Unbelievably, 2011 is now down to its final hours. Another year has passed with the children a little older and me none the wiser it would seem. The skies have again been kind to me in 2011, so as the champagne pops and the fireworks illuminate Sydney Harbour, my thoughts will again drift to an aviator now passed, who set me on my journey amongst the clouds.

He was a quiet man, short in stature but with arms made strong by a youth of combat and cane-cutting. He was predominantly self-educated, for drought and the Great Depression had stolen much of his childhood and any chance of a formal education. As a commando in the jungles of New Guinea, his kit-bag had been crammed with books on aerodynamics and aircraft while his dreams were of a life free of the earth’s muddy bonds. But it was merely a dream for a lad with a big heart and no apparent claim to the elevated world of aviation. At the war’s end, he traded the humidity of the jungle for the nuclear devastation of Hiroshima before finally wending his way home to Australia after years away at war.

Out of uniform he found it hard to settle down, drifting from one sugar-cane field to another with a few belongings strapped to the rear of his motorcycle. It was hard, hot labour to bring the mighty cane down by hand with snakes underfoot and insects clinging to the raw nectar running down his bare back. At the end of the sugar season, ultimately the road once again led him to the military, but this time as a mechanic in the Royal Australian Air Force. Finally surrounded by the machines he loved, he flourished in the hands-on application of his newly discovered knowledge. With money in his pocket and a home on the air base, he would spend his free hours studying aviation and paying for private flying lessons at the civilian school just across the tarmac. His dream was coming true, although his stunted formal education continued to form a barrier to any career in the sky; until fate dealt its hand.

With the outbreak of the Korean War in 1950, the post-WW2 Royal Australian Air Force was now depleted in its supply of pilots. It called  for volunteers from amongst its ranks and when a kindly commanding officer countersigned the young mechanics application, his world was changed forever. Within 18 months he had transitioned from repairing airframes to flying fighter combat missions over North Korea. As a Sergeant Pilot he would fly over 200 sorties at the helm of a Gloster Meteor in the lethal ground attack role which saw many of his squadron mates killed in action. On one occasion, his own canopy was blown off by enemy fire and shrapnel was embedded in his face. Even so, he limped the damage jet home and flew two missions the next day. He returned home a decorated veteran and finally completed his formal education at night school.

He married a WRAAF corporal who he had met prior to leaving for Korea when she had processed his departure paperwork. Together they moved from base to base before a civil career ultimately called. From international airlines to cloud-seeding, flight instruction to target-towing, there was very little that the short boy from the Australian bush didn’t fly at some stage in the next 40 years. Yet in the 23,000 hours aloft and countless aircraft types, training always held a special place for him. The chance to mentor the next generation of pilots was something he held very close as he always recalled how close his dream had come to never eventuating. If he saw a desire to fly in a young set of eyes, he would go the extra mile to make it happen.

He saw that desire in me from a young age and set an example that I still aspire to achieve. As an instructor he was unsurpassed and held in the highest regard by his peers. He had the knack of explaining complex concepts in simple terms with a million ‘rules of thumb’ to match. For him flight was always magnificent, but never elite. He cringed at the brash, slicked-back, sunglasses brigade but had endless patience for the struggling student who was trying their very best. He had fought in the jungle and stared down the tracer bullets that struck his jet, yet he never swore in front of women and always stood when they entered the room; he was old school.

To me he passed down so much more than the manipulative skills needed to fly an aeroplane. He instilled airmanship, a sense of command and an ultimate respect for the aircraft and the environment in which it operates. He loathed complacency and arrogance and highlighted that disciplined flying presented the greatest challenge and the most satisfaction. He set the bar very high and I was privileged to have such an outstanding mentor.

So as another year draws to a close, spare a thought for that special person who inspired you to fly or actually guided you in your fledgling hours aloft. Revisit their lessons and strengths and give thanks for their patience and knowledge. Recount some of their anecdotes and share them with friends and family this New Year’s Eve. It is a real gift to take to the sky, but without a steady guiding hand along the way, the journey can be fraught with potential dangers and self-doubt.

If it’s possible, make contact with your mentor and thank them for their effort. It will mean the world to them and offer a chance to share the hours that have been logged since you last spoke. I would dearly love to speak with the man from the bush who taught me all that I know today and hear more of his pearls of wisdom. However, for me that is no longer an option as cancer took him nearly twenty years ago when I was still a young bush pilot taking my own first steps as a flight instructor. Even so, as I sit around this New Years Eve surrounded by family I will spare him a thought and a silent word of thanks. He was the best pilot I ever met. He was my Dad.

Flying Officer Phillip Zupp M.I.D. AM (US) 1925-1991

Just prior to Christmas I appealed to everyone to spare a thought for those emergency workers who were giving up their Christmas to keep the rest of us safe. Sadly, one of their number gave up so much more on Christmas Eve.

Seemingly as I typed those words, NSW Paramedic Mick Wilson was being winched into a valley only twenty miles from my home to assist a canyoner in trouble. The details of what went horribly wrong are now the subject of an ATSB investigation and as such, I won’t even attempt to postulate on any operational aspect of this tragedy. However, the passing of this selfless professional cannot just slip under my radar.

Mick Wilson was one of the highly trained paramedics that form S.C.A.T. or the ‘Special Casualty Access Team’. This unit was formed many years ago, back when I was in the NSW Ambulance Service prior to branching out and flying aeroplanes. In fact 2011 marked the 25th anniversary for SCAT. On top of the high level of clinical training already imposed on Intensive Care Paramedics, SCAT called for even more rigorous challenges to be both selected and qualified. Mick Wilson was one of these elite officers and to my understanding had been for some time.

I have good friends who have qualified for SCAT and they are not supermen or women, they are humble folk who love their job. But above all they are selfless. They mitigate against risk to the best of their ability in a very challenging environment and have a tremendous record of success. To the best of my knowledge, Mick Wilson is the first SCAT officer to pay the ultimate price in a workplace that only the best dare to tread. Even so, they step into this potentially dangerous world on a regular basis to help others and ask for nothing in return.

In an era where the words ‘legend’ and ‘hero’ are thrown about with little thought to the real meaning, Mick Wilson undoubtedly qualifies in the truest sense of the word. In fact, so do the countless, faceless individuals of the emergency services who are on call 24 hours per day for our safety and security. I spared a thought for these good folk as Christmas Eve fell, but after the loss of Mick Wilson, it is a thought I have found hard to shake.

My deepest sympathies go out to his wife and children in the wake of their loss. They can be rightfully proud, yet the void that is left by the passing of their husband and father is one I can only imagine. Rest in peace, Mick and to all the others who serve, please keep safe.

“Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.” John 15:13

Title Image. Paul Sadler. "Australian Aviation" magazine.

As the kids get excited for the arrival of the great man and the adults ready themselves for the feast, I’d like to take a moment to say thanks to everyone for supporting this new website and blog. I’ve been humbled by your messages and feedback.

On a grander scale, we should all be saying thanks for those around us. Thanks to those emergency service workers who will be on-call over the holiday period, so that our families are safe. Thanks to the pilots, cabin crew and airport staff who deliver our loved ones safely to their destinations. Finally, thanks to everyone for a great year.

Most of us in a position to read this blog are fairly fortunate for any number of reasons, so spare a thought for those who are ‘doing it tough’ and offer a hand when you can. The little things can mean so much.

Enjoy this festive season and treasure the ones who make it so special.

Merry Christmas and let’s hope for clear skies for Santa.

Cheers

Owen

For the devotees of aviation, sometimes you can just be downright lucky. Occasionally a magical blend of the history, pleasure and pure joy of flight can combine to create one of those memorable moments aloft. For me, such an event took place very recently.

As I departed my home airfield, my hopes for the day ahead weren’t terribly high despite the clear skies above. As I lifted my little aeroplane into buffeting 40 knot winds, I considered the effect that the blustery breeze would have upon the treasured vintage aircraft that I was scheduled to fly. Despite its proud bearing, the 1943 Stearman is still a tailwheel biplane and these conditions would surely make every moment a challenge. And yet, as I commenced descent towards my coastal destination the rocking and rolling of the turbulence dissipated and I went from being thrown on the harness to smoothly slipping down towards the circuit pattern.

The airfield sat in a basin, shadowed from the confronting westerly winds. Bordered on one side by rolling green pastures it was mirrored by the coastline on the other. As I touched down, there was no doubt that this was one of those perfect days to commit aviation and as I turned off the taxiway and came to a halt, the scarlet Stearman stood before me. Tall and proud, the beautiful biplane sported finely crafted ‘nose art’ of a scantily clad lass and the words “Lilly Warra” painted nearby as a tribute to the Illawarra district that the aeroplane now called home. But beauty was far more than skin deep for this veteran of a war from long ago.

Just as her scheme was a striking red, so was her heritage, for this old girl had once been a faithful trainer to the famed ‘Red Tails’; the Tuskegee Airmen. Many miles had passed beneath her wings in the past seven decades and I only wished those wings could speak. Even so, as I slipped into the cockpit and strapped into the harness, I felt a sense of awe as if I had stepped through the fragile fabric of time. With my canvas helmet strapped beneath my chin and my goggles pulled firmly down over my eyes, I scanned the comfortable cocoon around me. The strong metal frame was not hidden by any lining, but encased me like a secure maze of piping and cables, while a bare minimum of dials and levers were there to guide her through the sky.

Ahead lay the shining cylinders of the radial engine, void of a cowling and open to the cooling breeze. The hand crafted wooden propeller responded to the call of the starter and kicked over before the engine fully caught the shower of sparks and burst into life. A puff of smoke and its accompanying smells wafted back past the cockpit as the engine gained increasing harmony as one by one the cylinders rose to the occasion in a throbbing harmony.

If the introduction was an honour then the moment of flight was magical. The throttle was only open for a matter of seconds and the tail rose to offer a view of the runway ahead. As I eased the stick back towards me with a touch of rudder to assist, my magic carpet eased into the air and I turned towards the coast. All of my senses were alive as the breeze passed through the bracing wires, while the slipstream glanced my cheeks with a faint scent of combustion. I felt safely at one with this stable steed, whose harmonies made the flying machine seem more liking a living creature than a mere aeroplane.

Outside the cockpit the world slid by, illuminated by the brilliant sunshine of early Spring that drew out the richness of every single colour. The deep blue of the water as it licked the yellow sand and the stark whiteness of the lighthouse against the backdrop of the jade headland. People were out and about with picnic baskets and blankets and all of them seemed to pause and cast their eyes upward to sight the crimson craft crossing their sky. The world seemed like a perfect place at that moment. With a touch of rudder followed by a squeeze of the stick, the horizon wheeled around in front of me and a trio of pelicans soared pass with an equal amount of grace.

A series of loops and ‘lazy eights’ made the world dance graciously from a variety of viewpoints. The aerobatics of a Stearman are decidedly ‘gentlemanly’ for a lady of the skies. No heaving or hauling, just a sweeping pattern that gently carries those on board through all three dimensions of flight. For over an hour I was gifted to the best that man, machine and the Maker could offer and I breathed it all in as deeply as I could. These were moments to cherish.

These moments eventually drew to a close and as the painted numbers on the runway’s threshold loomed ahead I felt both excitement and sadness; I wanted this flight to last forever. But the real world and fuel tanks don’t allow such a thing, so I settled for smoothly closing the throttle and returning “Lilly” back to the earth. I cycled the rudder pedals to keep straight and it seemed that like me, the Stearman wasn’t done yet. Finally, the tail settled, the view ahead disappeared and we taxied in and shut the engine down.

As the propeller swung to a halt with the magnetos switches off, I paused for a moment. I just sat there. I reflected upon the sheer sense of pleasure, while still feeling as relaxed as I could ever imagine. Again I breathed the moment in and it tasted sweet. I thought how privileged I was that in a world of pressing schedules and commitments I could step back to 1943; a very different time. And then, from the best seat in the house I was able to dawdle about the sky with no particular place to go and no particular time to be there.

These are moments to cherish. This is the purest essence of flight the sheer enjoyment of life, or should I say, “Joie de vivre”.

Thanks to everyone for the great support of the new website. Please feel free to keep updated of the newest content via Twitter at @owenzupp and via my Facebook page at Owen Zupp. Author.

Where does the time go? This year marked the 25th anniversary of the space shuttle Challenger tragedy. Few of us who were around at the time can forget the TV image of the conflagration and spiralling clouds of smoke lingering silently in the sky. The shocked faces looking skyward and the stilted commentary drowned in disbelief.

Yet sacrifice has always walked close beside the pursuit of new frontiers. Over the centuries, countless explorers and seaborne vessels failed to return as they sought the edge of the earth in search of new lands. Similarly, as the new realms of sky and space availed themselves, a new generation of pioneer put their lives on the line.

Otto Lilienthal, the great German aviation pioneer of the late 19th century set new benchmarks in the pursuit of manned flight with his gliders. Credited by the Wright brothers for his research, Lilienthal paid the ultimate price in 1896 when one of his gliders fell to earth. He was not the first and ultimately proved to be far from the last.

The early aviators were faced with huge adversity. Their machines were frail and the understanding of aerodynamics was in its infancy. Even as the technology of their machines developed over the decades, they still stretched their fledgling machines to the absolute limits of their performance and endurance. Shrinking the globe was a mammoth task and aviation seemingly wanted to accelerate the process. Air races, prize money, Government grants and celebrity were just some of the incentives, but the driving force ultimately came from within. Very few individuals would put their life on the line solely for material gain; the challenge was undoubtedly a prime motivator.

Yet time and again they perished trying. And these were not purely first time novices that history never even knew to forget, these were names established in the halls of aviation fame; Charles Kingsford Smith, Wiley Post, Amelia Earhart, Bert Hinkler, Bill Lancaster and Amy Johnson, to name but a handful. In one way or another, they perished in the very style in which they had lived their lives.

Their sacrifices have not been forgotten, nor did their losses answer all of the questions that aerospace was to ask of its people. As man sought to go higher, farther and faster, the boundaries were often pushed to breaking point and the human link was often the first to fold first. Swept wings, jet engines, supersonic flight, pressurised hulls and the frontier of space continued to ask questions of the engineers, physicists and test pilots. Too often, it claimed many lives before an answer was ultimately found.

The great British aviation pioneer and designer, Sir Geoffrey DeHavilland, lost one of his sons while test flying a new generation jet aircraft, the DH108 Swallow. Another son died in a mid-air collision. The home of flight research in the United States, Edwards Air Force Base, has seen more than its share of triumph and tragedy. It was home to the ‘X-planes’ and saw Chuck Yeager break the sound barrier in 1947. Neil Armstrong cut his teeth at Edwards on the likes of the X-15 before fate would ultimately determine that space was his destiny. Yet in the shadow of the advances loiter the losses and its streets bear the names of many of those heroes. Even the base is named after USAF test pilot, Glen Edwards, who perished with his crew testing the YB-49 ‘Flying Wing’.

The sky was not the limit and soon space became the new frontier. As the Mercury astronauts were launched into orbit with increasing frequency, the Soviet Union was doing so with equal success in the ‘space race’. Both sides encountered losses throughout this period of rapid technological advancement, including the horrific fireball of Apollo 1 on the launch pad during testing at Cape Canaveral. And while the brilliant failure of Apollo 13 was a very close call, the loss of the space shuttle Challenger in 1986 reminded us that flight exploration is still a very dangerous business. The loss of Columbia on re-entry in 2003 re-affirmed the fact.

But for all the losses, ultimately the cause has advanced. In fact it has advanced at a pace that only the imagination would have dared to conjure a century ago. Within the span of an average human life, aviation developed from flimsy frames limping a few hundred feet to man kicking up moon dust with his feet. It is an achievement that all humanity can be proud of and has made the world a smaller place. Its applications have been varied, from powerful war machines to vehicles of tremendous humanitarian aid and from craft of leisure to a means of rescue on cold, dark nights.

But as aviation continues forth, it is vital to remember those who have paid the ultimate price along the way, for it is their courage that has allowed this field of human endeavour to grow like no other. Their willingness to strap into confined cockpits and push the envelope has allowed the rest of the world to reap the benefits of air travel and aerospace in a far more relaxed and safer manner. In aviation, the safety of the masses has often been the achieved at a high cost to an individual.

Furthermore, the price of human life should serve to ward off complacency about forging new frontiers in the sky. It is not our natural realm; we are guests in the air above the earth. We should always pay due respect to our host, for the moment we don’t, the skies have the potential to remind us of our true status in the most brutal manner.

So as we consider the loss of ‘Challenger’, we should offer thanks to her crew and to all of those who have paid the ultimate price in pushing those boundaries in the sky. In tragedy we must always seek to find a greater purpose and learn from the past, so as to avoid history repeating itself. However, despite the lessons learnt, no loss will be the last as we move forward; unfortunately it is the price those heroes pay on our behalf. This cold reality has been with us since the beginning. As he lay on his death-bed the day after his fall to earth, the great Otto Lilienthal uttered, "Kleine Opfer müssen gebracht werden".................. "Small sacrifices must be made.”

(c) Owen Zupp 2011.

I recently took a young lad for a flight over our local district; just a dawdle for half an hour or so. He keenly looked down upon the earth with that bright-eyed enthusiasm that all youngsters with dreams of flight in their hearts tend to do. For me, it’s over forty years since my father shared that experience with me for the first time, although I still vividly remember the ground falling away from the Cessna’s wheel outside my window. It was liberating and to quote John Gillespie Magee’s immortal poem ‘High Flight’, I truly felt that we had “slipped the surly bonds of Earth”. The fuse had been lit and the fire was to rage inside me until my turn came to take my own aircraft aloft.

Along the way the journey would prove to be both a struggle and an adventure. There would be weeks where the wage only just covered the rent but there would be nights where the sounds of the New Guinea jungle would play an amazing tune as I hung in my hammock. There would be life in a caravan in the midst of 40 degree heat and nights where the ice was getting so thick on the wings that I was sure there was no way out. I would bury good friends who had fallen in harm’s way and bury relationships that couldn’t overcome the distance and absence. But at the end of the day, I was flying.

Aviation was much more than a career choice for me; it was more akin to facilitating a passion or feeding an addiction. I had never possessed an alternative ‘life plan’ and always figured that I’d never need one. Yet now as I contemplate aviation on another 3am drive to the airport, I question whether it is everything thing to me that it once was. Had the dream become little more than a means to an end? For so much has changed in the industry that it is almost unrecognisable when compared to that first flight in the tiny, gleaming Cessna of the 1960s.

The face of the pilot has been through many transformations over the last century. From fledgling pioneers to heroic knights of the air, the aviators were seen as keen, strong and fearless. And in those days they definitely needed to be, although a little dose of ‘crazy’ was also a useful ingredient in the mix. When the world found the post-war peace of the 1950s and the airliners began to span the globe, it was not so much heroism as glamour that now painted the picture of the pilot. Exotic foreign lands and five-star hotels were the office, while the flight deck laid at his feet views of grand diversity. And they were ‘his’ feet as the airlines were still a man’s domain. Obviously this imbalance needed to change and finally it did when it was realised that women could actually operate airliners just as efficiently as their male counterparts. But while this door opening was a change for the better, it was far from the only change.

Jet travel saw the slashing of flight times and crossing the globe slowly moved further away from its former perception of luxury travel that was more akin to a cruise liner. World travel became big business where deals across borders could be sealed with a handshake in a matter of hours, rather than days. Passengers no longer had to layover in exotic ports, but could catch connecting flights and travel through the night to be home days earlier. And while these changes offered up a variety of worthwhile options for the customer, the role of the airline pilot was beginning to change.

And change it did. No longer did the role resemble the ship’s captain surveying the world from the bridge, instead the pilot became more closely related to the hard-working truck driver. Additionally, the security needs of a fragile world meant that air-crews were faceless creatures secured away in a bullet-proof flight deck. Like a rare species of nocturnal mammal, a glimpse of them could be caught if you happened to be in just the right place at the right time. The children’s visits to the flight deck were now a thing of the past and announcements about the world passing outside the windows were replaced by in-seat entertainment and iPods.

As fuel prices rose and fiscal reality rammed home, the five-star stop-overs disappeared. Low-cost carriers emerged to place further pressure on the bottom line of an already capital intensive industry. In some quarters, pilots began to pay for their own training to effectively buy a ‘jet job’ and their wages dropped as well. Fiscal reality had arrived for aviation and its survival depended on squeezing every inch of efficiency out of the operation in what was now a highly competitive industry. Accordingly, multiple days of sight-seeing in ports became measured in hours before it was time to turn around and cross the Pacific Ocean or some great continent once more. Travel became more routine and frequent and over a far greater distance and time. Sleep became the really valuable commodity to the pilot and crews flying to Europe could routinely see their ‘body clock’ passing them in the opposite direction somewhere over Afghanistan. Days off at home would be spent re-adapting to the time-zone just before it was time to leave again. Similarly, domestic flying became a series of multi-sector days, with minimum turn-arounds at the hotel before the transport would be shuttling the crew back to the airport for another day in the saddle. Just as glamour had replaced heroism, routine and efficiency had become the pilot’s new benchmark.

It was still dark as I pulled into the airport car park to start another day in the flight levels. I spared a thought for the young lad with the gleam in his eye and a burning desire to fly. I contemplated my own career and wondered if I had foreseen the hours of study, the cost of training and the years of minimum wage and second jobs would I have been so enthusiastic? If I had foreseen the freezing cold pre-dawn pre-flight inspections and the lonely hours waiting for passengers at hot remote airstrips, would I have accepted the challenge? If someone had told me that the airline operations would become just like any other job, would I have listened to them? If I had known then all that I know now, would I have ever chosen to be a pilot?

Yes.

Absolutely. In a heart-beat.

Seventy years after the first Tiger Moth took flight over English fields from the quaintly named ‘Stag Lane’, cars have parked on the verge of Old South Road to witness a similar scene. As a child sits atop their father’s shoulders, an older gentleman with a straight Air Force back casts a knowing eye. A little embarrassed by the attention, my passenger and I clamber into our respective seats and ready ourselves for flight.

Strapping into a vintage biplane has always been a snug fit, particularly with the necessary multiple layers of clothing. Sitting in tandem, with heads poking outside the cockpit, leather helmets and goggles provide further protection from the elements. Within, the furnishings are equally basic. Enveloped in the bare metal frame and its fabric skin, exposed control cables weave their way past our feet. A solitary ‘control stick’, two pedals, a couple of levers and a few ancient gauges in a varnished wooden panel complete the picture.

The antique machine is literally ‘swung’ into action with a downward thrust on the propeller. Great care is taken during this practice, particularly when alone, as tales endure of runaway Tigers. A couple of coughs and puffs of smoke and the engine throngs with a charm, reminiscent of ’Chitty Chitty Bang Bang’. At runway’s end and ready, power is increased and the aircraft slowly accelerates along the gravel runway. As momentum builds, the aircraft comes to life and the tail rises from the ground. Shortly thereafter, at a speed acceptable to the Highway Patrol, the Tiger Moth breaks its shackles and the earth falls away. Slowly. Far from being sleek, the two wooden wings are joined by a maze of struts and bracing wires, all of which fight the air as the wooden propeller drags the aeroplane aloft.

As the Tiger gains height, the surrounding countryside unravels. A push of the stick and a squeeze of the pedals wheel the machine about the horizon. Views from Razorback to Joadja greet the eye. Initially Mittagong, and then Mount Gibraltar pass to the right as the rolling green fields to the south begin to appear. The scene could be from a bygone era in the skies over England, where the Tiger Moth taught its lessons in darker times. This setting is picturesque, though any hint of peacefulness is broken by the roar of the engine and the airflow that blasts past the face at 140 km/h. The small glass windscreen is misnamed as it affords only token protection, though the modern luxury of radios replace rubber tubing to enable pilot and passenger to stay in touch.

Cruising a kilometre above the treetops, the Illawarra coastline peeps above the hamlet of Robertson whilst Fitzroy Falls looms larger ahead. The Spartan nature of the Tiger Moth adds to its allure. There are no autopilots or navigation systems beyond the map and liquid-filled compass that bounces in harmony with the engine. Many a map has last been seen flying past the tail, having been sucked from its owner’s lazy grip. Over the Falls, we turn tightly for the best view and maximum fun. Fully aerobatic, the Tiger can ‘loop the loop’, spin and weave its way through the sky in a variety of manners. Manoeuvres that were necessary as it trained the ‘Top Guns’ of yesteryear. Even so, many cherished moments are to be had simply wandering aimlessly about the sky. In a world dominated by schedules, it is an absolute pleasure to dawdle about the clouds with no particular place to go and no particular time to be there. With Burrawang behind and Berrima ahead, we take time to ‘waggle the wings’ at children waving from a dam’s edge just beyond Moss Vale. The Highlands chill bites at the cheeks and suggests without subtlety that it is time to set course for home.

Firstly Chevalier, then Bong Bong Racecourse slide beneath as Bowral sits nestled to the left. Passing ‘The Gib’, radio calls are made and the aircraft readied to land. Checks completed, power is reduced and the pop, pop, pop of the Gipsy Major engine signals that the flight’s end is near. A final turn to align with the runway, gently descending, the wind whistles through the wires. The airfield fence is crossed and the runway draws closer until man, machine and Mother Earth are once again reunited.

In an age when footraces are timed to the hundredth of a second and the Internet blinks across the globe, it can be difficult to capture a truly timeless moment. Thanks to the Tiger Moth, it may be difficult but not impossible.

(c) Owen Zupp 2011

...From a pilot’s perspective, the step up into the cockpit is more than tinged with anticipation. Beyond the cabin’s central fuel tank and through the narrow opening sits scant dials, three throttles and the seats which carried Kingsford Smith and Ulm. Entry to the cockpit would pose a distinct challenge to a larger man as one ducks beneath the doorway and weaves between the seats. Finally in position, being careful not to take a handhold on some historic and irreplaceable lever, I gingerly lower myself into the historic left hand seat. The dials sit ahead of me and it is impossible not to feel some link with the past as I take a grip of the control wheel. Scanning to the right, Ulm’s chair sits vacant and the rustic nature of the rag and tube flight deck is evident. Over the nose visibility is impinged by the cylinders and exhaust stack of the central radial engine; the same culprit engine that blew its exhaust manifold over the Tasman Sea and sent a renegade part hurtling into the starboard propeller with devastating results.

Further dominating the rather obscured view from Smithy’s seat are the broad wings of the Southern Cross. Painted silver, one is struck by the thickness of the aerofoil that is obviously built for lift and not for speed. Within are housed four fuel tanks that are managed by a Heath-Robinson fuel panel behind the pilot’s right shoulder. The ergonomics of this machine only add to the awe of the undertaking. These huge hoary wings also served to provide shade for the crew when they found themselves alone in the Kimberleys in 1929. Having been flying in excess of 24 hours since departing Sydney and lost in the remote northwest, Smithy finally put the aircraft down on the mudflats where they would wait twelve days for rescue. The episode came to be known as the “Coffee Royal Affair” after the crew had combined spirits with coffee whilst stranded. Aspersions were cast on the integrity of Smithy and Ulm at the time, with unfounded rumours of a publicity stunt circulating. The drama was further heightened by the loss in central Australia of Keith Anderson and Bill Hitchcock in their Westland Widgeon as they searched for the missing men. Anderson had been a long term compatriot of Kingsford Smith and the man originally responsible for naming the Southern Cross years before. Damaged, but undaunted, Smithy would continue on and ultimately be the first man to circumnavigate the globe in the same aeroplane. Even so, the stigma of “Coffee Royal” remained.

Whilst the wings and engines dominate the view to port and starboard, an interesting feature is the absence of glass. Whilst there lies a central windscreen, pilots are exposed to the elements, noise and churning airflow through the void on their respective shoulders. It almost defies the imagination to conjure the conditions experienced on the long haul of pioneering international flights. Even so, there were instances when even the relative comfort of the cockpit could not be enjoyed. In May 1935, when the starboard engine had its propeller shattered over the Tasman Sea and was subsequently shut down, it left the remaining engines labouring to keep the Tri-Motor aloft. Trans-Tasman co-pilot P.G “Bill” Taylor climbed through the absent window on the starboard side and drained oil from the defunct engine. Transferring the life giving fluid to the failing port engine was a different matter as the operating engine complicated the process with its propwash as John Stannage discovered when attempting the second stage of the transfer. Smithy subsequently set about climbing and descending the Southern Cross to allow the left throttle to be retarded on the downward slide, thus enabling a slightly thawed Taylor to complete the job.  The transfer was repeated again and the precious mail dumped before the Australian coastline finally came into view. Right engine shutdown, left engine struggling and the centre engine on the verge of failure, the ‘Old Bus’ staggered to a three-pointer at Mascot after fifteen hours in the air.

This was to be the last major flight for the Southern Cross. Smithy knew that after 300, 000 miles his old bus was approaching its ‘use by’ date and so he parted company with his trusty steed at RAAF Richmond in 1935. Her final flight occurred some years later when she was used in a film recounting the life of her famous owner. Subsequently, in 1958, the Fokker Tri-Motor became a central exhibit at Brisbane’s Eagle Farm Airport, where she stands today.

To enjoy the privilege of encountering the Southern Cross at close quarters is a profound experience for any devotee of aviation history. In our present day disposable society, longevity is a rare commodity. The stark, rudimentary nature of the aircraft flies in the face of the contemporary standpoint. It is basic, rugged and low on technology, but high on mystique. Within its fabric shell and its elevated cockpit, the atmosphere is tangible. A boyhood of aviation’s tall tales and true seem to seep from every corner of the “Old Bus”. Much of the Southern Cross’ extraordinary life is well documented and has been subjected to scrutiny time and again. Yet, as I sit at the sharp end of this historic machine and imagine a myriad of frozen, oil spattered moments I can’t help but feel that there is still much left unsaid. Memories that lie on the bottom of oceans and have passed with the men who made them. Perhaps it is better this way, but one cannot help but wonder if these walls could speak.