"The Pioneers."

Seven years after the Wright Brothers first crept into the skies, powered flight came to Australia in 1910. The States had been united under Federation for less than a decade and the population was just over 4 million, yet this fledgling nation was set to make its mark in the brave new world of aviation. Within that small population there were some who were at the forefront of aviation’s brave new world.

In the Beginning.

Before powered flight took wings, Lawrence Hargrave had been Australia’s original aviation pioneer. Edging himself aloft whilst attached to a series of box-kites, his research unlocked a number of the mysteries of flight. Always the scientist rather than the entrepreneur, Hargraves published his findings freely and contributed greatly to the advancement of aviation around the world. In fact, the Voisin brothers of France credited Hargraves for much of their ultimate success in aircraft design.

When powered flight was first achieved at Digger’s Rest in Victoria on March 18th 1910, it was a Voisin aeroplane that carried the pilot aloft. Incredibly, the pilot that day was the famous American magician and escape artist, Harry Houdini. This was the first ‘recorded’ controlled powered flight in Australia, though conjecture has raged for literally a century. Just as the Wright Brothers were reportedly beaten to the punch by New Zealander, Richard Pearse, Houdini had no shortage of challengers for the title. Colin Defries and Fred Custance were two that were named as possible predecessors, but history has recorded Houdini’s flight in Plumpton’s Paddock as the first. Much like current day athletic records, there may have been faster times achieved but without official ratification the record will not stand. In Houdini’s case, he was the first to have signed witness accounts and critically, an image of the aircraft in flight.

While kudos may flow from being the first, it is the fact that so many pioneering aviators were pushing to be first that resulted in the progress that was made. The fact is that they all contributed in their own way to Australia’s dawn of aviation. However, for the nation, a major stride was taken on July 16th when an Australian, John Duigan took flight for the first time in an Australian aircraft. Also taking place in Victoria at Mia Mia, the feat was particularly noteworthy as Duigan and his brother had designed the aircraft with very little technical guidance other than text books and magazines from overseas. Mighty oaks from little acorns grow and Australian aviation was well on its way to setting its roots.

Pioneers.

From frail machines making short hops and uneasy circuits, aviation advanced with a flurry initiated by the Great War of 1914-1918. Just as would occur twenty years later during the second global conflict, the teeth of the war machine evolved aircraft technologically at a rate that could only be imagined in peace-time. Branches of the Army and Air Force were established along side Naval Air Services and these gave birth to a new generation of advanced aviators such as the Smith brothers, Bert Hinkler and Charles Kingsford Smith emerged.

Following the war’s end, Australian Prime Minister “Billy” Hughes announced a prize of £10,000 for the first airmen to fly from England to Australia in less than 30 days. A decorated WW1 pilot, Captain Ross Smith joined with his brother Lieutenant Keith Smith and Sergeants Bennett and Shiers to compete for the prize. Smith had served with the fledgling Australian Flying Corps (AFC) and accrued a relatively significant amount of experience on multi-engine bombers. Using a former bomber, a Vickers Vimy, the crew battled atrocious weather and a series of mishaps to land in Darwin on December 10th 1919, after 28 days and more than 11,000 miles. Both brothers received knighthoods while their non-commissioned crew were made officers and their Vickers Vimy still resides today in their home state near Adelaide Airport.

Whilst the Smith brothers and their crew succeeded, another Australian had been unable to enter the race with a little Sopwith Dove would have to wait to fly to his homeland; he was Bert Hinkler. Lieutenant Hinkler had served with the Royal Naval Air Service (RNAS) during World War One and also been decorated. However, his fascination with flight pre-dated the conflict and as a boy he had studied the Ibis closely and made successful glider flights on the dunes near his home in Bundaberg. After serving post-war as a test pilot with Avro, Hinkler finally made his flight to Australia in 1928 and he did so alone in a tiny Avro Avian in only 15 days. He went onto achieve a number of feats, but none more significant and more overlooked than his 1931 flight from Canada to South America, across the South Atlantic to Africa and on to London in a DH Puss Moth. Always tending to avoid the spotlight, Hinkler tragically died in 1933 on a hillside in the Tuscan Mountains of Italy in undertaking yet another brave solo attempt.

As a pilot with the Royal Flying Corps (RFC), Charles Kingsford Smith had been both decorated and wounded, losing part of his left foot. After the war, “Smithy” had flown commercially in operations ranging from barnstorming to some of the first airline operations. However, he will forever be remembered for his mammoth Trans-Pacific flight in 1928 in his aircraft, the “Southern Cross”. Along with Charles Ulm and two Americans, James Warner and Harry Lyon, the four men traversed the world’s largest water mass and more than 7,000 miles. Flying through challenging weather with minimal navigation aids to assist, the “Southern Cross” provided a deafening backdrop, where communication between the crew was achieved by passing notes. On arriving at Brisbane’s Eagle Farm Airport, the Fokker Tri-Motor was swamped by a huge crowd and Smithy was catapulted into the limelight.

The subsequent years saw a series of record-breaking flights, high drama and the occasional scandal. Along with Ulm, he founded Australian National Airways in 1929, but their dream perished in 1931 following the loss of two aircraft; the “Southern Cloud” and the “Southern Sun”. With the Great Depression filling the headlines, Smithy continued to undertake aviation exploits and adventures, though his beloved “Southern Cross” was ultimately retired in 1935 following an aborted Trans-Tasman attempt that saw oil transferred between engines by P.G. Taylor and John Stannage climbing out onto the wing. Chasing the Australia to England speed record in November of the same year, Smithy and his co-pilot Tommy Pethybridge went missing near Burma, with an undercarriage leg washing up on Aye Island the only trace found to this day.

The Australian girls were not to be outdone either. In the 1930s aviatrix Lores Bonney was setting her own aviation records when female pilots were few and far between. Inspired by Bert Hinkler, Bonney began breaking records for women pilots in 1931 and went onto achieve her gender’s first flights around Australia, from Australia to England and Australia to South Africa. She was planning to fly around the world when World War Two intervened. In a world that remembers Amy Johnson and immortalises Amelia Earhart, Lores Bonney is relatively unknown. Although unlike Johnson, Earhart and numerous other cotemporary aviation pioneers, Lores Bonney survived to 96 years of age, passing away at her Queensland home in 1994.

An Aviation Nation.

So how did such a young, small nation produce so many pioneers in the early development of aviation? Many have alluded to the resilience and initiative of the Australian character of that bygone era. Resourcefulness was a prerequisite to survival in settling such a harsh interior and this is often seen as a character trait that translated well into the new frontier of flight.

For some the answer lies in World War One. Accomplished horsemen were perceived as ideal potential aviators and Australia was rich in men meeting this profile. As a result, many were subsequently recruited into the Royal Flying Corps from which the Australian Flying Corps ultimately grew. This grounding provided a relatively high ratio of Australians with a thirst for the skies.

Perhaps it was simply the tyranny of distance. Cast off thousands of miles from Mother England, Australians of that era had much closer ties to the motherland and monarchy. Aviation offered an ideal means to enhance communication between the two worlds, while also offering a means by which to traverse their own vast brown land. The skies offered speeds that could not be challenged by sea-faring vessels or horse drawn coaches. Then, as now, Australia’s geography dictates that it is a nation best served by aviation.

A combination of all of these factors and more aligned the planets to determine Australian aviation’s role on the world stage. There is no doubting that for its size, the island continent fought well above its weight. As pioneers were replaced by regular air services and nations grew closer through technology, Australia continued to play leading roles in aviation and aerospace, though often these achievements were not as headline grabbing as Smithy and Co. However Dr. David Warren’s development of the Flight Data Recorder (FDR) in the 1950s is no less spectacular.

Aviation will always be central to Australian culture as long as the miles separate its citizens. The leather helmets, goggles and open cockpits may have given way to faster jets and flight levels, but the ties that bind still remain. As a nation much has been achieved in the last 100 years, though undoubtedly aviation can be held up as the poster boy of 20th century evolution. As the 21st century gets underway and the global economies dictate that business and progress further diminish borders, only a crystal ball could perceive where Australia and aviation will travel in the next century. What is for sure is that our debt to the pioneers will still remain.

...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.

After 14 hours of extended night, a 747-400 rolls onto final approach at Brisbane Airport. Gear down, final flaps and checks complete the modern monolith readies for its return to earth after what seems an eternity to its 350 passengers. As the wheels smack the 1500’ markers, the blue smoke puffs from the tyres and another trans-Pacific epic is over. A mere matter of wingspans away from the 747’s final place of docking, one can almost hear the contempt of the use of the term ‘epic’ rising from a landscaped garden and discreet glass fronted hangar. Within these glazed walls stands a worthy recipient of the terms pioneer and legend. Within these glazed walls stands Sir Charles Kingsford Smith’s ‘Old Bus’, The Southern Cross.

The Fokker Tri-Motor stands proudly, wrapped in a carefully controlled air-conditioned environment and surrounded by artifacts and plaques relating to its days of glory. Retired, but not forgotten, its current home pays due respect to the trials and tribulations of its historic past but is a far cry from the weather-lashed reality of its heroic adventures. To view the Southern Cross, up close and personal, is a rare privilege. Inside the confines of its stable and approaching across the clean grey floor, one cannot help but be struck with a sense of awe and reverence. This is not a replica; this is the actual craft that wrote history. An integral part of Australian aviation heritage from a time before pressurisation, GPS and affordable safety; a time of Bradman and Phar Lap.

“Southern Cross” is boldly displayed in silver along its navy blue flanks, though this was not always the case. The Fokker FVIIB had originally been owned by Antarctic explorer, Sir Hubert Wilkins and suffered through a series of trials in Alaska before coming to grief. In 1928, the fuselage and wings were subsequently bought by ‘Smithy’ and his Trans-Pacific cohort, Charles Ulm and at this time the manufacturer’s name, ‘Fokker’, graced its sides. Fitted with new Wright Whirlwind engines on its nose and silver wings, Smithy flew a series of endurance testing flights before the name “Southern Cross” was proposed by another of the team, Keith Anderson. What was to become its permanent trademark was actually supplemented by a reference to a truck manufacturer, “Faegol Flyer”, along with “The Spirit of California” in somewhat smaller sign writing. These latter examples of “American Graffiti” were removed for the trans-Pacific conquest. Ultimately, the Australian registration of “VH-USU” would adorn the fuselage in company with its name.

If the bearing of the machine impacts upon the spirit, making one’s way to the door on the starboard side is ripe with anticipation. Stooping to gain access through what is best described as a hatch, the interior is now manned by a lone wicker chair and a brass fire extinguisher that still hangs at the ready. Within this chamber Jim Warner would strain against the deafening roar to detect the hint of a radio signal that may lead them to land as they traversed the Pacific. Nearby Harry Lyon plotted the Southern Cross’ course in one of the great efforts of dead reckoning. Thrashed by weather and incessant vibration, Lyon’s sextant was of limited value and he relied on the constant of time, heading and groundspeed. Drift was calculated by throwing powder by day and flares by night into the Pacific below and subsequently flying a constant heading. Such rudimentary techniques safely saw the intrepid aviators cross over 11,000 km of ocean by day and night in three historic legs. Whilst seat pitch may not have been an issue in the Southern Cross’ cabin, there were few other ‘positives’. The noisy, draughty environment rendered communication ineffective and left the crew temporarily deaf after shutdown. Messages were exchanged between the cabin and cockpit by means of a stick with notes pinned to the end. These notes were not only used to relay operational information, but humourous and uplifting messages between the crew as they set about defying the odds. In later life the cabin played host to 12 passengers in joyflight operations, or 8 in the upmarket role of airline transport. Today the tube and fabric hull holds only memories......

Check back soon for the conclusion to "If  These Walls Could Speak"