IV. THE THIRD DAY
Rangoon — Alorstar — Singapore — Batavia — Rambang — Koepang — Port Darwin.
Sunday night, 22:30 GMT.
At Mingeladon airfield near Rangoon, there is an unusual level of interest. A large number of Dutch people are present, and they are all incredibly enthusiastic. Once the formalities are completed, we head to one of the side rooms of the great hangar, where a delicious breakfast awaits us. We learn that Roscoe Turner has since landed at Allahabad. There is still no news of Scott and Black. The Dutch contingency, in particular, is deeply disappointed by the setback of the Panderjager.
It is now about 5 a.m. local time. Despite this strenuous night and a touch of fatigue, we are in high spirits; we are still ahead of schedule and might even reach Batavia before dusk. We agree to take turns resting as much as possible during the daylight hours. After all, we haven’t reached Melbourne yet, and there is no telling what weather lies ahead. The main thing is to maintain the good morale on board, and on that front, we have no complaints. Every so often, a loud burst of laughter rings out from the table as Van Brugge—who, as readers may have gathered, serves as both our wireless operator and our onboard entertainer—shares his latest quips.
He recounts another of his adventures at sea:
‘Ten years ago, I was returning from Buenos Aires to Rotterdam on a sailing ship. We had a terrible storm behind us and, after six days of sailing, arrived just outside the New Waterway at Hook of Holland. In those days, that was a record-breaking voyage for a sailing vessel. But with the Motherland in sight, the wind suddenly dropped. It was dead calm. The sails hung limp, and we couldn’t budge the boat. We had to sit there for three weeks waiting for a breeze before we could enter port. You can imagine what a blow that was for us. Fortunately, a tugboat came alongside twice a week to bring us provisions.’
After this tale, we head back to the aircraft, leaving behind a group of English and Dutch onlookers with looks of utter disbelief on their faces.
Off we go again. At 22:42 GMT, the Uiver rolls across the field to the cheers of those left behind. A few minutes after take-off, we fly over the lights of Rangoon and bank over the great Shwe-Dagon Pagoda, which is illuminated by powerful searchlights at night. It is a fantastic sight. We then cross the Rangoon River and set a direct course for Alorstar. Soon we pass the coast, flying at 3,000 metres over the Gulf of Martaban. Daylight begins to break; to the east, the coastline of the Indochinese Peninsula is already sharply defined. Then the sun rises like a great golden disc above the horizon: as if by magic, the clouds piled up over the Siamese mountains are edged with gold. The atmosphere is exceptionally clear; we estimate visibility to be at least 300 kilometres.
It is an impressive and unforgettable spectacle. Moll, who was supposed to be the first to rest, couldn’t be pried away from the cockpit. It is only now that it begins to dawn on us: if we arrive in Batavia this afternoon, we will have covered the distance from Holland to Java in just over forty-eight hours. Moll even grows sentimental, lost in thought about the future possibilities of such a fast connection. Every now and then he leans toward me, making enthusiastic predictions about ‘when we’ll go to Batavia for the weekend.’ ‘The best thing about a flight like this,’ he remarks, ‘is that you only have to shave twice, whereas on the boat to the East Indies, you have to do it at least thirty times.’
Following this outpouring, Moll retreats to the cabin. Once it becomes clear that the weather on the upcoming leg is favourable, Van Brugge goes to catch forty winks as well.
We approach the coast. Below us, we see countless small islands, densely covered in trees. From this, we gather that we are north of Victoria Point.
Prins brings me my usual cup of milk and a rusk, telling me he has slept wonderfully. A deep silence reigns in the cabin; on the sunny side, Prins has drawn the small curtains over the windows, and through the open door, I see the softened light filtering through the blue fabric.
After a few hours of flying, we are over the jungles of Malaya. Moll returns to take his seat, and it is my turn to rest. Having handed the navigation over to him, I go into the cabin to try and get some sleep. Confident that the weather is excellent and the engines are running beautifully, I close my eyes, but sleep refuses to come. Still, I find it wonderfully restful.
In Rangoon, I received word that the Alorstar airfield is very waterlogged. If it continued to rain through the night, we might have trouble taking off. I therefore wake Van Brugge to try and establish radio contact with Medan, or perhaps pick up a report on the field conditions from the Penang maritime station. The passengers have woken up in the meantime, and Prins serves cold chicken and sandwiches. He worries that I am not getting enough sleep and advises me to take a sleeping tablet. We still have an hour before we reach Alorstar; to fall asleep quickly, I take two. The result is that I lapse into a state of near-unconsciousness almost immediately. At any rate, it takes a great deal of effort to wake me as Alorstar comes into view. However, the sight of the large pools of water on the field rouses me instantly. I spot a dry strip near the petrol pump and, at 03:27 GMT, the Uiver touches down neatly at Alorstar, thanks to its short landing run.
While Prins sees to the petrol and oil, we head to the bungalow situated right by the airfield, where a couple of Englishmen kindly let us use their bathroom. Afterwards, feeling wonderfully refreshed and hungry, we thoroughly enjoy a second breakfast. By 04:10 GMT, we are ready to depart. The take-off from the wet ground isn’t too bad, though the Uiver receives a proper mud bath. We are glad to have that poor airfield safely behind us.
Singapore is only 700 kilometres away. The landscape we fly over consists of inhospitable mountainous terrain covered in jungle. We cannot see much of it, however, as heavy masses of clouds—which we try to fly above as much as possible—appear as the first signs of the wet East monsoon. Occasionally, a fresh rain shower washes the Alorstar mud off our crate. Despite the wind now blowing from the east, we still manage a fairly good cruising speed.
06:00 GMT. We begin a slow descent to determine our position. We are only 200 kilometres from Singapore, so we still have a chance of reaching Batavia before dark. We will therefore try to keep the stopover in Singapore as short as possible. At 06:40, Seletar airfield comes into view, and four minutes later, we have landed.
A large crowd is on the field braving the rain, and as the Uiver rolls onto the apron, we are loudly cheered. The many familiar shouts we hear reveal that there are a great many Dutch people present. People want to congratulate us and ply us with food and drink, but we have little time. Although we are still an hour ahead of schedule, we suspect strong easterly winds will prevail across the entire East Indian Archipelago, meaning we risk losing this lead soon.
We learn that Scott and Campbell Black departed four hours ago. They were exhausted upon arrival in Singapore and intended to take a few hours’ rest here. However, when news arrived that we had taken off from Rangoon, they immediately boarded their Comet and left for Darwin. This surprises us greatly. Imagine Scott, in his racing machine, letting himself be hurried by us. That would be quite a joke.
We must get to Batavia. At 07:13 GMT, the engines are back at full throttle and the Uiver is in its element once more. We calculate that we can reach Tjililitan just before sunset.
We now have a radio connection with Palembang, receiving weather reports from Batavia as well as a telegram of congratulations. The flight is mainly over water. We pass the island of Singkep, reach the coast of Sumatra, and fly for a time over jungle (which KLM pilots call ‘kale’), then over the Java Sea with the Thousand Islands—Purmerend, Hoorn, Onrust—and so reach the coast of Java.
In Batavia, Weltevreden, and Meester Cornelis, we spot many flags; seen from the air, all these red, white, and blue colours create a festive impression. Then we fly over Tjililitan, Batavia’s airport. It is literally white with people.
10:34 GMT. The Uiver is on the ground. As we step out of the machine, a deafening cheer goes up; to be honest, it leaves us a bit dazed. Our colleagues Smirnoff and Soer grab hold of us and haul us, rather unceremoniously, through the crowd to the station building. Smirnoff has seen to it that caviar is ready. According to him, this is the best dish for a quick recovery after an exhausting journey. In any case, it tastes excellent. Mr Nieuwenhuis, the representative of KNILM, hands over various telegrams and data regarding the night lighting of the airfields on Lombok and Timor. Everyone is doing their utmost to help us on our way as quickly as possible. At the first sign that the fuel tanks are full again, we take leave of our friends. But we don’t get away quite that easily. A microphone has been set up on the apron near the aircraft, and we must briefly send our regards to all the listeners in the Netherlands East Indies and the Motherland. In the space of fifteen minutes, I have been bombarded with so many questions that my head is more or less spinning. When I finally stand before the microphone, I don’t really know what to say. Still, it feels good to think that everything I say is being heard in Holland.
Then Smirnoff grabs me with his large hands and brings me to the machine with the familiar ‘hang in there’ and ‘be careful,’ and before it properly sinks in, I am back in the Uiver, and we are ready to depart. The entire stopover at Tjililitan lasted only 22 minutes.
10:56 GMT. We take off. Darkness is beginning to fall. We are now flying no higher than 1,000 metres and set course for Surabaya. Van Brugge maintains contact with the Weltevreden radio station, and we are hardly in the air when he receives a telegram from Holland—from Fokker himself: ‘Just heard your voices on the radio. Have a good journey.’ This is a remarkable example of the speed with which messages can be transmitted by radiotelegraphy. Even the Uiver cannot compete with that. Throughout the flight over Java, Van Brugge is in contact with various ships, and congratulations rain down—from the ships Bintang, Tjikandi, Ophir, and Optennoort, and from the commander, officers, and crew of the Morokrembangan Naval Air Station.
North of Cheribon, we are back over water, flying along the coast. We clearly see the lights of Tegal and Pekalongan, and at Semarang, which lies distinctly to our south, we head inland again. Our average speed is only 250 km/h. This means we have a headwind of at least 50 km/h.
13:07 GMT. We fly over Tjepoe. Our altitude is now 500 metres. We switch on our searchlights for a moment so that people on the ground can be sure to see us. The many telegrams we received from all parts of the country upon arrival in Batavia, which are still being forwarded to us by radio in the air, make us feel clearly how much everyone is following our progress. The thought that people are looking out for us in every place we are expected to pass gives us a sense of great satisfaction.
As we pass Surabaya, the Darmo airfield is brightly lit, like a friendly invitation to land. We switch on our searchlights again as we fly over the city, and Van Brugge’s telegraph key flashes Surabaya a thank you for the gesture. When flying at night, it is always pleasant to know there is a place below where one can land safely, even if immediate help isn’t required.
Onward we go, now over the Madura Strait. We climb to 1,500 metres. In the moonlight, the Java coastline is still faintly visible. The Tengger and Yang mountains are clearly discernible through the great cloud masses gathering around the high peaks. At Situbondo, on the eastern tip of Java, we get the impression that the wind is increasing in strength. From the irregular air currents, we notice the presence of the mountains; our Uiver is not as steady in the air as we are used to during night flights. We climb to 3,000 metres and decide to fly along the northern side of the Balinese mountains. Although the turbulence decreases somewhat, the atmosphere is still not entirely calm. Over the Lombok Strait, we descend again. We eventually fly at 1,000 metres over the island of Lombok. The island is completely covered with low-hanging clouds—so low that it is not advisable to try and get beneath them. However, the weather report Van Brugge has just received from Rambang states: clear skies and good visibility. We therefore continue to fly steadily just above the cloud layer, confident that the east coast of Lombok is clear.
Furthermore, we know that night lighting at Rambang is being provided by the KNILM pilot Reijers, who has been specially dispatched for the purpose and who will fire flares around the time we are due to arrive.
Indeed, the weather clears near the coast, allowing us to reduce our altitude. As the coastline comes into view, I see a faintly glowing line; that is the row of hurricane lamps set out for us at the Rambang airfield. Moments later, as if in a greeting, we see flares ascending at regular intervals.
The landing goes very smoothly, thanks to the expert way the surrounding obstacles have been marked with red lights. We land at 15:20 GMT. Refuelling must be done here with a pump, but everyone does their utmost to get everything finished as quickly as possible. Prins is on a ladder with the grease gun to lubricate the rocker arms of the engines, while we—with the passengers and the luxury of a cigarette—tell the interested onlookers at the airfield a bit about our flight. Since newspapers are only delivered here once a week, we find an eager audience. One more quick photo—and then the Cyclones are started up again.
15:57 GMT. We depart from Rambang. Crossing the Alas Strait is a matter of minutes for our Uiver. We then fly over the southern part of the island of Sumbawa, where cloud masses are gathering once more. Up to Rambang, we averaged 255 km/h; if we maintain the same speed, the flight from Rambang to Kupang will take just over three hours. The cloud cover is increasing: Van Brugge reports heavy static in the radio reception. It will come as no surprise if we encounter a few more heavy rain showers.
Over the Sumba Strait, we fly at an altitude of 1,500 metres. The craggy shapes of the cumulus clouds, illuminated by the bright moon, offer us an enchanting spectacle. Our passengers forget their sleep and watch intently out the windows; when I go into the cabin for a moment’s rest, I hear enthusiastic exclamations. It is unforgettably beautiful.
When I return to the cockpit, Moll has already brought us to the island of Sumba, the northern tip of which we pass shortly thereafter. Over the Savu Sea, the showers arrive, the precursors of which Van Brugge had already heard on his radio at Rambang. Since we have little desire to fly into thunderclouds, we try to stay beneath them as much as possible. In places, however, the clouds hang so low over the water that we are forced to fly at an altitude of 50 metres. We dare not go any higher, as there are usually strong, shifting winds near thunderstorms that could blow us off course. And we cannot afford to miss the southern tip of the island of Timor. We do have radio contact with Kupang, but they do not yet have direction finders here. In Kupang itself, according to the radio report just received, the weather is favourable.
18:50 GMT. We see land. It turns out to be the island of Semau, lying directly west of Kupang. At the northern tip, we clearly see the flashing light of the Tanjung Kurong lighthouse. Ten minutes later, we spot the lights of the Timor Kupang landing field. The field is very well lit, the landing is smooth, and at 19:03, the Uiver comes to rest once more.
We taxi to the spot where someone is beckoning us with light signals. Moll runs to the control post with the race logbook. Van Brugge looks for our agent to hand over his telegrams, and Prins searches in vain for a petrol pump to refuel the Uiver as quickly as possible. It turns out we can get everything here except petrol; for that, we have to be on the exact opposite side of the airfield. There is nothing for it but to start the engines again and take the Uiver to its ‘watering hole,’ which naturally causes a delay. Here, as in Rambang, refuelling is done from drums using a hand pump. They work like horses, but having been so spoiled at previous stations with tanker trucks and electric pumps, the filling still seems to go very slowly.
We learn that Scott and Campbell Black had engine trouble over the Timor Sea and arrived at Port Darwin flying on one engine. After a short stop, they are said to have flown on to Charleville on one engine. However, there seems to be no certainty about this; we hear the most conflicting rumours. One person tells us they are staying in Darwin and giving up the rest of the flight; another comes to tell us he knows for certain they have returned to Darwin; that the other engine has also given out, and so on. We take all these uncertain reports with a degree of reserve. One thing is certain for us: they landed on Australian soil after a flight of over two days from England. And that without radio on board! It is not only an extraordinary sporting achievement but a brilliant display of airmanship and endurance; it would be a crying shame if they had engine trouble on the final stretch. ‘Bravo Scott, bravo Black’ and ‘Good luck’!
While the petrol flows through the funnels under Prins’s supervision, a car takes me back across the field to the tent where refreshments are being offered. The place is full of interested people; we also meet the well-known recreational pilot W. D. Rous, who has just popped over from Bandung in his Gipsy Moth to witness the race from this easternmost point of the Indies.
Due to the headwind of the East monsoon, we have lost our lead on the schedule, so we have no time to lose. I head back to the machine as quickly as possible, though they are still busy pumping. Finally, we have enough fuel; I bring the Uiver back to the tent to let the passengers board, and once Moll is inside with the logbook, we depart.
It is 19:50 GMT (about 4 a.m. local time) when we are back in the air; we have thus been on the ground for over three-quarters of an hour.
We climb immediately above the clouds to enjoy, for a moment longer, the beautiful play of moonlight on the high domes of the white cumulus clouds. Between the clouds, we see the coastline of Timor disappearing. Then we fly over the much-dreaded Timor Sea, a distance of about 800 kilometres.
It has always been a mystery to me why this sea is so dreaded by aviators. From the air, it looks to us just like any other tropical sea. They say it is teeming with sharks; well, you have those in the Persian Gulf and the Java Sea as well. But we have never been troubled by them from the air. Still, I can well imagine that those flying over it in a single-engine machine are glad when land comes into sight. We, however, have not the slightest reason to be concerned. Flying over water has many advantages for us: it is usually calmer than over land, the weather is generally better, you never have to look out for mountains, and until you see land again, you don’t need to check your map. Our only concern is that, as long as it is dark, we cannot measure drift and must correct our course by dead reckoning.
Moll and I take turns relieving each other. Van Brugge, with his headphones on, comes to sit beside me for a moment. He has just been in contact with an Australian warship stationed halfway between Kupang and Darwin in the Timor Sea to provide assistance in case of emergency. It is gradually beginning to get light; the eastern horizon is turning red, which promises a magnificent sunrise. Van Brugge looks at his watch: ‘If the sun doesn’t rise within two minutes, it’s late.’
The Australian warship gives us the winds aloft, which show that we have a headwind at all altitudes. Van Brugge opens the side window in the cockpit, sticks his hand out, and says laconically: ‘That’s right, Chief, we have a headwind; I estimate it at about 300 km/h.’ But moments later, he triumphantly produces a weather report he received directly from Port Darwin. The first direct connection with Australia. And, with the exception of the wind direction, it is a good weather report, too.
Our altitude is now 2,000 metres: through the clouds, we see a patch of water from time to time, just enough to measure drift on the whitecaps of the waves. Suddenly, through a small gap in the cloud cover, I catch a very brief glimpse of a ship. It turns out to be the Australian warship, for a signal is immediately sent that our engines have been heard. Splendid, our course is correct.
Then Johnny Moll comes to claim his turn to fly the second half, and I can rest for a while in the cabin. Our passengers don’t seem to have any fear of sharks either: Domenie is quietly reading a book, Gilissen is fast asleep, and Thea Rasche is studying an atlas and… making notes. If only I had that much time to take notes! But even for my logbook, I must limit myself to the bare essentials.
Prins looks at me questioningly; I know what he wants and nod. He then brings over a cup of hot bouillon. Do I want anything else to eat? If this journey lasts much longer, I shall have to undergo a weight-loss course in Melbourne.
When we have been flying for over two and a half hours after Kupang, I go back into the cockpit to have a look. I estimate our cruising speed at about 260 km/h; it won’t be long now before we see land. A quick consultation of the sea chart. Port Darwin is also equipped with a direction finder and gives us a bearing, which shows that we are right on course.
22:45 GMT. Land in sight. The first thing we see of Australia is Point Charles; there is a lighthouse here on the northern tip of the peninsula, which is marked on our maps. Fifteen minutes later, we are circling over the Port Darwin airfield, and at exactly 23:00 GMT, we are standing on Australian soil; sixty-four hours and twenty-five minutes after departing from Mildenhall. England to Australia in just over two and a half days—that’s not too bad for an ordinary commercial aircraft.