Three de Havilland Tiger Moths put on a show.

Over recent months tragic news seems to have become all too frequent for the aviation community. While on the other side of the Indian Ocean the loss of the two Albatross aircraft dealt a single massive blow, here a series of accidents in just a few days has further added to the count. The national broadcaster’s senior helicopter pilot and crew were lost, just as the news of an ill-fated mercy flight filtered down the wire. Only hours later, a senior sports pilot and his passenger went missing with a fatal outcome. The terrible loss of life in New Zealand when a hot air balloon was destroyed and only this week, a Tiger Moth crash saw the passing of John Fisher; a man who had once flown his Tiger from the UK to raise funds for charity. In the cruellest manner, it seemed we were all reminded that tragedy is the ever-present companion in the skies we seek to transit.

As the son of a fighter pilot who'd flown in combat, I had grown up around the potentially fatal nature of aviation. As I flicked enthusiastically through photo albums of fading photographs of fast jets, my father would answer my questions in an even tone. Often my enquiries with reference to individuals was met with, “He got clobbered by ground fire near Haeju”, or “I think he put a Mirage in off the coast during a training exercise”. Their young faces beneath flying helmets still stare back at me so many years later.

My own first encounter with the harsh lessons of aviation started as a student pilot. Still a paramedic by trade, I stood at the Royal Aero Club counter as the crash horn sounded and the ominous black, oily plume rose from beyond the runway’s end. Off duty, I drove my car the short distance around the airfield perimeter and entered the factory where the Cherokee Six had plunged vertically through the roof. One burnt survivor has been thrown onto the rooftop, while I dragged another from the smoke-filled building. Four remained in the wreck, still strapped into their seats; lifeless. Any complacency about aviation that youth may have been tempted to bestow on me was nullified at that very moment.

In the losses of recent times, as is so often the case, there are not necessarily any common themes. Each was in a different category of aircraft, with the weather varying from despicable to fine and clear. The pilots ranged vastly in experience and their operations covered the spectrum from private flying to commercial aviation. The only shared trait seemed to be the tragic outcome.

I flicked through the various news reports with a strong dose of suspicion, borne of decades reading of ill-informed, sensationalist reporting. Details seemed to change by the hour and rumours took on the status of fact until the next piece of hearsay could be generated in the public domain. What could not be disputed was life-altering impact of these accidents upon so many. To such a backdrop, one by one I recalled the faces of those that I had seen lost at the brutal edge of aviation. As I penned each name, the sobering truth was rammed home to me; no one is immune.

The list of names was far longer than I had anticipated. They ranged from pilots with whom I had shared a meal and conversation, to close friends and work colleagues. Nearly all of them were commercial pilots eking out a living in general aviation, though some had also been taken pursuing their passion just for the love of it. Some were just starting their journey, excited at their first gainful employment and some were experienced mentors in the service of the national aviation regulator.

One by one I recalled their faces. The ‘old hand’ Bill whose ultimate oversight in forty years of safe flying was not spotting the glider that sheared off his Bonanza’s tailplane. And Brinley, celebrating at the local restaurant at the news he’d secured a position with an airline only to perish nights later, circling into a black hole in rural Australia in the foulest of weather. Trevor, whose single-engined fish spotting aircraft had force landed at dusk into the frigid waters only to survive the impact, but not the swim to shore. Alan and Peter, who had been searching for another aeroplane when their Cessna’s had engine failed over inhospitable terrain. Fernando, who descended gently into the ground in the wee hours with a full load in his Beechcraft. My fellow freight pilots who had been lost within a couple of months in a bleak, wet winter of low cloud and icing levels. And my close friend who’d tried one too many hair-raising flying feats at too low an altitude, only to pancake into the rising terrain. On and on the list continued as face after face stared back at me.

Admittedly, there were those who had been sticking their neck out further than the rules and common sense would advise. But for most it was simply a case of the odds stacking up against them in a series a compounding smaller events; the classic ‘Swiss Cheese’ model of Dr. James Reason. For a few it was the simple bad luck scenario of wrong place-wrong time. Universally, however, they are all still with me; even though I had not thought of many in recent years. They are with me as I flight plan and as I retract the gear. They are with me as the day becomes night and as the weather turns dark and walls of water confront me. They are with me always.

They are not evil spectres awaiting my demise, they are those who have gone before and paid the ultimate price. They paid for their harsh lessons with their lives and I am now the benefactor of their loss. In many ways, I owe them for the joy I have experienced in the skies above. They may have gone before, but they have stayed behind to tell me when enough is enough and when danger is lurking. They are there when the hair stands up on the back of my neck. They level the playing field and stand on the kerb whenever the temptation to cut a corner may exist.

They were acquaintances, colleagues and close friends who lived and breathed for aviation. I count myself as fortunate to have thus far safely encountered my way, but this is not an automatic right. It requires an ongoing commitment to safety and discipline in all circumstances and anything less is to dishonour those who have sacrificed so much. We call the skies our home and it is not a dangerous place to encounter. However, as those who have been lost recently and in the distant past can attest, that aviation can be very unforgiving.

At some point in my childhood, between converting Mum’s clothes-horse to a P-51 and sitting atop our garage with binoculars, I asked my father a fairly simple question, “What was a Tiger Moth like?”

Starry-eyed, I awaited the reply that would define the sheer essence of aviation and the pioneer spirit. “The Tiger?” he started, “It was cold, draughty, noisy and you’d end up with windburn, sunburn and goggle marks to prove it” He tapped his pipe empty on the verandah. Paused. Then continued, “…but it was blessed good trainer for its day. It taught you to use your feet. It taught you a lot of things.” That answer was about as extensive as Dad would ever venture when it came to reminiscences, however, if it was a technical question you’d be best advised to take a seat with a pen at the ready. Nevertheless, I think this is when the first seeds of owning an antique aeroplane were probably sown.

I was surrounded by aviation growing up. Dad had first started flying privately at Wagga Wagga NSW in 1948, whilst an apprentice mechanic in the RAAF. His early flying with Eric Condon lasted about six months before he was mustered for aircrew and posted to Point Cook. His subsequent career saw active service in Korea with 77 Squadron, the early days of the ‘Connie’ traversing the globe, primitive attempts at cloud-seeding, umpteen hours of instructing, testing and checking before winding up his career with the NSW Air Ambulance in 1986. Even after this he used to “do a bit” with Rebel Air and Schofields. As a youngster, I took every opportunity to tag along to the airport and not infrequently buckle up beside Dad. I vividly remember old Syd Marshall and his collection of aircraft at Bankstown and sitting in the Mustangs that Dad had flown at a previous time. Even today, I treasure an old Hurricane model Syd gave me. The older aircraft had always been of more interest to me. Their shape. Their character. Their history.

In 1994 I was fortunate to be given a relatively rewarding and seemingly secure job with Ansett, (enough said). I had no sooner “checked to line” than I noticed a Tiger Moth project for sale. I made the initial enquiries, but questions hovered over the completeness of the aircraft and the logistics of an interstate restoration daunted me. I let this opportunity slide; nevertheless, it was effectively the turning point for my childhood dream to start taking form. I started reading everything I could get my hands on and chasing up information from any source available, particularly the living, breathing kind. I found loitering around fly-ins to be particularly beneficial and the friendliness and generosity (i.e. free rides) of those involved with antique aviation bolstered my decision to go ahead if I could fund the project adequately. My wife agreed.

In 1996 my wife was fortunate to be given a relatively rewarding and secure job in aviation, (fingers-crossed).

Together we ventured to a place we had heard about and flown over numerous times in our days before turbines; Luskintyre. Nestled in the Hunter Valley, just west of Maitland, lies a facility busily putting long-forgotten deHavillands back in the air. My first memory of Ray Windred’s hangar was its’ similarity to Santa’s workshop. There were numerous tradesmen at different stations, each thoroughly engrossed in a task that seemed to call for patience as the primary tool. Access was gained by weaving between airframes, some standing proudly on their own undercart, others braced in jigs ready for covering. My wife and I did the “cook’s tour” of the restorations and the surrounding airfield. We subsequently retired to one of the vineyards for lunch, where we agreed no decisions would be made on grounds of diminished responsibility.

Time passed as we attended to other minor matters such as buying and selling a home, but as 1997 drew to a close we advised Ray Windred that we would purchase one of his old airframes and have him restore it to its previous glory. This was to be Ray’s 18th rebuild of the type. One of the factors that made purchasing an antique aircraft more attractive was the history that is attached to each of the aircraft of yesteryear. Accordingly, we set about finding the history of our airframe, construction No. 82358. In the process, we made contact with pilots that had flown in the aircraft in its war service and a number of these gentlemen kindly forwarded copies of their log books. Together with old RAAF documents and photos of the restoration taking place, my wife and I compiled a journal relating to our project. This exercise is one which I would highly recommend as it keeps the spirits up through those delays, trials and tribulations that are associated with the rebuild of an old aeroplane and on completion it serves to tell a fascinating tale. 

The aircraft had an interesting history. To the best of my knowledge, it was built at Hatfield, U.K, as part of the original order 0I758 that saw the British Air Ministry deliver 100 Tiger Moths to the RAAF. Arriving at RAAF Richmond in February 1940, it subsequently served with a variety EFTS units throughout the war, maintaining its British markings of N9257 throughout. “De-mobbed” at Cunderdin, W.A. in 1947, it began its’ civilian life under the markings VH-AKN, passing from private hands to an “air-ag” operation in April 1955. As was the way, the front cockpit was gutted and replaced with a hopper for spraying. This commercial chapter of 82358 was to be short-lived, crashing at Midland Junction, W.A. on June 13th 1955.

Almost 46 years to the day, on June 12th 2001, the Tiger again took to the air at Luskintyre. Restored in a civil scheme, with a new call-sign, I finally got my hands on my childhood dream shortly thereafter. The euphoria of the flight that followed very closely rivalled my first solo twenty years before………….it was great. The only regret?  That the old man wasn’t there to see it.

I did a number of hours at Luskintyre to consolidate my own familiarity with the type and monitor the engine and airframe for any gremlins that may surface. The aircraft performed without fault and after a “5 hour check-up” I prepared to ferry the aircraft to its’ new home. As I was delayed by early morning Hunter fog, my wife set out ahead in our car with the plan being to rendezvous outside the hangar at Mittagong. Late morning, I became airborne and armed with a P8 compass set course to the south. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky and I took every opportunity to sightsee as I visited lesson after lesson of navigating in an open cockpit. Midway I discovered that sitting on one’s charts was far more satisfactory than the clipboard I had earlier employed and that recovering one’s pencil from within the many layers of clothing was easier said than done. All this and no autopilot! I laughed at myself and took absolute pleasure in stumbling through the grassroots of aviation. As I trekked south into a very light headwind I calculated that the aircraft was making good time…….for a Tiger. Even so, freeway traffic seemed to be making a very comparable pace until the benefit of straight-line travel opened up a lead. My wife, having stopped to pick up to pick up my Mum, a former WAAAF radar operator, saw me pass overhead somewhere near Pheasants Nest, consequently on my arrival at Mittagong the welcoming party was yet to arrive. As you would expect, I took the opportunity to waste time over the beautiful Southern Highlands and the hamlet of Bowral, home of Sir Donald Bradman. It is a great privilege to be able to dawdle around the sky with no particular place to go and no specific time to be there.

The ground party finally caught up and I was all out of excuses to remain aloft. Touching down on 24, I rolled out to the hangar that is now to be home to this Tiger. An old Royal Aero Club mate and his wife were there so we took to the air for a quick hop, as you’re prone to do. Back on the ground, I was all out of excuses, so we pushed the aircraft in for the night. Armed with champagne we toasted the Tiger and even allowed a little to trickle down the prop. All in all, the flight had been cold, noisy and draughty and I did indeed bear windburn and goggle marks, but there was no doubt, this Tiger Moth was a blessed good aeroplane.

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