II. THE FIRST DAY
Mildenhall—Rome—Athens—Aleppo—Baghdad.
Saturday, 6.35 a.m.
Once we are in the air, everything changes. The tension brought on by the bustle at Mildenhall and our somewhat unusual departure has vanished. It feels now as if we are on a standard flight to the Indies. We never think about the final destination on such journeys; instead, we focus our thoughts entirely on the day’s leg. Our first task, therefore, is to determine where our first landing will be.
As we are also competing in the handicap class, it is of vital importance that we make our intermediate landings at airfields where race committee checkpoints are established. At these locations, the time spent on the ground is deducted from our total flying time. Naturally, we have opted for the southern route, meaning either Marseille or Rome will be our first port of call. Under favourable conditions, we carry enough fuel to fly the distance from Mildenhall to Rome without stopping, but a headwind would necessitate a landing in Marseille. According to the latest reports, weather conditions over the Alps are good. We decide to set a direct course for Rome.
We allow the Uiver to climb steadily at two metres per second until we reach three thousand metres. Up here, the air is calm. The steam heating automatically maintains the cabin temperature at a comfortable eighteen degrees. We all feel a sense of profound relief. After weeks of preparation and mounting tension, we are finally on our way.
After forty minutes of flying, we pass Dunkirk at three thousand metres. I leave Moll at the controls to go and speak with the passengers in the cabin. A pleasant atmosphere prevails here as well. Thea Rasche has begun her journalistic notes. Meanwhile, Mr Gilissen and Mr Domenie—with whom I had only a fleeting acquaintance from the previous afternoon—are busy devouring the sandwiches Prins has handed round. This reminds me that, in the morning’s excitement, I completely forgot to eat breakfast. Fortunately, it is a problem easily remedied.
A mug of hot chocolate soon banishes the empty feeling in my stomach, and a lively conversation ensues. Thea Rasche cannot hide her journalistic instincts and asks when we expect to arrive in Melbourne. Mr Domenie, who travelled all the way from Brazil specifically to join this flight, is thoroughly enjoying himself, as is Mr Gilissen. They are well aware that they are the very first passengers to fly from England to Australia. Thea proudly displays her ticket: ‘Single journey London—Melbourne, no transfers.’
After an hour, I return to the cockpit. We are flying at thirty-five hundred metres above a solid carpet of cloud. Van Brugge requests radio positions, though they do not seem particularly accurate; according to these reports, we are making very slow progress. I decide to fly on for a while until I can get my bearings before deciding whether to veer towards Marseille or head straight for Rome. It is not long before mountain peaks loom on the horizon. They must be the Alps. Given the height of the cloud layer, it is easy to gauge the altitude of the peaks. By consulting our charts, we confirm without difficulty that we are on the correct course. The Uiver climbs to four thousand metres, and soon we are soaring over the snow-capped Alpine summits. The clouds begin to thin. The sun shines brightly, and the landscape below is of an enchanting beauty.
9.38 GMT. We pass Lago Maggiore. Fifteen minutes later, we spot the city of Milan to the north-east. The weather in the Po Valley is magnificent, with clear skies and excellent visibility. Descending slowly, we reach a speed of 320 km/h. It is not long before Littorio, Rome’s airport, comes into view. At 11.29, the Uiver touches down on Italian soil.
Since we managed to avoid the detour and the stop in Marseille, we are understandably in high spirits at such a successful start. The distance from Mildenhall to Rome was covered in under five hours. We are now roughly an hour and a half ahead of our schedule.
There is a great deal of interest here in Rome. While fuel is pumped into the tanks, an officer checks our passports and a meteorologist arrives with his reports. Our representative rushes from one person to the next, popping delicious snacks into our mouths even as we are deep in conversation or signing documents. As soon as the refuelling is complete, we bid farewell to our Italian friends, board our Douglas, and continue the journey. Our stop in Rome lasted less than half an hour.
11.56 GMT. We take off for Athens, climbing through the clouds to twenty-five hundred metres. We are once again flying above a solid layer of stratocumulus, which occasionally tears open to reveal the grim, rocky peaks of the Apennines.
13.37 GMT. The cloud cover is breaking up. Our position is thirty kilometres south-west of Brindisi. We pass the heel of the Italian boot and soon find ourselves over the Ionian Sea. Our average speed remains around 300 km/h, which improves our chances of reaching Athens before sunset.
14.19 GMT. We pass Corfu, the beautiful island off the Greek coast. Meanwhile, the wind has shifted to the west. Over the last thirty minutes, I record an average cruising speed of 315 km/h. I show the log sheet, where I have written ‘315’ in large figures in the cruising speed column, to Moll and Van Brugge. They beam with delight. ‘What a stroke of luck.’ Why are we so pleased? According to our schedule, we had expected to land at Athens in the dark. Since the airfield is nestled between high mountains, a night landing under cloudy skies could have been difficult. Hence our joy at reaching Athens before nightfall.
Shortly before Athens comes into view, Van Brugge mentions that he can hear the Panderjager signalling to Salonica. He just manages to catch their position as Uskub. However, we have to reel in our trailing antenna for the landing at Athens, so we cannot pick up any further details. It surprises us that Geijsendorffer and his men have not yet passed Athens. However, the fact that Pronk, the Panderjager’s wireless operator, is still in contact with Salonica suggests they must have been delayed somewhere.
At 15.32 GMT, the Uiver taxis toward the apron at Athens airport, where an enthusiastic crowd has gathered. Our Greek representative is so overjoyed that, as I step out of the aircraft, he throws his arms around my neck and kisses me. I must say, this does not sit particularly well with my Western European sensibilities, and I cannot say I appreciated the spontaneous gesture. I am not given much time to dwell on it, however. People press forward from all sides to congratulate us on being the first to land in Athens. I try to explain that we have not yet won the race—and that other machines might already be in Baghdad—but nothing can dampen the Greeks’ enthusiasm.
It is a pleasure to see how everyone does their utmost to get us back on our way as quickly as possible. In no time at all, the Uiver’s tanks are full once more.
15.51 GMT. In the gathering dusk, the Uiver takes off for Aleppo. This leg requires a great deal of our attention. We have to make an intermediate landing in the dark at Aleppo, which lacks a radio direction-finding system. It is soon pitch black, but the moonlight allows us to see the coastlines and islands clearly as we fly over the Mediterranean.
16.30 GMT. At an altitude of three thousand metres, we pass the Greek island of Mykonos. Thanks to the moonlight, navigation is excellent. When we pass the northern tip of Rhodes at 17.22, we change course and head straight for Casteloriso. The nautical charts for this leg are spread out on the navigation table. After a while, we spot the faint glimmer of a lighthouse. By checking the character of the light against our chart, we confirm it is the Casteloriso lighthouse. We are on the right course. Our compass heading is now seventy-eight degrees; in about an hour and a quarter, we should pass the north-eastern tip of Cyprus.
A cosy atmosphere reigns in the cabin under the dimmed lights. Each seat has a small reading lamp, allowing passengers to read without disturbing those who wish to sleep. Mr Domenie is reading a book, while Gilissen is writing a letter and Thea Rasche works on her notes. Prins is fast asleep in one of the rear seats. I head back to the cockpit and ask Van Brugge for any news.
The Panderjager left Athens about an hour after us. All is well on board. We assume Geijs is flying directly to Baghdad and will therefore arrive before us, as we still have to stop in Aleppo. Radio reception is not particularly good at the moment. Van Brugge complains of heavy atmospheric interference. He makes occasional contact with Damascus and Rutbah Wells, but Aleppo remains stubbornly silent. For some reason, we never saw the northern tip of Cyprus. However, shortly after we should have reached that landmark, I spot the light of the Antakia lighthouse. Curiously, we do not see the light itself, as the lens systems of most maritime lights are designed so the direct beam is only visible from the water. However, we can clearly see the reflection of the light on the smooth, mirror-like surface of the sea.
19.30 GMT. We cross the coast and find Aleppo without difficulty. The new airfield appears to be reasonably well-equipped, though the surface is rather rough. We are now in French Syria and receive a great deal of attention from the French officers. Here, we are faced with considerable bureaucracy. Almost every document we have on board is inspected. Just as we are about to depart, someone comes running up to check our revolvers. This is most unfair. Flying time is not calculated from touchdown to take-off, but rather from the moment the race logbook is handed to the checkpoint until the moment it is signed off by the race official. Since Moll has already checked out, this resulting delay is counted against our flying time.
20.35 GMT. The Uiver departs Aleppo. The leg from here to Baghdad takes us across the arid Syrian Desert. Naturally, visual navigation is impossible here at night. But Van Brugge is beaming; he has a good connection with Baghdad and receives a bearing from this ever-active radio station every half hour.
We even receive weather reports and upper-level winds; we are being positively spoiled.
23.00 GMT. Suddenly, out of the deep darkness in the distance, we see the Baghdad light beacon flashing. The radio has served us well, and Van Brugge reels in the trailing antenna with a satisfied expression. Eight minutes later, the Uiver is on the ground in Baghdad. We are warmly welcomed by our friends Van Veenendaal, Van Steenbergen, Grosfeld, and Prins—the crew of the KLM aircraft ‘Kwartel’, which had left Amsterdam the previous Thursday.
The Panderjager has not yet landed in Baghdad but is expected at any moment. We hope to have supper with Geijsendorffer and his men. Once Moll has had his race logbook signed, we head to the restaurant with the passengers to freshen up. Only Prins remains with the aircraft, assisted by his colleague Grosfeld, to give everything a thorough inspection.
Although it is already a quarter past one local time here in Baghdad, there is an enormous amount of public interest. A thunderous round of applause breaks out as we walk past the crowds. A crackling loudspeaker announces—as if confirmation were still needed—that number forty-four has just arrived. The restaurant terrace is magically illuminated. Crackling Iraqi records blare from the speakers. Just as we are settling in at our table, an announcement is made that number six, the Panderjager, could land at any moment. However, we see and hear nothing. We suspect the report was somewhat optimistic, though it surprises us that Geijsendorffer did not arrive in Baghdad before us.
From Van Veenendaal, we learn that the Mollisons flew from Mildenhall to Baghdad in one go and are currently somewhere over Persia, en route to Allahabad. Scott and Black arrived in Baghdad after an emergency landing near Kirkuk and departed again a good hour ago. We are therefore in third place, as all participants are required to make a mandatory landing in Baghdad. Our friend Roscoe Turner has taken off from Athens and is currently over the Mediterranean. Nothing else is known. Since we have already been on the ground for nearly an hour, I decide not to wait any longer. Moll has the logbook signed while I start the engines with Prins. Just as we are saying goodbye to our friends—and Van Veenendaal remarks that he now feels like a horse-drawn tram driver instead of the captain of a Holland—Indies aircraft—the airfield landing lights suddenly flare up. The Panderjager touches down at Baghdad airport.
We get the impression that the slow-and-steady Geijs is sparing his engines on the first half of the route, staying just behind us so he can streak past on the final stretch. With his superior speed and range, that would not be difficult for him. ‘Bravo, Geijs! Best of luck. You stick to the speed; we shall focus on the handicap.’
By now we are ready. At exactly two o’clock local time (00.00 GMT), the Uiver rolls across the field once more and sets a course for Persia. It is now exactly eighteen and a half hours since we left Mildenhall, and we have already covered nearly a quarter of the total distance to Melbourne.