III. THE SECOND DAY
Baghdad — Jask — Karachi — Allahabad — Calcutta — Rangoon.
Sunday 00.10 GMT
The lights of Baghdad are soon left behind. In the moonlight, we are able to orient ourselves for a time by following the bends of the Tigris, but the river soon veers northwards. For the time being, we have no landmarks to check our course or speed. The land over which we are flying is Mesopotamia, part of the Kingdom of Iraq. Tradition holds that the Garden of Eden once lay here, between the Euphrates and the Tigris. From what we can see from the air, the landscape consists entirely of sandy plains and marshes; one might easily believe that the earth looked very different thousands of years ago. There is little sign today of the lush gardens and orchards where the serpent once tempted Eve. However, there is not much to see of the landscape at this hour, so we shall not dwell on the matter. Our ground speed is of far greater interest. The distance to Jask is sixteen hundred kilometres. If we do not encounter too much of a headwind, we might manage to bypass a landing at Bushire. We shall have to wait for daybreak before making a final decision.
There are no longer any aviation radio stations in Persia. Since Imperial Airways moved its route to Arabia, the stations at Bushire and Jask have been closed. Once Van Brugge has signalled Basra to report that all is well on board, that station also closes, and the airwaves go silent. The Panderjager, which took off from Baghdad shortly after us, has also ceased its transmissions. Our wireless operator reels in his antenna, taking the opportunity to get a few hours of sleep. We shall likely have great need of him later.
We have climbed back to an altitude of 3,500 metres. The Uiver flies most comfortably at this height, achieving its greatest speed with the lowest fuel consumption. Furthermore, the air is calm here, free from the vertical currents that can make flying a fast machine so exhausting.
The cockpit is shrouded in darkness, save for a faint glow from the Sperry directional gyro. On the instrument panel, the many needles and figures gleam with phosphorescent paint. Outside, the pale moon dimly illuminates the horizon, though little can be distinguished on the ground from this height.
Moll is at the controls. The compass ring reads 127°, and the altimeter remains steady at 3,500 metres. We monitor our fuel consumption by flying until one tank is completely empty. As soon as the fuel is spent, a red light warns us to switch to a full tank. By precisely noting the time our engines have run on this quantity, a simple calculation gives us our exact hourly consumption. To bypass Bushire as an intermediate stop, we must ensure our consumption remains below 300 litres per hour.
I take a quick look into the cabin. Prins has secured the cushions between the seats, and the entire party is fast asleep. It is amusing to reflect that these people were sleeping in a small town in Southern England only last night, and now they are somewhere above Persia. Even Thea has forgotten her notes and is sleeping like a log. As I make my way to the rear of the cabin, Prins rolls over, looks at me sleepily, and asks: ‘How about a cup of coffee?’
‘A grand idea, Prins.’
A few moments later, we are sharing hot coffee from paper cups. Once Prins has also looked after the first officer at the controls, the cabin returns to a state of deep repose.
I lie back in the comfortable chair for a while, lost in thought. It feels as though I am in my cabin aboard a great ocean liner. The steady resonance of the engines reminds me of the sound of a ship’s turbine. A cool breeze blows through the ventilation pipe, making the same whistling sound I remember from my cabin on the ‘Statendam’ when I returned from America. Of course, a sea voyage is pleasant enough, but this is ten times faster. We are, at any rate, far better off than Scott and Campbell Black in their Comet; they have been confined to those same small seats for twenty-four hours now. Even if we are a little slower, we shall be able to endure it longer. One wonders how Geysendorffer and his men are faring.
I check my watch: two o’clock Greenwich time. Light should be breaking soon. I return to the cockpit, where the eastern horizon is already beginning to pale.
02.35 GMT. We pass the Rud Hilla river near Bushire. Our average ground speed from Baghdad has been 310 km/h. Splendid—we have no need to land at Bushire, which saves us another hour. It is only a pity for the people waiting at the airfield with fuel, sandwiches, and drinks. Why on earth do the Persians not ensure there is a radio station at Bushire?
Daylight arrives quickly. We are now steering 120°, heading straight for Jask. Beneath us lies the rugged landscape of the Persian coast. The rising sun casts long shadows over the jagged rocks, making everything appear even more fantastic.
04.35 GMT. We fly over the Gulf of Oman and pass the Arabian promontory of Ruus-al-Jibal. Half an hour later, the spit of land in the Persian Gulf where Jask is situated comes into view. At 05.13, the Uiver comes to a halt by the fuel pump on the airfield.
We covered the distance of 1,600 kilometres in five hours and ten minutes, maintaining our average ground speed of 310 km/h.
We receive a warm welcome from our countryman Ottens, who, along with his wife, manages the KLM Hotel-Café-Restaurant in Jask, otherwise known as the ‘Red-Bungalow’. We are treated to a delicious breakfast, including the famous Jask pancakes, while the Uiver is pumped full of the necessary fuel.
Our wireless operator, Van Brugge, clearly feeling refreshed after his rest, entertains the company with fantastic stories of his days as a wireless operator at sea. I shall recount one of his most ‘credible’ tales.
‘I once endured a storm in the Bay of Biscay that would make a Japanese typhoon look like a light breeze. The waves were like the Alps, and nothing stayed on deck. Everything was swept clean away. The boatswain, for some reason or other, took it into his head to poke a crowbar out of the porthole. “Snap,” went the gale, casually bending that bit of iron double. The boatswain looked stunned, and since it was a new crowbar, he carefully turned it around. Once the wind had bent it straight again, he pulled it back inside like a flash. He hurried with the thing to the second mate, who was on watch, to show him. Now, that second mate wasn’t the most trusting of men. Instead of trying the crowbar himself, he stuck his hand out of the porthole. Well, the wind caught him under the fingernails and stripped the skin clean up to his elbow. They told me later that the ship’s doctor took half a day just to slide that little glove of skin back into place.’
05.36 GMT. We depart from Jask, climbing again to three thousand metres and flying along the coast of the Persian Gulf towards Karachi. Van Brugge has become very active again and has established contact with the KLM aircraft ‘Rijstvogel’, which is en route from Karachi to Jask. Weather reports are exchanged, along with hearty greetings and wishes for a good journey. We roar past each other at a closing speed of 500 kilometres per hour near Ghahbar Bay.
At 08.00 GMT, we pass the Ormara peninsula, and fifty minutes later, we arrive at the Drigh-Road airfield near Karachi. We are now in British India, and the English authorities show a keen interest in our machine. We are told that the Mollisons have had trouble with their landing gear and have returned to Karachi. Repairs will take several days. There is still no news of Scott and Campbell Black, and people try to convince us that we are in the lead. I am certain, however, that the red Comet will fly directly from Baghdad to Allahabad. Since Scott has no radio on board, it is understandable that there will be no news until they arrive in Allahabad. The Panderjager is still close behind us and is expected in Karachi at any moment.
The weather reports for British India are favourable, and the upper winds indicate we shall have a westerly wind at high altitude. By ten past nine, we are ready to depart. Once Moll is on board—he is always the last to be hoisted into the machine as he has to get the race logbook signed—the Uiver dashes across the field and continues on its way.
Since the distance from Karachi to Allahabad is fifteen hundred kilometres, I decide not to land in Jodhpur but merely to fly over it. Jodhpur possesses a reliable radio direction-finding station, which may prove useful for checking our navigation.
At 09.45, at an altitude of thirty-five hundred metres, we pass the River Indus, south of Hyderabad. Van Brugge brings news that Geysendorffer has arrived in Karachi. He will surely take his chance now and try to overtake us after Allahabad. High spirits prevail in the cabin. We have brought along delicious sandwiches from our countryman Wijsman, manager of the Hotel Bristol in Karachi, and everyone is tucking in. Gilissen claims he has never eaten so much in his life as he has on board the Uiver. Prins, who serves as steward while in the air, watches the peaceful scene with satisfaction. Moll and I relieve each other about every hour to take some rest in the cabin and sustain ourselves. Prins has provided for everything: smoked eel, salmon, genuine Gelderland smoked sausage—in short, everything the heart, or rather the stomach, could desire. Hot water has been brought in thermos flasks, so that coffee, tea, or bouillon can be served on request.
We climb to 4,100 metres, where the outside air temperature is zero degrees Celsius. We have to shut off the ventilation and engage the steam heating. The landscape we fly over is rugged and dry, in stark contrast to the Uiver, where things are anything but ‘dry’ at four thousand metres.
11.20 GMT. We fly over Jodhpur and change course for Allahabad. The sun has set and darkness falls quickly, so we can no longer measure drift. Several bearings from Jodhpur allow us to correct our course for the wind. The moon also enables us to spot a river here and there, so we are generally able to determine our position and ground speed accurately on this leg. It is a handicap, however, that many rivers shown on our map are actually dry and thus cannot reflect the moonlight.
Van Brugge now picks up the report that Scott has arrived in Allahabad. ‘Bravo Scotty. Well done!’ It is just as I thought: the red Comet made the leap from Baghdad to Allahabad in a single bound.
The aviation radio service in British India, particularly in Further India, is very well organised, though we know that radio bearings are very unreliable at night due to the so-called ‘night effect’. It is assumed that these deviations occur because the radio waves do not travel directly over the earth’s surface but are reflected by the Heaviside layer. During the day, this layer is flat, and waves are reflected at the same angle at which they strike it. The rising and setting of the sun causes irregularities in the Heaviside layer, meaning that radio signals sent by an aircraft are received by the ground station at a different angle. It also frequently happens, especially at great distances, that the direction-finding station cannot provide any bearings at all in the dark. In America, and also at some radio stations in Europe, this problem has been overcome by using a special antenna based on the ‘Adcock’ system. However, in Asia, with the exception of Karachi, they have not yet progressed that far. Consequently, we do our utmost to remain oriented by sight, in which we are perfectly successful.
We maintain an average ground speed of 300 kilometres per hour and, at 14.00 GMT, we head straight for the Allahabad beacon. Nine minutes later, the Uiver is on the Bamrauli airfield, the second control point where all participants must land.
There is great interest here as well; tents have been pitched everywhere where participants can refresh themselves, and everyone congratulates us on arriving in second place. While Prins ensures the Uiver is supplied with the necessary fuel and oil, and gives the engines a good service with the grease gun, we take advantage of the stop to have a bath, shave, and change into clothes better suited to the warmer climate. We eventually find our passengers in the new restaurant, and it becomes a pleasant gathering. When I consult my watch, I am shocked to discover that we have already been on the ground in Allahabad for an hour. It is high time we departed. Prins is waiting by the machine and has become impatient. The engines are started, the passengers board, and as usual, we wait for Moll, who is with the control officer and his logbook. Meanwhile, I turn the Uiver’s nose in the direction we must taxi.
To keep up with his navigation, Van Brugge is at his radio and is very enthusiastic about the activity of the radio stations in Burma. He hears them all: Akyab, Chittagong, Sandoway, Bassein; even Bangkok is on the air and passes a message to Rangoon intended for the Uiver, which is signalled via Calcutta and Allahabad: ‘Are we still planning to call at Bangkok?’ To which Van Brugge replies in the negative.
The Panderjager is also in contact with Allahabad. We are surprised that Geysendorffer has still not landed. When Van Brugge notices that the Panderjager is requesting bearings and that Allahabad is having difficulty providing them, he asks all stations to remain silent and switches off his own transmitter so as not to cause any interference.
I go into the cabin for a moment to read a few telegrams I received in Allahabad. Thea Rasche is writing again and asks with interest whether the Panderjager has landed yet. Domenie is reading a book, and Gilissen has fallen asleep. Prins is busy sorting out his fuel vouchers. Together, we calculate the average fuel consumption since leaving Mildenhall and conclude that it is approximately 290 litres per hour. This means that we have consumed less than one litre of petrol per kilometre.
In the cockpit, all is going according to plan. The engines are running smoothly, and we are maintaining our normal speed. Van Brugge is listening intently to the radio correspondence between the Panderjager and Allahabad radio. Suddenly, his face brightens. ‘He’s over the field!’ At 17.00 GMT, I suddenly get a tap on my shoulder. I turn around and see Van Brugge focused on taking down a message. He beckons me as he writes, and I see from his expression that it is something very important. I stand beside him as he slowly writes, letter by letter: ‘PH-OST crashed machine in Southern part of aerodrome marked by red lights.’
‘What is that? The Panderjager damaged? In the southern part of the field? And the crew?’ I ask in alarm.
Van Brugge is already signalling again, asking for further details and the condition of the crew. But Allahabad does not answer. Minutes pass—minutes that seem like hours in the tension. Then, suddenly, Van Brugge begins to write again. With agonizing slowness, Allahabad signals: A-l-l u-n-h-u-r-t. ‘Thank God! All unhurt.’ We breathe a collective sigh of relief. Nevertheless, the event leaves a somber atmosphere for some time. In the cabin, too, there is a sense of disappointment at the great setback Geysendorffer and his men have suffered, despite the relief at their safety. Half an hour later, we see the lights of Calcutta and land at 17.47 on the rather small Dum-dum airfield.
The entire Dutch colony is there to see us land, and a loud cheer goes up as we step out of the machine. Here, too, everyone is under the impression that we are in first place. No one seems to consider that Scott left Allahabad long before us and is flying to Singapore without an intermediate landing. A large table has been set up in front of the hangar, laden with delicious treats. While the fuel pumps work to satisfy the Uiver’s insatiable thirst, we too take in new supplies to keep up our strength. The company is exceptionally enthusiastic but very disappointed when I express my intention to depart as soon as possible. They had clearly counted on us gracing the festive night in Dum-dum with our presence.
But we must press on! The engines are already turning! ‘Is Moll here yet?’ comes the call for the umpteenth time. ‘All set!’ cries Prins. Then we are off again.
At 18.20 GMT, the Uiver is airborne once more, setting course for Rangoon. The weather is clear, with light, variable winds and a full moon. At 4,200 metres, we fly over the Bay of Bengal. The nautical chart for this leg is spread out on the navigation table, and we check our course by orienting ourselves on the shipping lights. How easy they have made things for the sailor, and how fortunate we are to be able to benefit from it. On either side, our red and green navigation lights twinkle at the wingtips. The passengers are asleep; everything breathes a peaceful calm.
But in the ether, the Morse signals are still whistling. Akyab signals that the night lighting is ready if we wish to land. We reply that we intend to fly straight to Rangoon but request that Akyab keep the station manned for a while longer. It is always a comforting thought to have a diversion airfield at hand. Ahead of us, the weather conditions are excellent, and if they have set out the paraffin flares correctly in Rangoon, we can land there without difficulty using our own landing lights.
Behind us, things are less tranquil. Turner and Pangborn have been flying their Boeing in the vicinity of Allahabad for some time and simply cannot find the airfield. The Allahabad direction-finder is apparently useless. It surprises us that Roscoe Turner cannot find his way in, given that he has a radio compass on board with which he can take his own bearings.
20.24 GMT. We fly over Akyab at high altitude. To avoid interfering with Roscoe Turner, we inform the radio station that all is well on board and that we no longer require Akyab’s assistance. While the Uiver hums over the Arakan Mountains at its 300 km/h pace, we wait with somewhat anxious tension for the outcome of Roscoe’s attempts to find Allahabad. The tension increases when the Boeing’s wireless operator urgently signals that their fuel is beginning to run low.
21.44 GMT. Our position is near Henzada. We receive radio bearings that tally exactly with our course. The mountains are now behind us, and we are flying over lowlands with many large rivers, which makes navigation much easier.
Rangoon soon comes into sight. I circle low over the field once to see from which side it is best to approach, while Prins, as usual, pumps down the landing gear.
A few minutes later, the Uiver glides past the row of landing lights set out on the field.
22.10 GMT. Forty and a half hours after starting at Mildenhall, the Uiver stands on the apron at Rangoon.