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An Epic
of Skill, Courage and Endurance - 65 years on Crossing the Tasman to New Zealand today is
almost as easy as commuting from one Australian city to another.
Comfortable jets take us there in a few hours. Sixty-five years ago, the
world was still in the age of the ocean liner. The first regular airmail
between England and Australia had just begun, and a few adventurous
souls were using the primitive air services within Australia. But flying
was still generally thought unsafe. Even so, Sir Charles Kingsford Smith, despite
initial failure, still dreamed of running an airline of his own. He had
taken part in the first airmail flight from England, but lost out to
Qantas in gaining a contract on the new route. An airline linking Australia and New Zealand
was being mooted, and Smithy’s ambition was to run it. In an attempt
to bring matters to a head, a commemorative airmail flight was planned.
May 1935 would see the 25th anniversary of the accession of King George
V to the throne. The king was an avid stamp collector, so what better
way to celebrate his Jubilee than by issuing a special postage stamp and
making a Jubilee Flight across the Tasman? Approved by the Post Master General, Smithy’s
plan captured the public imagination. The king himself sent mail, as did
stamp collectors around the world. Australians were urged to post
letters for the Jubilee Right as a step towards a regular service. By
May 15 there were 29,000 letters and 200kg of freight waiting. Smithy has an experienced crew for his veteran
Fokker Tri-Motor Southern Cross: Co-pilot-navigator P G Taylor,
MC, was a pilot with Smith and Ulm’s ANA Ltd on its daily
inter-capital services at the beginning of the decade. In 1933 he joined
Smithy aboard Southern Cross for an earlier trip to New Zealand,
and crossed the Pacific with him in the Lockheed Altair Lady Southern
Cross a year later. Radio operator John Stannage has flown with
Kingsford Smith for five years. Just after midnight on May 15, the heavily
laden Fokker lifts off from RAAF Richmond, west of Sydney, into the star
studded night, setting course for New Plymouth, 1150nm (21301nm)
distant. An hour out at 3000 feet, as the last flicker from Norah Head
lighthouse disappears, Southern Cross runs into rain. At 5am
Taylor takes over, and between showers he can see the top of the centre
engine’s exhaust main-fold glowing in the darkness. A spot on the top
glows more brightly than the rest. Dawn breaks, and the bright spot dims and
narrows to a slit. Taylor can now see why - the welded edge of the
pipe has split and the exhaust flame is gradually forcing it open. Even
as he watches, the crack widens. Smithy returns to take over again and
Taylor points out the problem. As they watch the disintegrating pipe,
its top bulges, flicks into the slipstream and is gone. Immediately, a
violent vibration shakes the whole aircraft, the starboard engine
leaping in its mounting. Smithy shuts it down, hauls Southern Cross up "Have to dump something," Taylor shouts. "Anything except the mail." Taylor hurries back to the cabin, passes the word to Stannage, then opens the draincock on the cabin fuel tank while he calculates how much they can dump. They are 520nm (965km) out, but their airspeed now is only 57kt (105km/h). About 10 hours! Can the two engines last at full throttle? Ten hours at 28 gallons an hour: they must keep at least 300 gallons. Luggage, tools, equipment and freight go out the cabin door. They are now just holding 500 feet above the sea, and Stannage has transmitted their position. Taylor lays a course for the nearest coast. He reasons it might be possible to lessen the drag of the broken propeller by leaning out the open-sided cockpit and cutting off its blades. In fact, if they could be evened up, the engine could perhaps be run at low power. As it is, any rotation immediately sets up a vibration that threatens to dislodge the engine mounting, if not the undercarriage as well. Even their 57kt (105km/h) airspeed is almost enough to overcome the engine’s compression to start it rotating. When this happens, Smithy has to haul the aircraft on to its tail again until the propeller slows and stops. In the process, the mushing Southern Cross loses more height, and he has to ease the nose down quickly, checking it again just before reaching the critical speed. Taylor leans out into the slipstream, forcing a hacksaw on to the brass sheathing of the blade’s leading edge. But the saw scrapes and slips. He tries a second time, picking up the scratch of the first attempt. It is impossible — any downward pressure just gives the extra push needed to start the propeller turning. An upward cut from under the blade is equally futile. By 11am Southern Cross has covered 225nm (4 17km) back towards the coast, leaving 285nm (528km) to go. Now, for the first time in four hours, Smithy is able to ease the throttles back a touch. The wind eases to a breeze and patches of sun llght make the smoother sea, 500 feet below the wheels, seem less menacing. But their sense of relief is short — the port exhaust is emitting a trail of blue smoke. They are burning oil! The engine’s 11 gallon (50 litre) oil tank was full when they took off. But that was 12 hours ago and there are at least another three to run. At full throttle, the elderly engine could be using as much as a gallon (4.5 litres) an hour. He suggests taking over for a while - Smithy has kept Southern Cross balanced on a knife-edge for five hours. Immediately Taylor is conscious of the slim margin by which they are staying in the air. A shade too much angle of attack and the aircraft mushes and sinks. Too little and it gains speed, losing height, the shattered propeller threatening to turn and leap in its mounting. By intense concentration, Taylor finds it just possible to hold the aircraft level. Suddenly the port oil pressure gauge is flickering! Taylor watches it fearfully. In a few minutes the pressure is down from 63 to 50 psi. He goes back into the cabin, informs Stannage of their plight, and works out their position. When he crawls back into the cockpit, the pressure has dropped to 35 psi. If they lose the port engine too, they’ll all be swimming within minutes, with little hope of being found at this distance from land, let alone rescued. Taylor slips back to the cabin again, removes his shoes, belts up his leather coat, borrows a rope from the mailbags to tie around his waist, and returns to the cockpit. "Going to have a stab at getting some oil," he shouts. Attaching the other end of the line to the structure, he stands up on his seat, puts one leg over the side, and feels in the slipstream for the strut that runs horizontally out to the useless starboard engine. Grabbing the edge of the cockpit, he climbs out to stand on the strut, his shoulders braced against the leading edge of the wing. The wind screams around his ears, pushing relentlessly against his body. He dare not look ahead, for the slipstream threatens to blow his eyes out. Edging along the strut to the full extent of his left arm that still grasps the cockpit, he reaches for the engine mounting. But to no avail - he cannot reach it while still holding on to the cockpit! Sensing defeat, he takes courage in the support of the wing behind his neck and his firm footing on the strut and boldly lets go, shuffling sideways until he can reach the mounting. The falling oil pressure overcoming his fear, he hooks his left arm round a strut and removes the side cowl to reach the oil drain plug. Anticipating his need, Stannage hands him a shifting spanner, stretching out from the cockpit to do so. Without letting go, Taylor climbs down to straddle the horizontal strut, and adjusts the shifter on to the drain plug. To his great relief it yields. Stannage is waiting in the cockpit now with the open metal canister from his thermos flask. Taylor passes back the spanner, takes the canister, and moves back against the oil tank, hooking himself again with his arm so that he can unscrew the plug with one hand and hold the canister with the other. In a few moments he has a tin of oil and has replaced the plug finger-tight. With only one hand to hold on, passing the oil back to Stannage seems even more perilous, and the slipstream whips half the oil away. Stannage empties what is left of it into a small leather case, and hands the canister back. Taylor goes through the same motions, this time squeezing the top to prevent so much escaping. Several more transfers and it is time to return — the oil pressure cannot last much longer. Taylor manoeuvres himself into a standing position again, shuffles out to the full reach of his right arm, extends his left towards the cockpit, and braces his neck against the wing. A brief further shuffle and he reaches the cockpit side with his left hand and pulls himself in. The oil pressure is down to 15 psi! Clambering around Smithy’s seat to the other side, he puts his left leg over, gets his foot on the port strut, and tries to push his body out. But the howling blast from the port propeller at almost full power tears at his clothes, forcing him back against the cockpit bulkhead. Smithy opens the throttles wide and hauls Southern Cross into a climb. At 700 feet he throttles back the port engine so Taylor can go out. Forcing his way against the slipstream, he just has time to reach the port engine and drape himself around its cowling before Smithy has to open it up again to prevent the Fokker descending into the sea. The blast and roar at full throttle is almost too much, sucking the breath out of his body. But Taylor hangs on until Smithy can throttle back again. He undoes the upper cowl, bending it back so he can unscrew the oil filler. Stannage dips a tin of oil and passes it out. Again some is lost, but there is still more than half in the tin by the time Taylor juggles it behind the engine, cups his hand around the filler neck, and tips it into the tank. Jubilation in the cockpit! Stannage gives the "thumbs up"! Then Smithy signals and Taylor has to lie over the cowl again while the engine opens up as Southern Cross skims the waves and begins to climb again. Jammed against the struts, the roar from the exhaust only inches from his ear, Taylor buries his head from the screeching torrent. Though numb and in physical pain, he is exhilarated - Southern Cross can stay in the air! The pressure of a strut hard against his ribs, he fears for an awful moment that unconsciousness is overtaking him. He lies still, breathing steadily, holding on. Then the engine roar ceases and there is only the scream of the air. Taylor unfolds himself and moves out to take the canister again. In a few minutes they have transferred all the oil from the case, about a gallon (4.5 litres). Not all of it reaches the tank. Smithy shouts and Taylor grabs the strut to lie behind the engine again as it roars into life to keep the Southern Cross out of the sea As soon as there is enough height, Smithy throttles back and Taylor makes his precarious way back to the cockpit. Exhausted, he sits back in the right hand seat. The gauge shows 63 psi! It is now 12.45pm and they are still more than l70nm (3 15km) from land. How long will the small quantity of oil last? Half an hour later the gauge is flickering again. Taylor feels a moment of horror, but goes over the side to the starboard engine, moving on the strut now with greater assurance. Stannage helps, leaning out as far as possible. In a few minutes they have another case of oil, and Taylor rests while Smithy climbs again. But as the aircraft reaches 800 feet the gauge leaves no doubt of the port engine’s need. And suddenly there is a loud bang from its exhaust. It recovers, then runs with occasional backfires. Is it failing under the stress of full throttle? Smithy shuts it down again and Taylor makes his way out to it as quickly as possible, reaching its mounting a comfortable height above the sea. The momentary break gives the engine new life, and it responds as Smithy claws for height again so that they can go through another oil transfer. By the time it is complete, Southern Cross’s wheels are nearly in the waves. Exhausted, Taylor Lies over the cowl again as Smithy picks the aircraft almost off the sea. This time Stannage has to dump every remaining thing in the aircraft not essential to their flight - including the mailbags. Each time the pressure shows signs of falling, Taylor and Stannage go through their ordeal to replenish the oil, hoping there is sufficient in the starboard tank to see them through. Early in the afternoon they sight a small steamer and their spirits rise. About 3pm, a low, purple streak appears on the horizon - the coast! Smithy continues to juggle with the protesting port engine. runs with a steady roar, then coughs with exhaustion. The intervals between its spasms become shorter, but now much lighter, Southern Cross can just stay in the air with full power on the centre engine and lengthy bursts on the port. The land grows out of the sea, but about 25um (45km) off the coast the oil pressure is down again - they cannot reach it without more oil. Smithy is against a last transfer, believing rescue is now certain if they go down. But Taylor is unconvinced and, as their procedure is established, it seems worth repeating this last time. They are off Cronulla when the oil gauge needle winds its way up to 60 psi again. They approach Mascot, coming in low over the eastern boundary of the aerodrome. After nine hours of concentrated flying, they touch down lightly on the gravel, turn, and taxi to the hangar. Crowds of well wishers who have followed their progress anxiously hour by hour, are there to greet them. The tension is over, but it has been a flying ordeal probably unequalled for prolonged physical and mental effort, as well as for sheer skill. Thus ended the astounding saga of P G (later Sir Gordon) Taylor, an epic that won him an MBE at the time, later changed to a George Cross. In today’s clean, high speed aircraft, such an achievement would of course be impossible. Even so, its lessons are timeless, demonstrating the value of initiative, courage, a sure knowledge of one’s aircraft, confidence in oneself — and above all, a determination not to accept defeat, even in the face of overwhelming odds. Note: Click
here to see a photo gallery of the story. Click
here to go to Flying the Line. References |
