VIII. VIA QUEENSLAND TO THE NORTHERN TERRITORY
Saturday, 3rd November.
During the course of the morning, we make our way to Mascot aerodrome. Many friends and members of the Dutch colony in Sydney are at the airfield to witness our departure. Great interest is shown in our machine; many are given the opportunity, guided by Mr Bakker, to view the interior of the ‘Uiver’, while the crew valiantly signs photographs and albums. As we have promised to be in Brisbane by 3 o’clock, we must depart by half-past eleven at the latest. At a quarter past eleven, the viewing is halted and the aircraft is rolled out. We bid farewell to our acquaintances, thank the Sydney Aero Club for their selfless technical assistance and cooperation, and call out a hearty goodbye to our friends from the K.P.M.
We must depart; not even the prettiest girl in Sydney can coax another signature from us. We climb into our craft, and soon the ‘Uiver’ is airborne once more. Miss Jean Batten, the intrepid aviator, has taken off in her Moth to escort us out, but the difference in speed between the two planes and our delayed departure prevent her from carrying out her plan. Nevertheless, we greatly appreciate this gesture.
The Sydney–Brisbane route follows the East Coast of Australia. The landscape along this coast is exceptionally beautiful, with high mountains to the west and the blue Ocean to the east. We are unable to fulfill the many invitations to make intermediate landings at various places along this route. We have, however, promised to fly low over the towns of Newcastle, Grafton, and Lismore, so that the population might at least see our machine in the air. At Newcastle, however, there is a very low cloud deck which we must stay above, so we are forced to disappoint the residents of that city. Near Grafton, however, we descend and fly low over the houses for quite some time. We do not regret it, for the landscape from the air is of enchanting beauty. Everywhere we see Jacaranda trees in full violet bloom. This colour forms a sharp contrast with the rest of the landscape, lending the whole scene a particular charm. We see Jacarandas near Lismore and the surrounding area as well.
Our passengers enjoy this natural beauty as much as we do. In addition to Domenie, Gilissen, and Lady Moulden, we have Mr Robertson, director of New England Airways, and our compatriot Colonel Koopman on board. New England Airways is an Australian airline that also operates the Sydney–Brisbane route.
As we approach Brisbane, Van Brugge establishes contact with the K.P.M. steamer ‘Nieuw-Zeeland’. Having left Brisbane harbour for Sydney this morning, the ship is now in Moreton Bay and asks if we might fly over her. We are happy to oblige. In the bay north of Brisbane, we spot a plume of smoke, and a few minutes later, we make several low passes over this handsome, white-painted K.P.M. steamer. The tricolour is hoisted, and from the decks of the ‘Nieuw-Zeeland’, people wave to us warmly. Then we return to Brisbane, fly over the city for a moment, and land at Archerfield aerodrome at 3 o’clock. It seems the entire population of Brisbane has turned out to welcome us. Thousands are present, and from the many shouts ringing out behind the barricades where the public is gathered, we hear that Holland is well-represented here too.
The reception is magnificently organised. As soon as our machine is secured, Moll and I follow the reception committee to the platform, and soon the floodgates of eloquence are opened once more. After the official ceremony, we make a circuit past the crowd, and finally, tea is offered to us in the clubhouse.
At the hotel in the city, an army of reporters awaits me. Once the interview is over, I go to my room where, assisted by Colonel Koopman, we dispatch a large number of telegrams. The route for the following day is studied. Since we must fly nearly 3,000 kilometres and wish to be in Port Darwin before dark, it is decided that we shall depart Brisbane before sunrise.
The stay in Brisbane would not be complete if we did not speak on the radio here as well. Our three passengers, who have evidently already made many friends, are in excellent spirits and achieve a resounding success with their radio broadcast.
The Dutch Consul in Brisbane, Mr Hart, hosts a dinner for us at the hotel, which is enlivened by the vocal contributions of our passengers.
Lady Moulden asks me if I have any objection to taking a kangaroo on board. I find this a splendid idea, provided the passengers are willing to look after this Australian inhabitant. Gilissen takes it upon himself to fetch the creature, takes a taxi, and disappears. When dinner has ended and the guests have moved to the ballroom, Gilissen suddenly reappears with the kangaroo in his arms. It is a small species called a ‘Wallaby’, slightly larger than a hare. It is a charming little beast, looking around the brightly lit hall with large, startled eyes. A serious dispute now arises: ‘What shall the kangaroo be named?’ I did not wait for the result, but retired to bed after signing my umpteenth autograph. Tomorrow will be an early start again, and we have a long journey ahead of us.
At three in the morning, we are awoken; we are to be in the air by 4 o’clock. It is still dark when our cars arrive at Archerfield. The hangar where the ‘Uiver’ is housed is surrounded by a dense crowd. Our driver sounds his horn incessantly to try and push through the mass of people, with the result that at one point, completely hemmed in by the public, we can move neither forward nor backward. There we sit: not an inch of movement. We politely but urgently request a little space so that our car can reach the hangar. However, it is impossible to make ourselves heard above the shouting and cheering. Everyone wants our signatures, but with such a crowd, it is obviously impossible to begin.
Our driver has since left the car, and we are forced to wait for half an hour. We think wistfully of the precious time we could have spent blissfully asleep. Meanwhile, the police have arrived, and with great effort, we manage to enter the hangar through a side door. While the luggage is being loaded, Moll and I are photographed several times in the hangar with a young Australian film diva. This causes quite some trouble, as the intention is for us to look at the dear child with a smile. However, it is no easy feat to maintain a ‘keep smiling’ attitude under all circumstances. Thus, even this Australian beauty cannot make me forget the loss of precious time, which reduces our chances of reaching Port Darwin before dark.
As soon as the flashbulbs have finished, I request that the hangar doors be opened so the aircraft can be brought out. The police sergeant informs me, however, that with his ten men he is unable to clear the area in front of the hangar and that we must wait for reinforcements. I try to make it clear to him that we cannot take up permanent residence in Brisbane and that we have 3,000 kilometres to fly today; I ask him to address the people so that they might make way of their own accord. In the meantime, the doors are opened and the ‘Uiver’ is rolled out. A heavy crush ensues, but we manage to get the machine onto the field nonetheless. We climb in with difficulty; there is no opportunity to say goodbye to our friends.
But we cannot start our engines like this. The public is pressing against our machine, and accidents would surely happen. From the cockpit, I shout to the people that the propellers are about to turn and ask them to make space. As a warning, I use the starter to give the left engine a small nudge with the ignition off. This works better than words, and they respectfully step aside. Soon our Cyclones are humming, but once the engines are warm, there is no question of our being able to depart. The crowd, having retreated out of respect for our metal propellers, now stands in a wide arc in front of the machine; there is no way through. Our patience is being sorely tried this morning, and Port Darwin is still 3,000 kilometres away.
Then I have an idea; one of those moments of clarity that occur sporadically in everyone’s life. Carefully, I turn the aircraft a quarter-turn using the left engine and then pull the brakes on tight. Now, give it some throttle, boys. While the machine stands its ground on its brakes like a stubborn mule, the rapidly spinning propellers blast a very powerful stream of air backwards, as if from a ‘monster fan’. The result is magnificent: hats and caps whirl through the air, and in a state of panic, the crowd scatters. A quick swing of the tail, and finally a wide passage is created. The ‘Uiver’ darts through this opening, and we taxi to the far side of the field. Roughly an hour later than we had planned to depart, the ‘Uiver’ takes to the air.
The distance to Cloncurry is 1,500 kilometres. Due to the delay, we can no longer fulfill the request to fly low over the town of Toowoomba, which lies about 100 kilometres west of Brisbane.
We climb immediately to 3,000 metres and fly over mountainous terrain, the Bunya Mountains, which are bathed in a reddish glow by the rising sun. Thereafter, we fly over the parched, desert-like interior of Australia, which offers little variety.
Our passengers, who are short of sleep from all the festivities, now have the chance to make up for it. Soon a deep silence prevails in the cabin. Only the kangaroo does not sleep, leaping down the aisle from time to time with great bounds. The little creature seems perfectly at home, sniffing under all the seats and occasionally nibbling at the greenery of the laurel wreaths that stand at the back of the cabin as mementoes of our warm reception. Certainly unusual fodder for this Australian long-legs.
The most significant parts of the kangaroo are its disproportionately long and powerfully muscled hind legs. It usually sits upright, supporting itself on its tail. It uses its ridiculously small forepaws more like hands. With large bounds, the animal moves quickly forward, landing on its hind legs and tail with every jump, thus making a neat ‘three-point landing’ that would make many a pilot envious.
The flight proceeds without any major events. After three hours in the air, we pass the railway line running from the East Coast to Longreach, which shows we are maintaining an average cruising speed of 300 kilometres per hour. An hour later, we fly past the town of Winton, where an airfield has been established. After exactly five hours of flight, we are above Cloncurry, where we also made a stop on the outward journey. From the air, the town consists of a limited number of small houses with corrugated iron roofs and does not make a particularly inviting impression.
During the descent, the thermometer indicating the outside air temperature rises sharply again. When we step out of the aircraft, it feels like a summer day in Baghdad. However, cool drinks have been provided; while the petrol flows into the tanks, lemonade flows into the thermos flasks. After a stop of three-quarters of an hour, everything is ready and the second leg begins. Thanks to the excellent weather and favourable winds, we have enough margin to reach Port Darwin before nightfall. This is a vital matter, as the radio direction-finding service, specially installed for the MacRobertson race, is no longer in use. We must now fly entirely by our own means over a distance of 1,380 kilometres, where no landmarks are available and we cannot afford to miss our destination, Port Darwin. This requires precise course-keeping and drift measurements every quarter of an hour, which is not possible at night.
An hour before Port Darwin, the weather becomes less favourable. Monsoon clouds force us to fly at an altitude of 1,000 metres. Heavy rain showers remind us that we are approaching the equatorial zone. However, there are no difficulties; visibility remains good, and we eventually pick up the small railway line that leads us to Port Darwin. We land at about 4 o’clock local time.
A humid, oppressive heat prevails here. Due to a misunderstanding, we were expected an hour later. We are forced to wait for the petrol tanker, which must come from the city. Cars take the passengers and luggage to the hotel. The kangaroo is secured in its crate and goes along as well. Since the hangar at the aerodrome is still under construction, the ‘Uiver’ must remain outside. Anchors are screwed into the ground and the wingtips are secured with ropes. One never knows if a storm might blow up during the night. Once the engines have been inspected and lubricated, Prins puts the covers on them so they will stay dry in case of rain. Then the petrol arrives, and filling can commence.
When the cabin is finally cleaned and everything is ready, we also head into town. The only ‘hotel’ in town is a small wooden building that can scarcely claim the name. Three of us must sleep in a small, cramped room; the others are also housed three or four to a room, sometimes among strangers. There is no running water; the only bathroom is in a shed behind the hotel, and the guests stand in a queue for it. However, there is no other accommodation in this place, so we must simply make the best of it.
We receive a visit from a number of reporters. In Australia, it is the custom to give a farewell message to the press when leaving the country or departing a state. At the press conference, we gladly take this opportunity to thank the Australian people once more for the great warmth and hospitality shown to us during our stay in the states of Victoria, New South Wales, Queensland, and the Northern Territory. Apparently, Port Darwin does not yet possess a radio station; at any rate, we receive no invitation to give a radio address.
When the dinner bell rings, we make our way to the improvised dining room. It is sweltering, and we feel tired and clammy. However, when some of the guests venture into the dining room without a jacket, they are politely informed by the staff that it is a ‘first class’ establishment where one is not permitted to enter without a coat. Prins, who for some reason has brought the wrong suitcase, is forced to borrow a lounge jacket from someone in order to comply with the rules of the house.
Naturally, after the meal, we have little desire to retire immediately to our hot bedrooms. We seek the cool air on the wooden balcony, where we stretch out on long wicker chairs.
Van Brugge, our raconteur, makes us forget the heat with his highly improbable tales of his adventures at sea. At one moment, his ship was frozen in, so they had to hack a channel through the ice ‘all the way to the horizon’; at another, the ship departed Batavia Roads in a thick fog. After three days of steaming, the fog suddenly lifted, only for them to discover they were still at Batavia; they had forgotten to cast off the stern hawser. His stories grow ever more far-fetched. And it gradually dawns on the small group of Australians, who had initially listened with earnest interest, that these histories are ‘entirely true and historical’. From time to time, there is a burst of hearty laughter.
The party grows smaller, however, and soon a deep silence reigns in the ‘first’ hotel of Port Darwin.