XI. HOME TO HOLLAND

Wednesday, 14 November.

The return journey resumes on the very day the regular East Indies service departs for Holland. Thanks to the diligent care of the KNILM technical staff, our machine has been thoroughly cleaned and polished inside and out; in the early hours, the Uiver stands glistening in the first rays of the morning sun.

Besides Lady Moulden and Messrs Domenie and Gilissen, a fourth passenger, Mr Dudok van Heel, will be joining us for the journey to Europe, while several others have booked for the shorter intermediate legs. We are carrying only mail destined for Holland—the so-called ‘Uiver mail’—whereas the ‘IJsvogel’, departing for Singapore under Beekman’s command a few hours later, carries the standard East Indies post. The Uiver’s final destination for today is Medan, with scheduled stops at Batavia, Palembang, and Singapore.

Amidst great public interest, we depart at a quarter to seven. After the customary honorary circuit, I set a course for Batavia, a distance that represents a mere hop for the Uiver.

At Tjililitan, the remaining mail from Java is loaded. Stowing the post and luggage is becoming something of a puzzle, requiring careful deliberation to solve. Then the doctor arrives for the usual formalities to clear our health certificates. A cursory examination satisfies the physician that we have not been afflicted by any malignant or contagious disease. When the doctor asks Van Brugge how he is feeling, he receives the reply: ‘I feel splendid, but I had no champagne with my oatmeal this morning.’

At last, everything is ready for departure. After a warm farewell to KNILM and the other friends who have come to see us off, we take to the skies once more. It is beginning to feel as though we are returning from a standard East Indies flight; only a bundle of ribbons from ceremonial wreaths, still resting in the cabin’s luggage net, serves as a reminder of the recent festivities.

A final circuit over Batavia and we are soon flying across the Java Sea. The Agnieten, Hoorn, and Thousand Islands are quickly left behind, and we pass Sumatra’s east coast at Tandjoeng Kenam. Here, in the Lampong districts, we have occasionally spotted a lone herd of wild elephants on the open plains between the jungles, while numerous crocodiles inhabit the many river mouths. Today, however, we are flying too high to detect any signs of life amidst the dense rainforest. On board the Uiver, there is, in any case, little attention paid to the landscape. Moll is checking the mail manifests; Van Brugge has just received a telegram from the ‘Johan van Oldenbarneveldt’ wishing us a safe journey home. Meanwhile, Prins is busy providing the passengers and crew with mugs of hot chocolate or bouillon. Gilissen sits writing; I suspect him of working for a newspaper or… perhaps he intends to publish a book later. Domenie is occupied with his letters, while Lady Moulden has gently drifted off to sleep.

Meanwhile, the Uiver speeds onward. Though we keep the engines at an economical cruising speed, we find ourselves over Talang Betoetoe, the Palembang airfield, in less than two hours. It is an elongated field where landings can only be made in two directions; however, the prevailing wind almost always blows more or less along the length of the runway, so this presents no difficulties.

After landing, we are quickly reminded that this is no ordinary flight: thousands of people cheer us as we step from the aircraft. Once again, speeches are delivered by various authorities. Children sing a special ‘Uiver song’, followed by the ‘Wilhelmus’. I then offer thanks on behalf of the crew for the warm reception and, once the mail is loaded, we continue our journey.

By special request, we first set a course for Djambi, circling the city several times at a low altitude while the inhabitants cheer us enthusiastically. We soon seek out cooler regions, the Uiver flying high above the Sumatran ‘kale’ towards Singapore. A few gentle rain showers over the Strait of Malacca are the only events to break the monotony. Just over two hours after departing Palembang, Singapore comes into view, and a few minutes later we land at the Seletar military airfield.

The Dutch colony in this English possession has turned out to greet us. A great number of young Dutch boys and girls sing a ‘Uiver song’ to the tune of ‘Piet Hein’. The Dutch Consul delivers an address, after which we are invited to lunch by the Royal Air Force. The British officers receive us with great hospitality; the station commander and a representative from Imperial Airways both speak, paying tribute to the KLM organisation.

Our stay in Singapore lasts nearly two hours. At a quarter to three, the engines are started once more and the party boards after a warm farewell. On our way to Medan, we are obliged to circle several towns along Sumatra’s east coast, including Tandjoeng Balei and Kisaran.

Medan comes into view around five o’clock. Even from a distance, we can see that the entire population has turned out to witness the Uiver’s arrival. Having encountered the people of Deli on previous occasions, we expected nothing less than their enthusiastic support. As the Uiver halts before the hangar and the propellers fall silent, the excitement knows no bounds. As soon as we disembark, we are led to a podium where microphones have been set up. First, however, we must pass through a human corridor where we are ‘clapped’ on the shoulders from all sides, occasionally with some force. Somewhat dishevelled, we are eventually hoisted onto the platform to be addressed by, among others, the Governor of Sumatra’s East Coast, Mr van Suchtelen, and the Governor of Aceh and Dependencies, Mr van Aken. He presents us with a certificate, which he first reads out in a stentorian voice. The document is beautifully executed and bears many signatures. We are able to thank the residents of Aceh immediately for this gesture, as all the speeches are being broadcast by radio.

After several more authorities have spoken, we proceed to the city in a procession led by a brass band. In the streets of Medan, the residents cheer us fervently. It is dark by the time we arrive at Hotel de Boer.

That evening, a dinner is held in our honour at the hotel, attended by many dignitaries. A truly convivial ‘Delian’ atmosphere prevails; the floodgates of eloquence are opened several times more. However, the Uiver’s crew cannot stay late; tomorrow brings another early start. In a short speech, we express our gratitude to Sumatra’s East Coast for the spontaneous reception and the tributes paid. The triumphal progress across the whole of Insulinde, from Timor to Deli, has come to an end.

On Thursday morning, 15 November, the Uiver departs from Medan airport at eight o’clock, bound for Bangkok. As we fly over Belawan-Deli, flags are hoisted and steam whistles sounded on the ships in the harbour. We then head north across the Strait of Malacca. Regrettably, we cannot fulfil the request of the Dutch colony in Penang to make an intermediate landing at Alorstar; the airfield has become extremely boggy due to persistent rain. We cannot risk the chance of a delay.

We proceed over the jungles of Malaya and across the Gulf of Siam to Don-Muang, Bangkok’s airport. This airfield, where landings were once impossible for several months during the rainy season, is now equipped with a pair of concrete runways. Four hours and fifteen minutes after leaving Medan, we arrive at the military airfield near the Siamese capital.

Landing on the paved runways goes excellently; it is a pity, however, that the connection between the city and the airfield is not better. There is no road; one can only reach the city by train, which is very time-consuming.

We have no intention of going into Bangkok, however; we shall remain here for only a few hours before continuing to Rangoon. Several compatriots have come to Don-Muang to welcome us. The Dutch Envoy is present, as are the Siamese Minister of Defence and other high-ranking military officials. The Holland-Siam Trading Company, our agent in Bangkok, acts as host, and we share an excellent lunch together in the officers’ mess. The Minister delivers a speech in Siamese and presents us with the pilot-officer’s badge of the Siamese Aviation Department. The Envoy also speaks, after which I express my thanks—though not in Siamese—for the assistance we have always received from the Siamese aviation service.

At half past two, we depart again; a minor fault with the electric starter on the left engine necessitates the use of the hand starter, which causes some delay. Then we fly over the wilderness of the Siamese highlands—where it is likely no living soul has ever ventured—and across the Gulf of Martaban towards Rangoon, the city of Buddhist temples and pagodas. On the river, we spot a Dutch vessel of the Java–Bengal line, over which we fly an honorary circuit. However, when we land, it turns out that the entire senior staff is actually at the airfield.

The passengers depart immediately for the city to visit some of the sights, while we attend to various tasks once the fuel is replenished and the aircraft is in the hangar. In Bangkok, we took on a fifth passenger, an American, Mr Pawley, who is flying with us as far as Amsterdam.

As our machine, with its fourteen seats in the cabin, is not yet actually configured for passengers on the East Indies route, it is necessary to remove two seats from the front of the cabin. This gives us a better opportunity to stow the luggage, and the two seats are stored in the rear baggage compartment. The fault with the left engine starter proves to be a defective carbon brush; this was causing a fuse to blow repeatedly, but Prins soon finds a solution.

Finally, we too head to the hotel. A bath is most welcome, and it is the first thing we attend to upon our arrival.

Our agents in Rangoon, Messrs Massink & Co., host a dinner for us at the Minto Mansion Hotel. Many Dutchmen attend, making for a very animated gathering. Unfortunately, I cannot fully enjoy it, as I have to struggle with all my might not to be overcome by sleep, which I truly regret. Our friends find it perfectly understandable, however, and ensure that the evening does not go on too late, as we must be up early again the next morning.

On Friday morning, 16 November, we are back at Mingeladon, Rangoon’s airport, at the crack of dawn. Our flight today covers nearly 2,700 kilometres and, as we wish to show our passengers Jodhpur, we are keen to reach that most interesting city before nightfall. By six o’clock, we are in the air and setting a course for Calcutta.

The route initially crosses lowlands with many rice paddies and wide, partially flooded rivers. The mountainous terrain of the Arakan Yoma begins near Henzada. On several occasions, we have seen so-called ‘white’ elephants on these narrow mountain ridges in the early morning; these are light brown in colour and very rare. Now, the valleys are obscured by low stratus clouds; ground mist is a frequent phenomenon on winter mornings in Burma and Bengal. We fly low over the airfield at Akyab, then cross the Bay of Bengal to the Ganges Delta, a landscape that closely resembles the islands of South Holland. Four hours after departing Rangoon, we arrive at Dum-Dum airfield near Calcutta.

As soon as the tanks are refilled, the journey continues, now across the mysterious Hindu land of India. Three hours later, the Uiver is back on the ground at Allahabad, where a very good lunch is served in the airport’s new restaurant. Under a lean-to behind a hangar, we find the remains of the burnt-out Panderjager: a tangled, twisted mass with three half-melted engines. Once again, we congratulate Geijsendorffer, Asjes, and Pronk on having escaped so narrowly.

At two o’clock, we press on. The stretch between Allahabad and Jodhpur is rather monotonous; the closer one gets to Jodhpur, the drier the climate becomes and the sparser the vegetation. We are therefore glad when, after more than three hours of flying, we sight the rock upon which the Jodhpur fort is built, surrounded by white houses and narrow streets. Precisely at five o’clock, we land on the excellently appointed airfield at Jodhpur.

Once the passengers have disembarked and the luggage is unloaded, we take a short flight around the Jodhpur area with His Highness the Maharajah of Jodhpur and his entourage. This Indian prince of Rajputana is extraordinarily interested in aviation; he financed the construction and equipment of the airfield, owns several types of aircraft himself, and is personally taking flying lessons. His Highness is delighted with the interior and comfort of the cabin.

Meanwhile, the passengers take a tour of the city, and in the evening we meet for dinner at the ‘State’ Hotel, which was built just a few hundred metres from the airfield by order of the Maharajah, specifically for the benefit of aviation.

On Saturday, 17 November, we depart in the dark at five o’clock in the morning. Our intention is to dine in Baghdad tonight. To do so, however, we must first fly 3,200 kilometres, and to be at the table on time, we must also be in the air early. Furthermore, we have intermediate landings to make at Karachi, Jask, and Bushire. The first leg takes just over two hours. At Drigh Road airfield, where we land, a large hangar and a mooring mast for airships have been built. The R 101, which crashed in northern France a few years ago, was the airship intended to be housed in this hangar. Now, the mooring mast and the giant hangar are still waiting for the first airship to undertake the journey to British India.

Air France, our agents in Karachi, have ensured that despite the early hour, we can enjoy a delicious ‘second’ breakfast. Mr Wijsman of the Bristol Hotel has come to the airfield in person to see that we want for nothing. We find it excellent—so much so that we linger there for an hour.

We then return to the aircraft, the engines are started, and we continue on our way. Half an hour later, we are flying along the coast of Baluchistan over the Arabian Sea. Although the Timor Sea is feared for the number of sharks inhabiting it, we should be equally reluctant to swim in this part of the Indian Ocean, which is difficult to define as the Arabian Sea, the Gulf of Oman, or the Persian Gulf. It teems with sharks and all manner of fish: particularly large rays, sawfish, and turtles. Sperm whales also occur here. And if one sees a group of gulls wheeling over the water, one can be certain that a school of porpoises is also present.

The Baluchistan coast consists of peculiarly shaped rocks that give the impression of having been formed by slow, local upheaval of the earth’s crust, resulting in landslides. It is a parched, desolate region, and it is hard to imagine that people can still live here. Yet, semi-wild tribes still inhabit mud huts here, subsisting primarily on fishing. One also finds occasional groves of palm trees, kept alive by a primitive irrigation system using the little water from the mostly dry riverbeds.

After three hours and twenty minutes of flying, we land in Jask, where Ottens awaits us with a well-prepared table. We thoroughly enjoy the fish cakes and pancakes. A cheerful atmosphere prevails once more. Merry laughter rings out, and one quip follows another. We cannot linger long, however, and once our stomachs and the fuel tanks are full, the Uiver is returned to its element.

At the headland of Ras-el-Kuh, we see hundreds of large birds, startled into flight in swarms by the drone of our engines. These magnificent birds, with their flapping, soft pink-tinted wings, are flamingoes. We pass Ruus-Al-Jibal, the wild, inhospitable rocks on the Arabic peninsula that geographically separate the Persian Gulf from the Gulf of Oman. This landscape always makes a deep impression on me; imagine having to live in such a desolate, infertile region.

We then fly over the water to Lingeh and follow the coast of the Persian Gulf as far as Bushire, where we arrive after more than two and a half hours. Bushire is an important Persian port, much larger than Jask, but equally dry and unsanitary. The customs, passport, and quarantine formalities here take up quite a bit of time. We have come solely to replenish our fuel supply; nothing else is loaded or unloaded. Nevertheless, our papers are scrutinised with a precision that suggests the prosperity of the Kingdom of Persia depends heavily upon it, despite our having been cleared by Persian customs in Jask only a few hours earlier. There are no difficulties, however. Our heavily stuttering but very active agent has arranged everything splendidly, allowing us to depart after a forty-minute stay.

We fly for nearly another hour over the Persian Gulf, then over the desert landscape where the Euphrates and Tigris join to form the Shatt-el-Arab, creating a marshy delta with the Karun river flowing from the north. Then it is over Mesopotamia, where our course near Kut-al-Imara runs parallel to the Tigris. Many ruins are located here, the most famous being the Arch of Ctesiphon, situated on the Tigris about thirty kilometres from Baghdad. Soon, the city of the Thousand and One Nights comes into view, and at a quarter past four local time, we land at the beautiful Baghdad airfield.

Our five passengers are naturally keen to see the city. As we have some work to do on the aircraft, the crew remains at the hotel, which is housed in the station building at the airfield. Just as we have finished and the aircraft has been declared fit for tomorrow morning’s departure, a car arrives with our passengers. They found the hotel in the city less to their liking; furthermore, today is Domenie’s birthday, an event that must be celebrated together. A dinner for nine is quickly prepared in the airfield restaurant. It proves to be very much to everyone’s taste; a merry mood prevails and the birthday boy is serenaded in the English fashion:

‘For he is a jolly good fellow, and so say all of us!’

On Sunday, 18 November, we depart Baghdad at seven in the morning and set a course for Aleppo. The flight crosses the parched Syrian desert; we pass Haditha, from where an oil pipeline runs for about 800 kilometres past Rutbah Wells and Amman to Damascus. Occasionally, we fly along sections of the winding Euphrates. The ancient irrigation system, the ruins of which we encounter in a very dilapidated state at numerous points along the river, is fascinating. It consists of large wooden wheels with buckets attached, which are set in motion by the current of the river. At the top, the water pouring from the inverted buckets is caught in a trough and flows over the banks, creating a narrow, fertile strip on either side of the river.

In the desert, we see scattered flocks of sheep and herds of camels, guarded by Bedouin living in black tents. The terrain is flat; we could land practically anywhere here, but the Arabs living in the desert are not always to be trusted. It is therefore not advisable to make an emergency landing in an unknown part of the desert. For us, however, there is no reason to do so; we fly on steadily, passing the salt lake of El Djebbul, and two hours and fifty minutes after Baghdad, we are on the ground at the new Neirab airfield near Aleppo.

The Dutch Consul welcomes us; we still require Turkish visas for some of our passengers. It will not be easy, however, to find the Turkish consulate available for this on a Sunday. While Van Brugge and Prins remain with the aircraft to refuel, we accompany the passengers to the old town of Aleppo, where our first visit is to the Turkish Consulate. Our Consul succeeds in obtaining the necessary visas; we then meet the passengers in a restaurant, where we enjoy a tasty breakfast together.

On the drive back to the airfield, the passengers express a desire to go shopping and disappear into a small draper’s shop. For a captain bound by a schedule, this represents a grave danger. Sinking into soft ground or an engine failure is nothing compared to the risk of delay caused by a passenger’s shopping mania. I realise that if we wish to reach Turkey today, firm action is required. After some effort, I manage to persuade the shoppers to come to the airfield so that we can depart. We thank the French officers for their assistance and, after a stay of two hours and twenty minutes, the Uiver is airborne once more.

For flights over Turkey, the Turkish government has prescribed a fixed route that we must follow. Immediately after departing Aleppo, we must climb rapidly to clear the high mountain ranges along the Mediterranean coast. At an altitude of 3,000 metres, we fly over the Giaour Dagh mountains, at the foot of which lies Alexandretta. Then we cross the north-easternmost tip of the Mediterranean, the narrow Gulf of Alexandretta, towards Adana, which we pass at 4,000 metres. We must now cross the lonely, rocky Taurus Mountains; the Bulgar Dagh is 4,000 metres high. Our flying altitude is 4,800 metres. To our right is the Cilician Gate, a narrow valley that is still 1,500 metres above sea level. Through this valley wind a river, the Chakra Chai, a railway line, and a road. In poor weather, this is dangerous terrain to fly over.

We must now steer north-northwest towards Kirshehr, passing several very high peaks, Hassan Dagh and Yeshil Dagh; after that, we can gradually reduce our altitude. To our left lies the large, partially dried-up salt lake, Tuz Cheullu, the surface of which is 940 metres above sea level. At Kirshehr, our course turns more westerly, and we finally reach the high plateau where Ankara, the new capital of Turkey, is situated. The airfield is not particularly large, but what is worse, it is very hard and uneven. Upon landing, the wheels and undercarriage are severely tested.

There is great interest at the airfield. We meet the representative of the Dutch aircraft factory, Mr Stork, who has arranged for delicious treats to be ready for us in the station building. The passengers go into the city, while we take several Turkish officers on demonstration flights around Ankara. In the afternoon, we are honoured by a visit from the Turkish Prime Minister, Ismet Pasha, and the Minister of Defence, Zekay Bey. His Excellency accepts our invitation to take a flight in the Uiver and, afterwards, speaks most appreciatively of the comfort and soundproofing of our cabin.

During refuelling, it appears that very little high-octane petrol is available in Ankara, so we have little reserve for the flight to Athens. In the event of strong headwinds or poor weather, we shall have to make an intermediate landing at Eskishehr.

Once the aircraft has been further inspected and cleaned, we head into the city. The hotels prove to be overfull, so we must wait until eight o’clock for rooms to become available. Until then, we find hospitality in Mr Stork’s room, where we have the opportunity to arrange various matters.

In the evening, a dinner is held for us, attended by many Turkish military aviators and officials. Conversation is difficult, as every question put to us sounds like ‘Double Dutch’. The dinner is very good, however, and the atmosphere excellent. We are requested to take three engineers with us and drop them off at Eskishehr, a request we are happy to grant.

On Monday, 19 November, the journey continues; we are flying only as far as Athens, where the Uiver will be inspected by Greek authorities and our passengers will have the opportunity to visit the Acropolis and other Greek sights. We depart at nine in the morning. Since we have three passengers for Eskishehr in addition to our five through-passengers, we shall have to land there and, if possible, take the opportunity to top up our fuel.

The Ankara–Eskishehr route crosses a high plateau through which the Parsak Chai flows. After forty-five minutes of flying, we land at the very large Eskishehr airfield, the hub of Turkish military aviation. The field, which is several kilometres wide, is ringed by hangars and buildings, making it difficult to discern where to taxi. Someone beckons us with a white flag, so we roll towards them. I keep the engines running, however, as I see no petrol drums nearby.

Moll and Prins go outside to ask where the petrol can be found. One of the Turks, who speaks very good English, tells us the petrol is stored on the far side, but he will see that it is brought here immediately. I then switch off the engines and go outside myself. It soon transpires, however, that ‘the far side’ is two kilometres away and that it will be a long time before we can refuel. ‘If Mohammed will not go to the mountain, the mountain must come to Mohammed,’ I think, and express a desire to taxi the aircraft to the far side myself. At this, the Turk becomes angry for some incomprehensible reason and stalks off.

To make matters worse, the left engine starter fails, so Prins needs a small stepladder or a chair to push the stubborn carbon brush back into place. When he politely asks if he may use a chair for a moment, he is flatly refused. ‘You can’t catch hares with unwilling Turks.’ Prins climbs onto Van Brugge’s back, then stands on his shoulders, and balancing thus, he finally manages to get the left starter motor—and with it the ‘Cyclone’—turning. Meanwhile, I have calculated that we still have enough fuel to fly the remaining 600 kilometres to Athens without refilling. There is little wind and the weather reports are favourable. Why should we waste time unnecessarily at this airfield where we are evidently not particularly welcome?

The three Turks we brought from Ankara have vanished without a trace. Once Prins and Van Brugge are inside, I turn the Uiver around and depart. It later emerged, however, that elsewhere on the airfield, the commander and a reception committee were waiting for us, and that our abrupt departure made a very unfavourable impression. We knew nothing of this; on the contrary, it had been explicitly agreed in Ankara that the stop at Eskishehr was solely to drop off the three Turkish technicians and, if necessary, to refuel. As far as the latter was concerned, the decision was naturally mine. Nevertheless, we deeply regret that this unpleasant situation arose due to a lamentable misunderstanding.

As there is a prohibited zone around Smyrna over which the Turkish government forbids flying, we first set a course for the island of Mytilene, or Lesbos. We then fly across the Aegean Sea to the Greek peninsula of Euboea. Fifteen minutes later, we land at Tatoi, Athens’ military and civil airfield, where we are met by the Dutch Envoy and a large number of interested spectators. Military and civil authorities take a look at the Douglas and, once all the formalities are completed, we are able to go into the city and take a few hours’ rest. In the evening, Moll and I dine at the hospitable home of the Dutch Legation.

On Tuesday, 20 November, we are airborne by six o’clock. Lady Moulden has brought along her daughter, who was in Athens, so we are now ten souls in all, including the crew. Once over European soil, it feels as though we are beginning to ‘smell the stable’. Initially, the programme called for us to spend the night in Marseille; however, the passengers prefer to spend their final night in Paris. As we are expected at Schiphol at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon, it is also advantageous from a pilot’s perspective to get as close to our destination as possible today. Thus, we depart Athens early to reach Paris in good time.

The weather over the Balkan mountains is magnificent; we are flying at an altitude of 4,000 metres and making 300 kilometres per hour. Once past the island of Corfu, we descend a little. Low clouds hang over the Ionian Sea, but at Brindisi, on the heel of the Italian boot, the weather clears. After a beautiful and rapid flight over the Apennines, we land at the Littorio airfield near Rome at 9:10 local time. While Prins sees to it that the correct amount of fuel is taken on, we have a cup of coffee in the restaurant. After half an hour, the Dutch Envoy arrives with a large party of compatriots to greet us. It turns out that the Dutch colony in Rome had not expected us for another few hours, so many of them missed the Uiver.

Mr Dudok van Heel, who has flown with us from Batavia, has meanwhile learned that his wife is in Rome and consequently decides to leave us here. ‘Then there were nine!’

Various interested parties inspect the Uiver’s cabin. We cannot stay too long, however, and the journey continues at ten o’clock. Passing Civitavecchia, we cross the Mediterranean, passing Elba and the northern tip of Corsica. We then fly across the Gulf of Lyon to the Côte d’Azur. At 11:20 local time, the Uiver touches down at Marignane airfield. The Consul and the Dutch colony are present and are very disappointed to hear that we will not be staying the night in Marseille. A dinner had been planned for us that evening, to be attended by the entire Dutch colony. Much as we regret it, we cannot accept the invitation, as we are already expected in Paris.

The customs officials insist on inspecting all the luggage and the entire cargo on board, so everything must be unloaded. Once all the trunks and goods have been taken to the customs hall, it turns out that an inspection is not necessary after all; everything is reloaded and the aircraft sealed, so that in Paris only the luggage being taken to the hotel will need to be inspected. As soon as everything is back in its place, we depart. Mr Loo, head of the Schiphol dispatch office, joins us from Marseille to ensure the rapid processing of customs formalities upon our arrival in Amsterdam.

The weather reports from Paris and the towns to the north are very unfavourable, though a brief clearing is forecast for the afternoon. Should this not materialise, we shall have to spend the night in Lyon or Dijon. A few hundred kilometres from Paris, we encounter the fog bank that covers the whole of northern France. It is only a thin layer; the 300-metre-high radio masts south of Paris poke through it. Visibility on the ground is very poor, however, so we continue flying at a safe altitude above the fog. We must attempt to come in at Le Bourget by radio or, if that fails, turn back.

As we approach Paris, Van Brugge receives regular bearings which lead us exactly over the Le Bourget radio station. At that moment, a signal is sent stating that our engines have been heard. I continue for a few minutes to the northeast, slowly reducing speed; then I turn back and, while Van Brugge continuously takes bearings, Moll corrects the compass, and Prins pumps down the landing gear, I cautiously lower the Uiver through the fog. Near the northern boundary of the field, we gain sight of the ground, and at half past two, the Uiver is at Le Bourget. Had we been given the choice—to continue flying or stay in Paris—the Uiver would likely have been at Schiphol just over an hour later. But no, the order is: tomorrow afternoon at two.

The first to welcome us are Mr Fokker, our colleague Sillevis, and the foreman Waalewijn, who have just flown from Cherbourg to Le Bourget in a sister aircraft of the Uiver that has recently arrived from America. The two sister planes are placed brotherly side-by-side in the hangar.

The final evening is reserved for the ‘Captain’s dinner’, during which the passengers and crew enjoy one last convivial gathering.

On Wednesday, 21 November, we are back at Le Bourget at half past eleven. For the final time on this flight, the engines are started and the luggage loaded. Just as we are ready to depart, the crew is requested to come to the Air France offices, where we are honoured with flowers, champagne, and a speech. A most gracious gesture.

This actually makes our departure a little late, particularly as we have promised to circle various cities in Holland.

At 12:24 Amsterdam time, the Uiver takes off from Le Bourget.

13:05 position Cambrai, northern France.

13:20 passing Ghent, Belgium.

13:30 Dutch–Belgian border near Hulst.

13:35 Bergen op Zoom.

13:40 passing Waalhaven and circling Rotterdam.

13:46 passing Delft.

13:50 circling The Hague and Scheveningen.

13:57 passing Leiden.

14:05 over Schiphol.

After a few honorary circuits, we fly slowly over the field one last time while Prins pumps out the landing gear for the final time.

At 14:07 Amsterdam time, the Uiver has returned to its nest, thereby completing the London–Melbourne–Amsterdam flight.