A friend, Bill, who has been flying longer than I think even he would care too remember now – (he’s 77 this year and still a very active glider pilot in the UK and still flys in competitions) – sent this to me some years ago. Recently I found it in my filing cabinet and thought that it might be of interest at least to some of those starting out in aviation today, many if not most of whom I suspect could not even imagine launching into the local training area without a radio and a transponder, let alone flying all the way from Melbourne to the very north of Australia without one.
FLIGHTS OF FANCY
I was always the great admirer of the pioneer aviators, particularly those record breakers of the 20s and 30s, in the days when the best long distance aeroplanes were small single engined machines such as the Ryan monoplane, the De Havilland Moths, Avro Avians and such like. I mean to say, Butler managed to break the England to Australia record in a Comper Swift, which must be some all-time record for physical endurance.
So, I dreamt of long, long, flights, marvelled at Max Conrad's efforts in the Piper Comanche, and wondered if I could manage a flight from England to Australia in the footsteps of the record breakers, somehow. Well, that was not to be, but I was fortunate enough to be able to make two quite good flights in the late 1950s and early 1960s, one to Mornington Island in the Gulf of Carpentaria, and the other to Ernabella Mission in Central Australia.
These came about due to Marg, one of my first wife's sisters, being stationed on missions at these places at various times. Marg only had leave every three years, thus providing a good reason to make the trips at about the half way mark.
The best long distance aeroplane in the Royal Victorian Aero Club at the time of the flight to Mornington Island was the Auster J1b Aiglet, really no different from those machines of the 30s. Nominally a three-seater, it had a Gypsy Major engine, a 15 Imperial gallon gravity tank in the scuttle and a 12 gallon half-teardrop shaped long-range tank under the fuselage, all of which together gave an endurance of about 4 hours 20 minutes at some 90 knots. By taking out the rear seat and leaving the radio behind there was a goodly space and capacity for baggage in the back. It may seem strange today to think of leaving the radio behind, but this radio was a huge thing, with lots of valves AND a car battery for power, and no way of re-charging the battery in flight - and where I was going there was nobody to talk to anyway.
I well remember laying out all the Air Navigation Charts for the flight on the floor at Maidstone - they reached right across the sunroom and out into the hall, and the longest cross-country I had yet made was about a hand’s breadth at the bottom corner! After a moment or two in shock, as I wondered as to what I was letting myself in for, I realised the old truth, that you only have to make one step at a time.....but you had better make each of them right.
I touted around for a passenger, since Rosalind's parents would not agree to her coming too. As it turned out, it was quite a gruelling trip, and I'm not sure how Ros would have handled it. Anyhow, young Rex Armytage agreed to come for the experience, although he had never been in a light aircraft before! I took him for an hour flight from Moorabbin the week before, to make sure that he had some idea what was in store - and he still wanted to come!
The afternoon before the start we forgathered at Moorabbin to load up, and I still shudder to think that we didn't weigh anything; we just put it in the back and tied it down!
Next morning, after the DI, warmed up and run up, I taxied out and turned onto the gravel strip and opened the throttle. Well, the first shock; the performance was not what it had been without all that load on board, and we rolled and rolled down the field with the stick against the instrument panel before the tail came up, and then there was a goodly wait until 40 knots registered and we were away, much closer to the upwind boundary than I had ever been before, and with a rate of climb to match. First lesson regarding long distance flights...
We climbed up to clear the mountains, headed for Wagga, settled into the cruise, with the old Gypsy Major booming away - the Auster had only stub exhausts which did make conversation virtually impossible, and was rather tiring also, but then we Pioneers of the Air could take it! However, after a short while at cruise power there was a backfire from the engine, followed a few seconds later by another and then another. Checked everything; no magneto drop, fuel pressure from the long-range tank OK; decision made, back to Moorabbin.
Cowlings off, ground runs OK, test flight OK, nothing wrong. So set off again, and about the same place, the same thing. Feeling a bit less than happy about things, with most of the scenery beneath pretty vertical and covered in trees anyway, decided to press on. I remember spending some time working out a "forced landing in the mountains procedure" as we went along, which seemed to be a bit of a comfort. I had been reading of the technique used by Geiger in the Swiss Alps, landing uphill instead of trying to find a level place, and thought that was probably a goodly idea.
Wagga came up as expected, landed and re-fuelled. Discussed the engine back-firing with the ground staff, but they could find nothing wrong either.
Weather forecast not all that hopeful, low cloud expected on the hills, the dreaded orographic uplift from a South Westerly wind. So we set off for Bankstown, but the forecast was correct, and the low cloud too low to pass beneath, so turned back to Wagga. The wind was now quite strong, and crosswind for the duty runway, which was wet from a recent shower of rain. Kicking off not quite enough of the drift a swing started. Now the Auster had a tailwheel shod with a little solid rubber tyre, steered via bungee cords attached to the rudder, plus mechanical wheel brakes operated from tiny heel pedals sticking up through the floor. The combination was insufficient to stop the swing, which was no doubt much aggravated by an aft CofG due to my haphazard loading. A fine ground loop was the result - and perhaps was at least partly the cause of the fatigue failure of an axle some time later when joy-riding for fund raising for the Lismore Hospital - but that is another story.
We filled up again, unloaded our "cargo" of survival gear, emergency rations, water, etc. and re-loaded it with all the heaviest bits to the front and hangered for the night. Next morning, up bright and early, but the weather didn't clear until afternoon, so we arrived at Bankstown after a beautiful smooth flight, but too late for the next leg. The next morning the forecast was not good, and the Aerodrome Controller took me for a weather flight to the North in a Chipmunk to have a look. It was solid down to the ground, so we stayed at Bankstown. Then it rained. It rained for three days; there were ducks swimming on the airfield! One-Armed Bandits were recently "in", and we were saddened to hear, through the thin walls of our room at the Aero Club, the wife of one of the Controllers lamenting the fact that he had lost his week's pay to the machines.
During this enforced stopover the backfiring was further discussed with the Club mechanics. The verdict was that, at nineteen hundred rpm, I was running the engine too cool. I used 2,000 after that, with a satisfying result.
At last the weather cleared, but the field was very wet and boggy. The Controller thought that, if we backed up close to the fence, where there was a short piece of tarmac, we should have enough lift by the time we got to the soggy grass that we would not bog! There was already a Gannet bogged on the field. (It has only just occurred to me to wonder what would have happened if we had been forced to return to the waterlogged field.) Anyway it worked, and we were away for Coff's Harbour, with easy navigation up the coast.
Fatal euphemism! As the flight developed it became apparent that we were in a race with the sun, and I realised, too late, that the Met. man had given me, not the time of Sundown as requested, but the time of Last Light! And my ETA Coff's Harbour coincided with that time. Twenty minutes of precious daylight denied me - all of my reserve. There was nowhere else to go. I pondered a fall-back solution. If I couldn't find the airfield I was at least OK for fuel, and I knew that it was going to be a Full Moon and we had a clear sky. I reasoned that, if the worst came to the worst, I would fly around until the Moon was giving a reasonable light, then try a landing on the beach! It was not a pleasant solution, and one which almost certainly would finish the Auster, if not the crew also!
Anyway, Luck shines on some, sometimes, whether they deserve it or not, and Lo and Behold, there was the airfield with the runway lights on and a DC3 taxying in. Turned onto Base, around and landed. Pitch dark! "Please get out and walk ahead Rex, so we don't run into anything". Whew!
Reported to Bankstown "Kilo Alpha Zulu arrived Coff's Harbour at Last Light". Who was to know if it was really just a bit AFTER Last Light?
Filled up, found a B+B with a kindly lady who not only fed us, but packed sandwiches for the next day as well. And so off again at dawn, as all truly Intrepid Birdmen should. It was July, and we had left the Southern Winter behind, and flew in perfect weather to the North. We stopped for fuel at Coolangatta, Bundaberg and Rockhampton. We passed those lovely Glasshouse Mountains, refuelled and stopped over at Mackay, the next day pressing on to Townsville.
At Townsville an RAAF Lincoln was held orbiting by the Air Traffic Control so that we could get away quickly - some 240 gallons of petrol per hour of taxpayers’ money burning up to save us 20 minutes wait on the ground! Actually, one felt very small and insignificant at the time, with that great bird passing the end of the runway as we taxied down for take-off; it was only later that a certain feeling of true justice was felt.
We ate our lunch in the air each day to maintain momentum, only spending time on the ground for re-fuelling.
Refuelling at Hughenden, we made it to Cloncurry the next day, where the Royal Flying Doctor pilot gave lots of good advice regarding navigation in the really trackless area where we were next going.
Although, in theory, the Auster was good for legs of some three and a half hours, plus reserves, or a goodly 300 or so Nautical Miles, the airfields never really worked out to suit the Auster’s tankage, and most legs were of the order of 180 to 250 nautical miles. On one leg, I seem to remember, there was a bit of difficulty in finding the destination airfield, with the result that we were finally on the ground with only 2 gallons left, about 20 minutes if you were lucky! Thank Goodness for Statutory Reserves!
However, by now we were well into a routine for speedy ground stops, with me running to the telephone or Control Tower, depending upon the facilities available, reporting in, getting the weather and calculating the flight details for the next leg, and logging them, together with a request for the Shell agent at the next stop to be alerted. This request was always well attended, and a pass over the town, with a chop of the throttle, would see his truck speeding for the airfield, almost certainly with a drum and hose ready as we taxied up.
Meanwhile, Rex would be managing the re-fuelling and topping up with oil, leaving only the check for contamination and "really full full" tanks for me to do upon my return. With luck the Gypsy Major would start - they were always good starters when cold, or when hot; but when warm it was a bit of pot luck. Starting was by swinging the propeller, from behind of course, with the cabin window open so that the throttle was ready to hand (the parking brake would not hold against an over-open throttle; you had to really stand on the pedals to do an engine run-up without chocks). All these great big sealed airfields too; what a piece of cake even with a big load. We aimed to be warmed up and off the ground not later than sunrise, and we ate our sandwiches in the air, to minimise ground time, and thus we generally managed three legs a day, fuelled up and tied down by dark.
A fascinating trait of the Auster Aiglet concerned the trim changes in flight, as fuel was consumed. One always took-off on the gravity tank, as insurance against failure of the single mechanical fuel pump which fed the engine from the belly tank, and at about 1,000 feet on the climb out one changed to the long-range tank and continued on it until the engine coughed about two hours later, whereupon you (naturally) switched to the gravity tank again for the rest of the flight. Now, due to the half teardrop shape of the belly tank, as fuel was consumed from it the CG of the fuel in that tank, and thus of the aeroplane, moved slowly forward. Thus, for the first 2 hours of a flight one was trimming the nose up every few minutes, to compensate. After the change to the gravity tank, which was scuttle-mounted and thus ahead of the aeroplane's CG, fuel burn resulted in a nose up trim change, so that for the remainder of the flight one was trimming nose down every few minutes to compensate. No chance to get bored....
I was fortunate in that I had a useful briefing from a bush pilot at Mackay regarding flying in the interior where, since this was in the days prior to satellite mapping, the charts were all coloured yellow, with a yellow box in the margin and a note which said "Topographical features not to be relied upon", or words to that effect. He pointed out that, while the airfields and railways were accurately plotted, nothing else was, except for the watersheds, which were pretty accurate. This meant that, while you could not be sure that the watercourse (marked by a line of trees) down there was this watercourse on the map, you could be pretty sure that where the streams stopped running this way, and started to run THAT way, was as shown. Very basic, but very important, and it worked well!
Navigation, of course, was entirely dead reckoning (DR), with drift estimated as the angle at which that tree trailed off behind the wheel as you looked down at the side, and the watch, map and Dalton Mk III computer did the rest. I had been a keen student of Bennett and his techniques for DR navigation, and made good use of such tricks as setting a "deliberate error" so as to know for sure which way to turn when coming to a line feature, such as a railway or river, which was crossing the track and passing through the destination. Also to picking nice "funnels" which would lead one to a point near enough to a destination so that the last bit could hardly go wrong.
However, at Cloncurry the real truth regarding bush flying became apparent. The next leg, to Burketown on the Gulf, was pretty well devoid of such guides. The local Flying Doctor pilot took an interest and gave advice as to the check points which were available, and the next day we got off to another early start.
Fortunately, it did all work, and Burketown did appear as advertised. The local fuel agent turned up, we re-fuelled, and hitched a ride into town in his truck, an abandoned World War II vehicle which is memorable as having absolutely no brakes, so that it was eventually brought to a standstill by switching off the engine while still in gear! We went to the local store, which was a most impressive building, made from huge planks of timber, no doubt cut somewhere on Cape York Peninsular some 50 years before. After reporting our imminent departure to the police officer, as instructed by the controller at Cloncurry, since the police station was the only source of search and rescue alert in the area, we set out to walk to the airstrip, so close that the Auster was clearly visible.
Although this was mid-winter, the wisdom of the rule "if forced down, stay by the aeroplane unless you can see the place you are going to walk to" was brought home to us in no uncertain manner.
Away again, this time on the last leg to Mornington Island, we flew over countless green tidal river mouths, quite sure that we could see big crocodiles basking in the sun, and then turned for the short over-water island hops to Mornington Island. There was the grass strip clear enough and, as we taxied in, we were greeted by an impressive local dignitary, waving us to a parking spot whilst holding back the swarm of people who came out onto the strip to greet us. Aeroplanes were no novelty to them; the bicycle, which one of the missionary's children had received for a Christmas present, was the really wonderful invention of civilisation as far as they were concerned.
Not being over blessed with fuel reserves, since there was no spare fuel on Mornington Island, I was only able to give Marg a short run around the island, but hopefully that was better than nothing. We were royally treated, went on a picnic into the bush, which was very memorable due to the fact that the native girls, who had piled onto the back of the truck to come too, had brought no lunch for themselves - they just went into the bush and caught their lunch like that, in a few minutes. In that same bush we would have starved!
All too soon we were on our way again. This time to return via central Queensland and New South Wales, making a round trip of it, via Cloncurry, Winton, Longreach, Charleville, Cunnamullan, Nyngen, Nerrandera and so to Moorabbin.
We didn't get to Bourke, although it would have been nice to have flown just to the West, so that one had been "back of Bourke". Notices to Airmen, NOTAMS, generally advise one that a certain strip is closed for repair, "duration 4 weeks", or whatever. We were interested to see a NOTAM advising pilots visiting Bourke to
"Beware goats on the airfield. Duration indefinite."
Queensland is enormous - we flew hard for 3 days and were still in Queensland. The next day we flew across New South Wales and Victoria, and were at Moorabbin by 1630! The entire trip logged 49 hours flying time, and had been a fantastic experience.
What did I learn from the trip, that I have not dwelt on already?
Firstly, there was the wonder of finding just how much better one handled the aeroplane after several really intensive days; Private pilots, as a rule, do not get nearly enough flying, and I was no exception.
Perhaps, however, the most useful thing was to discover the extent of the effect which even the smallest amount of ice, in the form of frost, has on performance - and to survive to make use of the knowledge. We arrived at the aeroplane, tied down out in the open on the field, one morning in Queensland to find that there was the thinnest layer of frost on the windscreen and, no doubt, on the upper surface of the wings - but the latter was not readily visible from the ground! Clearing the windscreen, the usual other preparations were made for departure. I was keen to be first off, as there was quite a gaggle of others there who had come in after us the evening before, and I didn't want to be stuck in a queue.
Just as well the strip was DC3 length, and the temperature was 0°C, as that thin film of ice resulted in the World Record for long take-off runs for an Aiglet, and about the lowest rate of climb that could be counted as "climb". A crop-spray friend later had the same experience with a Tiger Moth, parked overnight in a paddock which was quite long enough by day; he wiped the frost from the lower wings, but not the upper. When he reached the fence, still on the ground, he had enough speed and lift to hop over the fence into the next field - where he waited until the frost melted from the upper wings before trying again!