...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.