V. THE FOURTH DAY
Port Darwin — Cloncurry — Charleville — Albury — Melbourne.
Tuesday, 23 October.
Port Darwin is a small and relatively insignificant place, yet it serves as the only port in the northern part of Australia. A railway line runs from here about 450 kilometres into the interior. Naturally, it is a vital hub for the inhabitants of the region, particularly for the large sheep stations. The population remains small, however; the climate is damp and sweltering, and life there is still quite primitive. Every white inhabitant of Darwin seemed to have turned out to witness our landing at the airfield. It was here that we learned the true story behind Scott and Black’s misfortune.
They had indeed run into trouble with one of their engines over the Timor Sea. The oil pressure had dropped, leading them to believe it wise to reduce the engine’s revolutions. Upon arriving in Darwin, it became clear that repairs would take considerable time. Fearing that we might overtake him, and despite his exhaustion, Scott decided to risk pushing on. They took off after a brief delay and, immediately after departure, partially throttled back the faulty engine. This was only possible because the Comet did not need to carry as much fuel for this leg as it had for the previous ones. A mandatory stop had to be made at Charleville anyway, and the distance from Darwin to Charleville is ‘only’ 2,250 kilometres—a mere trifle for the Comet.
Roscoe Turner and Pangborn are flying somewhere over the Lesser Sunda Islands and are expected at Kupang shortly. That man Roscoe certainly isn’t giving up without a fight.
We ourselves have fallen somewhat behind our schedule, so it is imperative that we depart as soon as possible. We have already received various telegrams of welcome and congratulation from interested parties across Australia. Refuelling is proceeding quite smoothly, though there are a great many formalities to be completed.
By 23:35 GMT we are ready. The take-off from the small, rather soft field is heavy going, and we have little height to spare as we clear the trees. We cannot make Charleville in a single hop, so we shall make an intermediate landing at Cloncurry, 1,360 kilometres directly from Darwin. Landmarks in the Australian interior are precious few. The weather conditions are not bad, but the route is heavily clouded. As we intend to fly at a great altitude and cannot measure drift above the clouds, I decide to steer somewhat to the east. This allows us to follow the coast of the Gulf of Carpentaria for a large stretch, right down to the vicinity of Cloncurry. This adds about a good half-hour to our flight time, but it makes our navigation far simpler and ensures we do not lose time searching for the Cloncurry airfield.
We climb the Uiver to 4,000 metres to clear the tops of the cumulus clouds. Beneath and between the clouds, there is heavy turbulence. We must conserve our strength as much as possible; for though we are over Australia, we have not reached Melbourne yet. After two hours of flying, we pass the western corner of the Gulf of Carpentaria at Port Roper. Through gaps in the clouds, we catch occasional glimpses of the coastline, allowing us to fix our position accurately. We have been told that many wild tribes still live along this coast, including cannibals. From the air, the landscape looks so inhospitable that we would have no desire to touch down there, even without the threat of being eaten.
Once we have passed the Sir Edward Pellew group, I go back into the cabin to rest and have a good yarn with our passengers, who, as always, show a keen interest in our route. I point out our position on the map. In this part of Australia especially, the various geographical names reflect the fact that many of our ancestors explored these regions in the past: for instance, Van Diemen Golf, Kaap Arnhem, Groote Eylandt, Vanderlins Eiland, Kaap Keer Weer, and so on.
At the Wellesley Eilanden, we alter our course and follow the bed of the Leichhardt River until we pick up the small railway line that leads us south-east towards Cloncurry. We arrive at 04:57 GMT. The airfield is not particularly large, but it is dry and very flat. Descending from the cool air at 4,000 metres into this desert, where the temperature stands at 45°C, is far from pleasant. For the first few moments, we stand staring at one another, feeling somewhat dazed. To make matters worse, the fuel agent tells us that for the specific type of petrol we require, we must move to the other side of the field. Yet when we arrive there, it turns out we were in the right place to begin with, so we phlegmatically taxi all the way back. Aviation teaches one patience, but our engines had grown so hot from all the taxiing in that blistering heat that it took ten minutes for them to cool down enough to stop knocking. I could not help but give the petrol guy a piece of my mind.
Moll, meanwhile, has eventually found the race official, who agrees to enter our arrival time in the logbook and sign it. The inhabitants of Cloncurry come running out and swarm around our machine in thick crowds. Their interest is understandable, of course, but it becomes a great hindrance when we can no longer get near our own aircraft. As soon as I spot someone in uniform who looks like a policeman, I head straight for him. I explain that for the sake of efficiency, the public must be kept back at a distance of some ten yards. The man thinks deeply for a moment and then announces his intention to telephone Cloncurry for assistance. In the meantime, I use my own powers of persuasion to move the crowd back, and they give way peaceably. This example gives the officer courage, and he finally takes charge. The refuelling tests our patience for a while longer, but eventually that too is behind us and we can seek out cooler regions once more.
05:37 GMT. We must push on. We want to reach Charleville before dark, and it is still nearly 900 kilometres away. We are back in the air; if we can maintain nearly 300 kilometres per hour, we should arrive at Charleville just as the sun sets. The challenge is to keep a precise course and not miss this desert outpost. Charleville does have a direction finder, but we cannot rely on it too heavily near sunset due to the ‘night effect’.
After two hours of flight, we pass a river, followed shortly by a railway line. This is the line from Blackhall to Walford. To our port side, we now have low, hilly terrain, which confirms we are on the correct course. Our ground speed is 300 kilometres per hour.
Van Brugge has managed to raise the Charleville radio station, but the connection is extremely poor due to heavy electrical interference. We signal that we shall land at 08:40 GMT.
We fly under the cloud cover at an altitude of 500 metres to measure our drift and to keep as sharp an eye as possible on the few landmarks we encounter. The landscape below is utterly monotonous. Turbulence causes the Uiver to wallow incessantly, making this leg of the flight perhaps the most unpleasant we have experienced so far.
Near Charleville, Van Brugge receives two bearings which tally well with our course. It is not long before we see a cluster of houses, and we arrive over the Charleville airfield precisely at the appointed time. As we make the mandatory left-hand turn, I notice that two hardened runways have been laid out, one of which lies directly into the wind. Prins has just lowered the landing gear, but as I am about to signal him to pump down the landing flaps, a red flare suddenly shoots across the field. That signifies danger and, according to the race rules, constitutes a prohibition on landing. The flap handle is returned to neutral, both engines are throttled up, and we circle the field once more. What on earth is happening? There is still plenty of light to land; the sun has only just dipped below the horizon. I cannot understand it, but it is clear I am not permitted to land yet. After circling for five minutes with no change, I have Van Brugge ask why we are being held off and when we might expect permission to land. We cannot simply hang about here until doomsday.
Another five minutes pass before Van Brugge receives a solitary reply: ‘Car with flares going out now.’ This is preposterous! They want to set out flares when I could easily have landed without any lights at all. There is still no sign of the car. Our patience is being sorely tried. Knowing that I must wait for flares, I fly a few circuits over the town right next to the field for a change of pace. Meanwhile, it is gradually growing dark. I return to circle the field once more. Suddenly, I see a car drive onto the grass and carelessly set out four lanterns—and to my astonishment, not on the runway. I am tempted to think the hardened runway is out of commission, perhaps still under construction, and that they made me wait so they could mark out a landing spot with flares. If so, they have certainly left it late.
Once the car is finished, a green flare is fired—the signal that I may land. Naturally, we do not dawdle, and I set the Uiver down right by the lanterns. As we roll out, I feel the machine braking suspiciously fast, and we come to a halt with a jolt. Just what we needed. Our wheels have sunk deep into the soft earth, and even with both engines at full throttle, we cannot move. I shut down the engines and wait resignedly for what comes next.
We do not have to wait long. A great crowd of people comes running across the field towards us. I ask for help to push the machine back. Everyone is willing, and the Uiver is soon moved onto a firmer part of the ground. Under our own power, we eventually struggle over to the spot where the fuel drums are stored. When Moll and I head to the control point with our papers, a large crowd cheers us heartedly. Understandably, after all that has transpired, I am not in the mood to appreciate this fully, and I ask someone to take me to the officer in charge of the airfield. This gentleman also happens to be the race official. I hand him our logbook, and as he carefully consults his watch to record the time of receipt, I politely ask why I was not permitted to land immediately upon arrival. He replies that he did not want to take the responsibility of letting me land without lights.
‘But why did you not ensure the lights were ready? You knew exactly what time we were arriving,’ I ask. At this, the officer merely shrugs sheepishly, and I decide it is best to ask no more.
When I step outside again, I am besieged by press photographers, reporters, and people wanting our autographs. It is essential that we leave as quickly as possible; we have been delayed enough already. After much searching and questioning, we find a tent that has been set up as a ‘restaurant’. As we are all parched, we order something to drink. After a fifteen-minute wait, they finally manage to open a few bottles, and we are able to moisten our dry throats.
We are told that Scott and Campbell Black arrived in Melbourne this afternoon. Bravo, lads—under three days. Roscoe Turner and Pangborn have left Darwin and are on their way to Charleville. Jones and Waller have engine trouble somewhere. People congratulate us on second place, but we are mindful of the old proverb: ‘Never sell the bear’s skin before you’ve shot it.’ We still have nearly 1,300 kilometres ahead of us and cannot reach Melbourne until after midnight.
To the south, the sky looks ominous: heavy thunderstorms and fierce lightning. I return to the control tent to ask for weather reports. There is already a report of severe storms near Cobar, a small town about 600 kilometres south of Charleville, and the Melbourne weather report is expected at any moment. When it finally arrives, it promises cloudy skies but good visibility. Furthermore, I receive instructions that when flying over the Flemington racecourse, where the finish line is drawn, I must signal the letter ‘O’ in Morse code with the navigation lights so they know race number 44 has reached the end. After that, I am to land at Laverton airfield near Melbourne.
Our tanks are full and I decide to depart. Cautiously, and taking a long detour, we reach the hardened take-off strip, and the Uiver leaves the ground without further difficulty at 09:55 GMT. This is, mercifully, the last intermediate stop we must make; the next landing will be our final destination—Melbourne. That thought soon makes us forget the frustrations of Charleville. Otherwise, the weather looks most unfavourable. With every flash of lightning, we see heavy masses of cloud hanging right down to the ground, and we are repeatedly forced to change course to weave between the storms.
We climb to 3,000 metres and fly for a long time along an extensive storm front, which forces us a long way to the west of our course. The radio has become completely useless due to heavy static, and Van Brugge reels in his aerial to reduce the risk of a lightning strike.
After several hours of this, it seems we have left the worst of the weather behind. The clouds are thinning and the sky ahead looks promising. We now try to regain our course.
Although a sliver of moon has reappeared between the clouds, we can see nothing of the ground, and not a single light suggests the presence of another human being. But once we reach the coast, it should not be difficult to find our goal, and perhaps the radio bearings from Melbourne will help us when we get a little closer. For the moment, however, Van Brugge—who has let his aerial out again—hears nothing but a violent crackling and grinding in his headphones. This should hopefully subside as we move further from the storm zone.
Moll takes the controls and I step into the cabin for a moment. Seeing Gilissen at the mirror, I realize I haven’t had a chance to shave in twenty-four hours. Prins brings me a welcome cup of hot coffee and some sandwiches. After that, I try to freshen up a bit. To my dismay, I discover our water tank is empty; presumably someone forgot to close the tap and the entire supply has drained away. What now? A good mechanic is never at a loss, and Prins produces a few bottles of soda water. Fifteen minutes later, I have managed a passable shave, and a bottle of eau de cologne does the rest. After a change of clothes, I shall at least look presentable for Melbourne. Just as I am finishing, Van Brugge calls me.
‘Any news?’
‘Yes, ask Moll.’
But I don’t need to ask Moll; he switches on one of the searchlights, and in the brilliant white beam, I see shreds of cloud racing past.
‘Have you made contact?’ I ask Van Brugge. By way of an answer, he places his headphones on my ears, and I hear nothing but a deafening roar of electrical discharges. We have just over three hours of fuel left, though we have already been in the air for four. We have been flying at very low revolutions to be safe. We must try to stay above the weather as long as we can, for since we don’t know our exact position, it would be unwise to descend below the clouds here.
It is now 14:00 GMT. The clouds are rising higher and higher, and our altimeter reads 4,000, then soon 5,000 metres. The outside temperature drops below freezing. Suddenly we are in the clouds; we switch on our carburettor heaters to prevent icing and try to climb as fast as we can. However, we are hit by heavy turbulence, forcing us to fasten our belts. It seems the final stretch will be the hardest of all.
Van Brugge is signalling desperately; I know him well and I know how he feels. The fact that he cannot provide weather reports or other data just when we need the radio most gives him the same desperate feeling a fireman must have when, upon opening the valve at a fierce blaze, he makes the appalling discovery that the water main is frozen. He has reached Melbourne, but the signals are unreadable.
At 14:22, Melbourne signals: ‘We are trying to give you bearings but cannot hear you.’ Van Brugge asks for a weather report, but receives nothing more. We have climbed to 5,200 metres in the meantime. Even at full throttle, our machine will go no higher; we are descending. Our variometer shows a descent rate of two metres per second. We know what that means. I switch on the cockpit light and see the windows are covered in a layer of ice. This is bad; the ice is also forming on our wings and propeller blades, which is why we can no longer climb. We must turn back.
As we turn onto a new course, we continue to lose height, slowly but surely. We need not worry yet, as the highest mountains here are only 2,000 metres and we are still above 4,500. As we descend, the temperature will rise and the ice will melt. It is not long before we hear heavy thuds against the fuselage. These are caused by chunks of ice breaking loose from the propellers and being flung with force against the side of the cockpit, which is specially armoured for this purpose. The thermometer already reads above freezing; the danger of ice has passed. But we are still not in Melbourne.
We finally emerge from the clouds. The priority now is to fix our position. Then we can try to reach Melbourne at a lower altitude. Van Brugge is still doing his utmost to catch some Morse code through the din in his headphones. Melbourne signals: ‘Impossible to take bearings on 900 m. Try signalling on 823 m.’ But Van Brugge cannot transmit on that wavelength.
We have descended to 1,000 metres and are trying to see something of the ground in the pale moonlight. It appears we are right on the border between flat land and mountains. I hand the controls to Moll to look for different maps, as the large one doesn’t show the mountains. The mountains only begin about 300 kilometres north of Melbourne; we are at most an hour’s flight from the coast. If only we could reach the south coast of Australia, but to do so we must cross the mountains and fly through the storm, which won’t be easy. Given the risk of icing, I dare not try the higher altitudes again. The only option is to try to reach the coast under the cloud base, but for that, we must first know our exact position.
Flying along the hilly terrain, we suddenly discover a lake, and at some distance, the lights of a small town. The outline of the lake and the river flowing into it are clearly visible in the moonlight. However, we can find no town on our maps with a lake nearby; it is possible, of course, that the river has burst its banks. We circle the area for a long time, studying our maps intently to try and determine our position.
As we suspect we are east of our course, and our maps show only one town of any size situated on a river at the edge of the hills, it must be Albury. That would put us 250 kilometres north-east of Melbourne.
At 14:30 GMT we head south-west towards Melbourne. We fly at 800 metres, trying as much as possible to follow the valleys. Initially, this goes well, but after twenty minutes of flying, the weather worsens. Heavy rain and hail showers reduce visibility; the clouds lower and the mountains grow taller. We are forced to keep changing direction to avoid rain squalls and seek out lower ground. We shall never reach Melbourne this way!
Finally, we are hit by a torrential downpour that wipes out visibility entirely. We must turn back. Our maps are not detailed enough to follow a low route through the mountains safely, and the visibility is too poor anyway. Furthermore, we don’t know the weather in Melbourne, and it is too dangerous to fly in the clouds without radio assistance, trying to descend through them over unknown terrain near the city. If that failed, we wouldn’t have enough fuel to fly back over the mountains to make an emergency landing on the plains to the north. According to our map, there are several airfields there: Benalla, Wangaratta, Echuca, and others.
We now have two hours of fuel remaining. Though it breaks my heart, for the sake of safety I must abandon the plan to reach Melbourne. The priority now is to find a field suitable for an emergency landing as quickly as possible.
First, however, we must return to the lower ground and re-orient ourselves. We decide to fly back the way we came until we are over Albury once more.
Van Brugge, meanwhile, has continued his desperate attempts to establish contact, but without success. He signals alternately on 600 and 900 metres, sending urgent messages requesting that nearby landing grounds be lit and, if possible, flares be fired. Suddenly he picks up a few characters again, but heavy interference makes the words unintelligible. One word, however, appears several times, as if being constantly repeated. By comparison, we make it out to be: ‘Yackandandah’. That could be a place name. It is no easy task to find such a name on a map while the aircraft is bucking and tossing so violently. Van Brugge concentrates on 600 metres and finally catches: ‘You are reported over Yackandandah off Albury, keep West, we are lighting ground at Cootamundra.’
With superhuman effort, Van Brugge has managed to pick up this message. He is also being repeatedly interrupted by signalling ships, which make it impossible to decipher the faint signals from Melbourne, drowned out as they are by the ear-splitting roar of the static. Only after he sends out a distress signal do all the ships fall silent, allowing him to hear the Melbourne signals a little better.
At the moment this radio contact was established, we must have been no more than 150 kilometres from Melbourne. The message Van Brugge caught proves that we had indeed flown over Albury, and we decide to find that town again. From there, we shall set a course as accurately as possible for Cootamundra, which lies some 200 kilometres north-north-east of Albury. The message is otherwise confusing, for Melbourne keeps signalling ‘Keep West’ while simultaneously advising us to go to Cootamundra. Had we been able to get the weather report we asked for at that moment, we might well have made another attempt to push through.
We now try to clear the mountains as quickly as possible. The storm, which is still increasing in intensity, seems to be moving north-west. It is a very broad front that cannot be crossed without reliable weather reports except at great risk. There is no reason for alarm, however, only for disappointment that after such a successful journey and so close to our goal, we are forced back by the elements. We have enough fuel for Cootamundra, provided we can reach it without too much circling.
While I keep track of the map, Moll pilots our ship through the mountains until I see the town lights in the distance again. That must be Albury once more. While I am busy setting the compass for the course to Cootamundra, I notice something unusual. Suddenly Albury has vanished; only a single row of lights remains visible. That looks like an airfield. A few seconds later, all the town lights are back on. It seems they are trying to get our attention. Or perhaps they think war has broken out and the town is threatened by an enemy bomber? In any case, it seems worth checking those lights that suggest an airfield.
As we circle over the area, we see a great many cars on either side, their headlights illuminating a field—clearly intended to help us land. At the same time, we see it is no airfield; it is far too small for that. While Van Brugge reels in the trailing aerial, I switch on our two searchlights and fly low over the field a few times to see if it is large enough to set the Uiver down without damage. After all, we are much closer to our goal here than at Cootamundra, and might be able to fly from Albury to Melbourne without even refuelling. Furthermore, we might well be caught by storms again before reaching Cootamundra.
Our searchlights can only illuminate a small part of the field, and because of our relatively high speed, we see each obstacle only for a fleeting moment, without getting a full impression of the surroundings. I decide to use one of our parachute flares to scout the area. The Uiver carries two of these, housed in long tubes in the tail of the fuselage. The tubes exit at the bottom behind the luggage compartment; the openings are covered with parchment paper to keep out moisture. In the cockpit are two pull-cables connected to the clamps holding the flare in the tube. Pulling one of these cables releases the clamps, and the flare’s weight causes it to fall through the parchment paper.
Inside the flare, however, is a folded parachute connected to the aircraft by a cord. As the flare falls and the cord pulls taut, the parachute is pulled from its housing. Once fully deployed, the flare’s weight snaps the cord, and as the chute opens automatically, a firing pin is triggered to ignite the magnesium. The burning flare, suspended from its parachute, descends slowly and casts a brilliant light in all directions for three minutes.
By this light, we can clearly see the obstacles surrounding the field. It turns out to be a racecourse, oval in shape with a track through the middle that gives the whole thing the appearance of a pretzel. There is not much room for a landing. To the north is a ridge of hills; to the south are tall trees. However, there is a gap between these trees just wide enough for the Uiver. Beyond them, I see a few small fences and then a reasonably long stretch of open ground—not very wide, but long enough if we land slowly and touch down as early as possible. Suddenly the brilliant light of the flare vanishes; we let the parachute drop too low. In the light of the searchlights, however, I can see that the rest of the field is free of further obstacles.
Gasoline fires are now being lit on the ground. As we fly over the racecourse again at 200 metres, I clearly see the letters A-L-B-U-R-Y. It is high time we made a decision; it has started to rain again and, more importantly, every lost minute is lost fuel. I decide to drop the second flare at 300 metres and then, if I am lucky enough to line up well, set the Uiver down. The landing gear is pumped down. Over the field, Prins gives the second flare cable a tug at my signal, and suddenly the surroundings are brilliantly lit once more. Then engines off, landing flaps out, a wide turn around the field, and as slowly as possible, the Uiver glides through the searchlight beams between the tall trees. A touch more throttle, then just over the fence, a quick pull on the elevators, and there we are, rolling. As soon as I apply the brakes, I feel the wheels lock; the ground is muddy and slick, offering little grip for our tyres, so we still have a fairly long roll-out. The Uiver comes to a halt right next to the dying flames of a gasoline fire; the wheels sink deep into the mud, but nothing is damaged… and we are safe.
As soon as the propellers stop, people come running from all sides, cheering us warmly. We climb out and are congratulated from every direction on our successful landing in Albury. It turns out that all of Australia, and Albury in particular, has been in a state of great anxiety. They thought we were lost and that our fuel was exhausted. They had seen us flying towards the mountains—the ‘Australian Alps’—the first time we passed over Albury, and when the news came from Melbourne that we had sent a distress signal, they feared the worst. The Albury radio station had called us several times, but it operates on a wavelength we could not monitor. They had also broadcast a radio appeal to all motorists to head to the racecourse to help us land. The joy at our arrival is so great that they form a circle around us and our aircraft and begin to sing the English song in unison:
‘For they are jolly good fellows
For they are jolly good fellows
And so say all of us!’
In our own language, under the same circumstances, they would have struck up the national hymn: ‘Lang zullen ze leven, lang zullen ze leven in de gloria’, etc.
We landed at Albury at 15:20 GMT, which is twenty minutes past one in the morning local time. For the last hour, all of Australia has listened with bated breath to the radio reports concerning our attempts to reach Melbourne and our eventual landing at Albury. In Melbourne, some 20,000 spectators had flocked to the airfield, waiting for hours in the rain for our arrival in vain. We certainly did not expect such a level of interest.
Someone from the radio station asks me to get into a car immediately and accompany him to the studio to speak a few words to the Australian public. But I explain that as ‘Captain’, I cannot leave my ship until my passengers are cared for, the machine is properly covered, and the guard is in place. I promise to fulfil his request as soon as everything is ready. Then I take a good look at the situation and how our machine is positioned. Meanwhile, the rain is coming down in torrents. I am introduced to the Mayor of Albury, Mr A. Waugh, an elderly invalid. He receives us most cordially and offers every possible assistance. He places the police at our disposal to guard the machine all night and keep the public at a distance, personally vouching that no one will damage our aircraft. He ensures there are cars—kindly provided by local residents—to transport our passengers and luggage to the nearby hotel. He also sees to it that the telegrams Van Brugge and I have composed are sent immediately, so that no one in Holland or Melbourne need remain in suspense.
The storm continues; there is no question of attempting a take-off in the dark. The right wheel has sunk quite deep, and the entire field is one wet quagmire. It is to be hoped that the rain stops soon and the ground dries out somewhat by daybreak; perhaps then we shall get away smoothly.
Despite all the cordiality and helpfulness we encounter in Albury, the crew of the Uiver is only half-satisfied. Instead of being in a hangar in Melbourne, our aircraft stands in the pouring rain in the mud of a small racecourse. We feel grateful to have overcome the difficulties and landed safely, but the disappointment at our setback is great indeed. All the time we spent circling to reach Melbourne, and the time the Uiver stands in the mud, counts as flying time for the handicap race, as Albury’s racecourse is not an official reporting or control point. But we must accept it; safety comes before winning prizes.
Our passengers have behaved bravely. The last leg was the most tense for them. We knew exactly what had to be done, but in the cabin, they could only wait. When I ask if they were afraid, Thea Rasche, Domenie, and Gilissen answer as one: ‘We didn’t find it particularly pleasant, but we had every confidence that you would get us out of trouble.’
Just before we entered the second storm zone, they had freshened up, changed clothes, and packed their bags. They waited calmly for what was to come while the Uiver tossed through clouds and rain squalls, and chunks of ice from the propellers hammered against the fuselage. One of them called out: ‘Enter without knocking!’ and they passed the time telling jokes. At one point, when we flew through a heavy hailstorm with strong vertical currents that occasionally lifted them from their seats, Domenie remarked with true gallows humour: ‘If any of you still know a good joke, tell it quickly.’
Once the passengers have left for the hotel with their luggage and the machine is secured, we too take our bags and head into town in our friends’ cars. First, I go to the radio station and give a short broadcast, thanking the Australian public for their sympathy and interest, and especially the people of Albury for their warm welcome and the great assistance they have rendered us.
Then I have a telephone conversation with the race committee in Melbourne, giving a brief report of our landing and stating our intention to depart as soon as it is light.
Scarcely is this call over when the telephone rattles again: ‘Amsterdam for Mr Parmentier’. This is remarkable!
‘You are speaking with the editors of “De Telegraaf”. Are the other crew members there too? Your wife is coming on now.’ I immediately have Moll, Van Brugge, and Prins fetched from the hotel, which is fortunately only a hundred yards from the studio. Soon I hear a very familiar voice on the line—nearly 20,000 kilometres away, yet as clear as if she were standing right beside me. After I have spoken with my wife for a few minutes and reassured her, I exchange a few words with my colleague Viruly. Then Moll arrives just in time to be greeted by his wife and parents. Next it is Prins’s turn, and then Van Brugge speaks for a moment.
We are naturally very surprised; how did our wives come to be gathered at the office of “De Telegraaf” so suddenly, and how did they know so quickly that we were in Albury? In any case, it is wonderful to have spoken and to know that those at home are no longer anxious. It was an extraordinarily kind gesture by “De Telegraaf”.
Still the telephone will not be quiet; Melbourne calls again, then London. It has meanwhile become three o’clock. We are now feeling the reaction from the tension of the last few hours and are all four exhausted. We must be back at the racecourse by daybreak to depart as early as possible, so a few hours of sleep are much needed. We thank our friends at the radio station and take our leave. To reach our hotel, we only have to go around the corner and across the street. The rain lashes the pavement; the streets are flooded in places—it looks much like a cloudburst. This bodes ill for tomorrow, lads.
Despite the late hour, the ‘Globe’ hotel is still brightly lit, and our passengers have evidently already made many friends in Albury. It is a convivial scene, but for us, sleep is a matter of urgency; we must be fit again in a few hours. Yet after all the bustle and tension, it is not easy to switch off and fall asleep at once. Moreover, the rain is rattling against the windows, and I already have a vision of a completely dismantled Uiver being loaded onto large lorries. Nevertheless, I believe that of all the options we had when caught in the storm, we made the right decision. We might have found a better field at Cootamundra, but fuel supplies would certainly have presented great difficulties. We can only use petrol with a very high octane rating, which is only available at the official intermediate stops. We would have arrived at Cootamundra, nearly 500 kilometres from Melbourne, with almost empty tanks. As it is, we are just over 250 kilometres from our goal and have enough petrol for an hour and a half of flying. If we can manage to get off the ground shortly, we can still arrive second in Melbourne; we shall almost certainly lose first prize in the handicap race due to the great loss of time. But despite these thoughts, sleep eludes me. I think back to the leg before Alorstar, when I managed to sleep after taking some sleeping tablets, and it occurs to me that the bottle is in my suitcase. That’s the idea. The remedy is soon found, and I finally fall into a deep sleep. An hour later, however, Van Brugge comes to wake me; I take a cold bath and feel refreshed. Outside it is still dark, but I see a clear, starry sky. The weather seems to have cleared.
Down in the lobby, I find Moll, Prins, and Van Brugge. Little is said; we know what must be done and are determined to take no risks. I realize it will take at least a few hours to pull our heavy machine out of the soft ground, so I advise the passengers to remain at the hotel for now and be ready to leave as soon as I call. Only Thea Rasche comes with us to the racecourse to watch our work.
After a hasty breakfast, we leave the ‘Globe’ hotel, having taken a warm farewell of our host and hostess, Mr and Mrs Selford. Outside, a large number of Albury residents are ready to take us to the landing site in their cars. Everyone considers it an honour and a pleasure to do anything at all for us. Some parts of the road are completely flooded; the closer we get to the racecourse, the deeper the water becomes. At one point, our car drives through water so deep that the engine stalls and refuses to start. Likely water has got into the carburettor, but no matter—the people of Albury wade in up to their knees and, with combined strength, we are soon back on dry ground.
At the racecourse, things aren’t too bad; there is little standing water on the field, but the ground is soaked and very soft. It has become light by now; the weather is beautiful, and the air is crystal clear after all that rain. Only to the south, over the mountains, is it still cloudy.
A great many townsfolk are already at our machine, which stands slightly tilted in the mud with the right wheel sunk up to the axle. It won’t be easy to get out of this. Now that it is light, we can take a good look at our surroundings. To the north, a few hundred yards from the racecourse, is a ridge of hills about fifty metres high. To the south, right against the track, are the tall trees with the narrow gap we glided through last night. There is no wind; our best chance is to take off towards the north. First, the aircraft must be moved to the southern corner of the field where we touched down, so that we can take off in the same direction we landed. This is easier said than done; first the machine must be pulled from the mud until the wheels are level with the surface.
We try to push the Uiver back with the help of the bystanders, but the machine is stuck fast. Only a limited number of people can stand around the landing gear; I ask for shovels and ropes, which are quickly brought. First, the earth behind the wheels is dug away; a few planks are laid in the furrow, then long ropes are attached to the landing gear. Then all Albury takes hold of the ropes to pull our ship out of the soft earth. They are enthusiastic and glad to help. It is a joy to see everyone cheerfully wading through the mud up to their ankles, unconcerned about wet feet. When one of the ropes suddenly snaps with a loud bang, sending thirty residents sprawling onto the wet grass, the merriment reaches its height; with much laughter, they scramble up and the rope is refastened.
Eventually, we manage to bring the Uiver to a spot where the ground is slightly firmer. I want to try to turn around and taxi to the other side of the field under our own power; this also provides a chance to see how much the soggy ground holds the machine back. The result of this test does not make us particularly optimistic. Several times the aircraft gets stuck and must be pushed and pulled again. By the time the machine is finally in the corner of the field, facing the take-off direction, several more hours have passed. We shall never get away at this rate.
I decide to offload everything that is not strictly necessary for flight to make the aircraft as light as possible. The mail, the luggage, various pieces of equipment, and a large portion of the spare parts must go. Even the seat cushions, the spare water, and the provisions. All Albury helps with the work.
About forty kilometres from Albury is an emergency landing ground, Wangaratta. If we could land there, the passengers and cargo could be taken back on board. But what state is the field in?
There is a telephone in the house of the racecourse caretaker, and I manage to get a connection to Wangaratta. A small light aircraft has just landed there, piloted by Captain Jones of the Shell Oil Company, who left Melbourne this morning to see if he could be of assistance. Captain Jones tells me that his ‘Moth’ sank badly into the mud; he considers the state of the Wangaratta field very dangerous for our heavy machine and strongly advises me not to land there. He also reports that the Benalla field is completely underwater and certainly unusable. The only landing option is Cootamundra, but that field is as far from Albury as Melbourne is. If the passengers and cargo have to be taken by car over partially flooded roads to Cootamundra, it would mean—especially considering refuelling—at least a day’s delay. If we leave the passengers and all our sealed cargo at Albury, our handicap time will be recalculated in Melbourne according to the handicap formula. Naturally, losing 1,000 kilograms of load puts us at a much greater disadvantage in the handicap class.
Roscoe Turner left Charleville early this morning and made an intermediate stop in Bourke due to engine trouble. We have likely lost the handicap prize already because of our emergency landing at Albury, but if we can manage to get an empty Uiver off the ground quickly, we still stand a good chance of arriving second in Melbourne.
I am sorry that we cannot take our passengers to Melbourne, but safety must come first. Van Brugge and Prins must also stay behind—firstly to keep the weight of our machine as low as possible, and secondly to ensure that the passengers, mail, and the inventory of the Uiver that has been unloaded onto the racecourse are safely transported to Melbourne. Only Moll and I climb in and the engines are warmed up. Then comes the first take-off attempt, but we move no more than ten yards before our wheels sink deep into the mud again, and we are stuck fast. We start all over again. The people of Albury are tireless, and we do not lose heart.
Almost parallel to the direction in which we must take off runs a track that was presumably used as a racecourse in the past, separated by a fence from the ground where we landed. An inspection shows that the ground there is slightly firmer; if only this fence could be taken down…
I have scarcely asked the question before they begin to demolish it. Here, no one asks what is permitted or possible; anything that might help us in the slightest is simply done. Over a length of about a hundred yards, the posts are pulled from the ground. They work like Trojans. After much toil, our ship stands on the firmer part of the field. We now have a strip for take-off that is about sixty to seventy yards wide and nearly three hundred yards long. If we can just get enough speed for our wings to start providing lift, we should make it. To be safe, Prins goes to stand two hundred yards away from us. If our speed is not high enough to leave the ground by that point, the remaining hundred yards will be sufficient to roll out with the engines cut. The watchword is: ‘In the air by Prins, or—engines off.’ This way we run no risk of crashing our ship at the end of the field if we fail to lift off.
The Cyclones are turning again. A great tension hangs over those present at the racecourse. Thea Rasche and Van Brugge stand among the crowd, waving; on the field, I see the sturdy figure of Prins standing like a warning beacon on the green grass. Now we must try again.
I give it full throttle and the Uiver waddles across the soggy ground like a goose. We pick up speed only very slowly and feel the wheels being constantly held back. Because the wheels meet unequal resistance, it is very difficult to keep the aircraft on a straight course. Yet our speed continues to increase and I let the tail lift slightly. As we near Prins, we hit another soft patch. The sudden braking of both wheels causes the tail to flip up, and I immediately use the elevators to push the tail back down. This causes the aircraft to skip up; the wheels are clear for a moment, giving us instant speed, and before we have passed Prins, we are flying.
While Moll is busy pumping up the landing gear, we share a silent handshake. Then the Uiver banks into a turn and we head south-west. I learned later from Van Brugge and Prins that those left behind on the racecourse watched the take-off with bated breath. The moment the Uiver left the ground, a wave of emotion swept through the crowd, followed by exuberant joy. The cheering was endless, and Thea Rasche, Prins, and Van Brugge were taken back to town in a procession. Van Brugge was responsible for the mail, and Prins for the rest of the cargo. Everything was loaded into large cars and the journey to Melbourne began as quickly as possible with the passengers.
The take-off from the racecourse took place at five minutes to ten local time, which is 23:55 GMT. The weather is excellent and we can now see the terrain we flew over last night. It is a beautiful region, but very rugged with many high mountain ridges. To have continued through the storm last night over these mountains without radio or weather reports would have been a massive risk. However great our disappointment over the delay, we are glad we did not take that risk.
00:47 GMT. We fly low over the finish line at the Flemington racecourse, waved on by a huge crowd, and five minutes later the Uiver touches down at the Laverton airfield near Melbourne.
The time the Uiver spent on the ground at Albury amounts to eight hours and thirty-five minutes, so with the detour around the storms, we have had a total delay of about ten hours. We crossed the finish line 90 hours and 15 minutes after our departure from Mildenhall.