fan-mail to him, as the public poured out their belief in him, and their outrage at his critics.57
Now all he needed to do was to become the first man across the Pacific flying eastwards, and make the flight a success.
Eighteen
THE GREAT RACE
Throughout his life, Smithy was completely uninterested in business matters. Flying came first. If business considerations made the advancement of flying difficult, then it was always Smithy’s contention that business methods should be altered to fit the circumstances…
JOHN STANNAGE, ONE OF KINGSFORD SMITH’S GREAT FRIENDS, COLLEAGUES AND EARLY BIOGRAPHERS1
At three o’clock on the foggy Saturday morning of 20 October 1934, the gigantic steel doors of the hangars at the brand-new Royal Air Force base at Mildenhall in Suffolk, 62 miles north-east of London, were slowly opened, as young RAF cadets hauled on the chains. Within minutes, no fewer than twenty sleek, resplendent aeroplanes were wheeled outside, and in short order had their motors purring as shadowy mechanics, pilots, press, officials and even beautiful women in evening dresses flitted around on the flood-lit field. The greatest air race the world had ever seen was just hours away from beginning. Mildenhall to Melbourne, 11,000 miles, with a £10,000 prize to the winner!2 Particular among those planes were the three purpose-built de Havilland DH.88 Comets with variable pitch propellers that Smithy had long before identified as the main contenders for the prize. One of those Comets, Black Magic, was to be piloted by Jim Mollison and his wife Amy Johnson. Another Comet, Grosvenor House, was flown by the burly Flight Lieutenant Charles Scott with the dapper chappie Captain Tom Campbell Black as his co-pilot.
The two biggest planes in the gathering were a couple of passenger liners, entered to demonstrate the feasibility of around-the-world travel in comfort, and speed.3 One was a Boeing 247-D piloted by a former lion-tamer from Mississippi, Roscoe Turner, famous for always wearing a gaudy gold-and-crimson flying helmet, whipcord breeches, Sam Browne belt, blue tunic and black riding boots—and flying most places with his pet lion cub, who answered to the name of ‘Gilmore’. He even had a stick made of a lion’s tail, and a coat made of the lion that had been attached to it!4 Of him it had been written in Aero Digest: ‘A pilot with nerve enough to wear that uniform and kick a half-grown lion in the pants is bound to come in first eventually.’5 (Turner was also the talk of the town for his delightful, if daring, informality when he had been introduced to King George V when His Majesty and Queen Mary had visited all the flyers the day before. His Majesty had offered his hand, and Roscoe had taken it, saying simply, ‘Hallo, King.’6)
The other big aircraft was a KLM Royal Dutch Airlines Douglas DC-2 all-metal monoplane called Uiver—‘stork’ in Dutch—with Captain Koene Dirk Parmentier in command and Captain Jan Johannes Moll as co-pilot, and it was flying with two further crew members, three paying passengers and a full load of post, weighing over 400 pounds! A feature of this plane, along with the Orions, the Boeing, the Comets and several other entrants, was its amazing retractable undercarriage which, at the heave of a lever, allowed the wheels to be tucked up into the bottom of the engine housings, reducing drag by a significant degree. It was the coming thing in aeroplane efficiency.
As dawn approached the planes were lined up on the airstrip, and all was in readiness, including no fewer than 60,000 spectators—among whom were many lords and ladies and a gaily attired Anthony Fokker—and 700 members of the press. On the stroke of 6.30 am, Sir Alfred Bower, the Acting Lord Mayor of London, gave the starting signal by dropping his flag—a small Union Jack—beside Jim and Amy Mollison’s Black Magic, and they were the first to take to the skies. Exactly two minutes later his flag dropped again, and they were followed by Roscoe Turner in his Boeing 247-D airliner and, in quick succession, the others, as the sun began its own climb into the sky in admiration. Just a short time before seven o’clock, they were all on their way.
As Sir Macpherson Robertson enthusiastically told the listening audience of ABC Melbourne, ‘Never in the history of aviation has there been such a line up of aviators and never in the history of the world has there been such an aerial contest.’7 And certainly never such international interest in a race of any nature, as newspaper accounts around the world gave breathless updates.
On the next day in Australia, Charles Kingsford Smith and Bill Taylor were getting ready to make their own enormous trip. In the old days, when he had been younger and fresher, Smithy had approached each pioneering flight with a mixture of overwhelming enthusiasm and energy. But things had changed. Now he was thirty-seven years old, vastly experienced but also more than a little exhausted, and much of his energy and enthusiasm had dissipated to be replaced by a gritted-teeth determination to do what he had to do. Of joy, there was little. Rather, as he later noted of his approach to this first leg of flying to Fiji, Kingsford Smith’s primary feeling was a strong sense of boredom that he would have to sit in the pilot’s seat for the next twenty hours.
Not so for Bill Taylor. For him it was still a curious, nay, amazing, thing to be driven through the streets of Brisbane in the early hours of this Saturday morning, as an entire city slept cosily, totally unaware that just outside their door were two airmen on their way to risk their lives for…for…for what?
Taylor was never quite sure of the answer to that question. He was glad to be with Kingsford Smith on this venture as he liked and admired the man a great deal, but he was not certain what it was that drove either of them to do it. Instead, at times like this, he felt an overpowering sense of isolation and loneliness. In that instant he didn’t want to be going to Archerfield, didn’t want to be risking his life, didn’t want any of it—he would much rather have been at home, tucked up safely in bed. And yet, of course, the feeling passed as the excitement took hold.
When they reached the aerodrome a crowd of several hundred people had gathered, notwithstanding the fact that the sun had not yet risen. They were there to witness the beginning of what they hoped would be one more historic Smithy flight—across the Pacific from west to east! A cheer rose as the flyers alighted from their car, and it was a cheer that doubled an hour or so later, when after more preparations, Smithy
started the engine of the Lady Southern Cross, which immediately gave out a throaty growl of appreciation. Just before they started to move off towards the end of the runway at around 4 am, a gorgeous young woman rushed out from the crowd and handed a white rose up to Taylor in the rear cockpit.
‘Wear it for luck,’ she said.
He put it in the lapel of his coat, and thanked her warmly.8 Absurdly, he felt that as long as it remained there, the engine would keep running.9
In the front cockpit everything seemed in order to Smithy. There were no problems with the new cowling, the tanks had been filled to the brim, and the engine ran sweetly at the lower cruise revolutions per minute calculated to deliver the best fuel economy. As to personal luggage, he checked he had packed everything. A comb in his left pocket. A toothbrush in his right pocket. The photo of Nellie Stewart tucked beneath his seat? Yup. He was done.
Oh, actually, one more thing. He also had his wallet, in which, apart from money and a photo of Mary and Charles Jnr, he had kept the white feather so recently received, perhaps as a reminder of what he was about with this trip. This would show them all!
And then they were off, the Lockheed smoothly winging its way over Moreton Bay and towards the heart of the Pacific Ocean, with Suva as the first stop. It was a measure of how far the 1928 trans-Pacific trip had been ahead of its time that, in the six years since Smithy and Ulm had accomplished it with Lyon and Warner, no-one had duplicated the feat, even though the science of aviation had leapt forward in the interim. In 1928, the Southern Cross had averaged 100 miles per hour across the water, whereas on this trip, in the sleek and powerful Altair, that speed was up by over 50 per cent, to an average of 155 miles per hour.