Charles Kingsford Smith and Those Magnificent Men

by P Fitzsimons

  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?13

  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’.15 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’.18

  Not that Stannage was totally in accord with everything that master did. I wish he would tell us to dump the mail, he tapped out, a little disloyally. Then we could climb. I don’t like this being right down on the water.19

  The tension ebbed and flowed. One thing John Stannage had particularly noticed in his brief flying career was how the ocean itself had moods. On some days it looked as bright, breezy and welcoming as a beautiful girl on a summer’s day. On other days it scowled and threatened, angrily. This was such a day. At times he was certain that all was lost—

  9.37 a.m. Going down, I think. Wait!

  —and was aghast to look out the window and see the hungry ocean just 100 feet or so beneath them, but then things would come good for a bit—

  9.38 a.m. No! She’s right! Picked up again.

  Shortly afterwards Stannage went forward and was immensely cheered to see that Smithy’s familiar broad grin was back. ‘Just holding it now, Johnnie,’ Smithy shouted above the slightly muted roar of what used to be three motors, but was now just two. ‘She’ll do it if the motors can stand up to full throttle.’20

  And in many ways, ‘holding it’ was exactly what he was doing—holding the plane in the sky. John Stannage didn’t know how. Somehow, amazingly, Smithy achieved an aerial equilibrium between stalling and setting the starboard propeller windmilling that enabled them to continue inching their way towards the Australian coast. Smithy’s confidence was reassuring too.

  But just as Stannage was feeling less worried, their situation deteriorated again. This time, as they slowly began to lose altitude with the wavering and overheated motors, Smithy reluctantly called for him to hurl out the door all their luggage, their spares and the freight—eve
rything except the mail—which Stannage instantly did, as if his life depended on it, because it most certainly did.

  As Smithy, with Bill Taylor right beside him, kept nursing the plane onwards the best he could, all of them were now physically and mentally spent. The minutes crawled by and they continued to approach the Australian coast at a rate of about 70 miles per hour, with still around 300 miles to go to reach solid land. John Stannage kept broadcasting:

  9.49 a.m. Smithy says could you please spare a boat to come out on our course with plenty of smoke. Port engine dropped a cylinder now. Smithy says also to tell them he is frightfully sorry about it all.

  10.05 a.m. Smithy says could you get a message to all of our wives, and tell them not to worry. We are not in the water yet.21

  11.16 a.m. Things look much brighter now as the petrol load gets less. She can be throttled back a bit to save the motors. The port motor seems to be hanging on O.K. If we carry on like this, we will probably strike the coast about Port Stephens and, boy, will the coast look good!22

  In fact, a favourable shift in the wind direction meant that they soon altered course and headed straight to Sydney, instead of Stockton Beach. But then things took another bad turn. It became clear that the port motor was in agonised death throes, blowing more and more smoke and screaming its protest at being made to operate so hard without sufficient oil.

  In the cabin, John Stannage looked up to see an obviously exhausted Smithy coming back from the tight cockpit for some room to get out of his heavy flying clothes while Bill Taylor took over the flying. Almost as if he thought he would soon be…swimming?

  Christ. Yes.

  Now Smithy held both thumbs down and told him straight: ‘Looks like we’ve collected it this time, Johnnie,’ he said surprisingly calmly. ‘Port motor can’t last another hour. Let’s have a spot.’23 With which the two had a few swigs from a small bottle of whisky Stannage had been given by friends in New Zealand, marked Radio Operator’s Moaning Fluid. Stannage could only wish that he had Smithy’s calm in the face of their perilous situation.24

  It was Smithy’s next words, however, that really hit him hard. ‘Now just one cigarette.’25

  Under normal circumstances in a plane like the Southern Cross, ever awash in petrol fumes, lighting a match to start a cigarette was strictly forbidden. It was only something you would contemplate if it looked like it didn’t matter any more. As Smithy now said, ‘It doesn’t really matter if it does blow up, does it?’26

  With one match, which didn’t turn their plane into a flaming hulk, Smithy lit both their cigarettes and they drew the wonderfully consoling smoke back into their lungs.

  ‘When we go in you’ll have to get out of there quite smartly,’ Smithy now told him calmly. ‘Collect all the demolition tools, tie them together and make them fast to a longeron. The tail will finish up high in the air, and you’ll have to make your way down the fuselage to try and dig Bill and me out of the cockpit if we get stuck. We might be a good way under too. The weight of the engines will drag the nose well down. Take your boots off, John. Bad luck, isn’t it? But we’ve had fun, haven’t we?’27

  With which, he took a last deep draw on his cigarette, stubbed it out, and went back to take over from Bill in the cockpit.

  Have mercy! This time, it looked like it really was all over.

  12.12 p.m. Port motor only last a quarter hour. Please stand by for exact position. Going, going, going…

  12.15 p.m. She’s going fast.

  12.16 p.m. Wait a sec. Going down any minute.

  Up the front, Bill Taylor had been doing some serious thinking, even as he stared, mesmerised, at the wavering needle on the oil pressure dial, heading inexorably lower. They needed to get oil into the port engine. If they didn’t get it there, their deaths would be all but certain, and grisly deaths they would be. And yet they had oil with them! The only problem was, it was in the crippled starboard engine. All he needed to do was to find a way to get the oil from the one engine into the other. Yes, he would have to climb out the small opening on the side of the cockpit, into the slipstream, and get that oil! After all, Smithy—who had just come back and taken over again—couldn’t do it as they needed his skills to nurse the plane home, and Johnnie couldn’t do it, as it was very important that he maintained contact with the authorities to give them regular updates on their positions. So, it was up to him.

  The decision taken, he moved swiftly. Leaving the controls to Smithy, he moved back into the cabin and yelled at John Stannage.

  ‘I’m going to have a crack at getting oil out of the tank of the starboard motor! Got anything to put it in?’

  Stannage, delighted to have a plan of action, though barely believing that Taylor could be serious, looked around. The thermos flask that had contained the coffee was an obvious choice. Putting the end of a spanner down its mirrored throat, he broke the internal glass to expand its capacity, and then looked around for something else. In a blessed instant he spied the small leather case which contained some radio spares and other tools. It wasn’t much, but it could definitely contain oil.

  Bill calmly removed his boots and bound his long leather coat around him as tightly as possible, before moving back into the cockpit. As he went, he kept repeating to himself, almost as a mantra:’ Get the oil from the starboard tank. Go out and get it. Get the oil from the starboard tank. Go out and get it…’28

  And there was Smithy, hunched over the controls, every fibre of his being concentrated on keeping the Southern Cross aloft for as long as possible.

  Taylor shouted at him: ‘Going to have a stab at getting some oil!’29

  In response Smithy shook his head violently, in the manner of a man wondering whether Taylor had taken leave of his senses, and then stopped. The look in Taylor’s eyes said he would not be stopped, even if he had taken leave of his senses. Meanwhile Taylor’s mental mantra went on…‘Get the oil from the starboard tank. Go out and get it. Get the oil from the starboard tank. Go out and get it…’30

  One more thing, though. As a safety measure, he tied a thin postal bag cord around his waist and attached it to a strong piece of steel in the cockpit, in the admittedly vain hope that if he fell, this would save him. Absurdly, it made him feel better.

  And then he climbed up onto the starboard pilot’s seat and agonisingly slipped through the opening straight into the teeth of a 100-mile per hour cyclone from the centre motor! And with every inch more of his body that he got out there, the more the wind clawed at him. For an instant, he was overwhelmed by the sheer futility of what he was trying to do, but one look at the sea below was enough to settle him down. If he was going to die, at least let him die while trying to save them. He pressed on, his spirit forcing his body to do something that his mind told him was insane…

  12.24 p.m. Bill is trying to get oil out of the other engine. Stand by.

  In that fierce slipstream, Bill Taylor was fighting for his life, as the rushing wind was a living, killing thing, slapping his face, pulling his hair, tearing at his entire body, billowing into his shirt, up his sleeves, inside his coat, even as the breath was sucked from his lungs and his ears were filled with the roar of a thousand banshees screaming his death song. And all Smithy could do was to keep the Southern Cross as steady as possible, just as he had back in the Hollywood days with a madman on his wing.

  Despite everything, Bill got a foot onto the horizontal strut that joined the motor to the fuselage, pressed his head and neck hard against the leading edge of the wing and hung on with both hands to the cockpit window for grim death, acutely aware that that was exactly what awaited him if he slipped.

  Then with both feet on the crossbar, he risked releasing the death grip of his right hand, and grabbed for an engine-mounting strut. Then both hands. He was still alive! Fighting a strong urge to make a mad rush along the beam and grab the now-cold engine, he inched his way forward…steady…steady…steady…ever so slowly.

  And all of a sudden he was there! Blasted by the wind
still, but securely holding onto the support strut of the starboard engine. With faltering hands he worked to loosen the cowl pins, not an easy task at the best of times, yet somehow he managed it, with bleeding, shaking fingers and torn nails to expose the engine proper and…and then he realised he’d forgotten something. A spanner with which to loosen the oil plug. He looked back to see that John Stannage was on top of the problem and was leaning out of the cockpit proffering the only adjustable spanner that hadn’t been jettisoned with everything else. With both men leaning out to their maximum degree, Taylor was just able to get his fingers on the spanner’s end and breathlessly secure it.

  Now, carefully, oh so carefully, Taylor sat and linked an arm around the engine strut then got the spanner onto the drain plug on the oil tank at the back of the engine and began to loosen it. Then he quickly jammed the vacuum flask beneath it to collect the liquid gold, the sauce of their salvation. It was no easy thing to remove the flask and get the plug back in without spilling the precious oil, but he at last got this part of the job done, and passed the flask to Stannage in the cockpit, who emptied it into the briefcase. Both men repeated the process several times until the briefcase was full, and then the exhausted, frozen Taylor fought his way back inside the Southern Cross, away from the blasting wind. The job had been half done.

  12.54 p.m. Still in the air. Bill the hero, climbed out and got oil for the dud motor.