Pilot Error

As a design the Dragon might have been ancient, but as a flying doctor aeroplane there was still nothing to touch it.

A Rapide would have been marvellous, but in Australia in the early fifties, they were just not to be had. And an ex-RAAF Anson – the only other possible contender – used more fuel than we could afford. So for better or worse it was the Dragon. But then most of the other flying doctor bases in Australia were in the same boat. Even the elite Northern Territory Aerial Medical Service, with all their Government money, had thought it worth having their two DH-84s overhauled “regardless of expense” by De Havilland in Sydney.

Besides, in Australia at that time, DH-84s were by no means a thing of the past. Only 10 years before, during the dark days of war when anything that flew was a premium for the Empire Air Training Scheme, De Havilland Australia had built a batch of “second generation” Dragons as navigator and radio operator trainers for the RAAF. It was these aircraft, rather than the original Stag Lane Dragons, that had become the mainstay of the country’s far-flung feeder and medical service in this early post-war era – long before the new light twins from Wichita and Lockhaven began to appear on the scene.

But at Ceduna at this time we had a “modern” aeroplane as well – an ex-RAF Proctor 111 which some intrepid soul had flown out from England. It had been bought only a few months before to replace the ancient Fox Moth which our Chief Pilot had been operating there since 1937. We used it to take the doctor on his rounds when there weren’t any patients to carry. The Proctor had been modified to take a stretcher, but getting it in and out of the cramped little cabin with a patient on it was just as likely to make a hospital case of the pilot. All the same, the Chief Pilot loved it. One of the “old school” who had learned to fly in DH-60s in the early Thirties, he had spent virtually all his career as a bush pilot and the Proctor was his pride and joy. On the rare occasions on which I was permitted to take it out, I’m sure he thought I’d break it.

This particular Monday was uneventful enough – a mild summer’s day with scattered clouds drifting in off the Great Australian Bight. “Doctor’s Day” clinics didn’t happen on Mondays, so if there were no emergency trips, there wasn’t any flying.

By mid-afternoon the Chief Pilot and I had finished tidying things up in the hangar in readiness for the week’s flying, given ourselves an early mark, and had gone home.

But on the five o’clock medical session, the last radio schedule for the day the little bush hospital out at Cook, 200 miles away to the west on the Nullarbor Plain, called up to report they had an emergency – a man in real anguish with a strangulated hernia. Cook, a settlement of some 40 houses, is on the Trans-continental Railway – the part of the line where it runs straight for 300 miles – and most of its hospital patients are railway workers.

Boldly (for in those days nurses were diffident about what they said to doctors), Cook’s Sister-in-Charge told the doctor he had to come at once. At the very least it would mean a landing right on last light – probably with the aid of kerosine flares.

“I’ll go,” the Chief Pilot told me over the telephone a few minutes later, “It’ll be quicker in the Proctor and we want to get there before dark. It’s pretty urgent – Dr C Dr M and Str D are all going. But they’re going to operate at Cook instead of bringing him back here, so we won’t need a stretcher. ”

I heaved a sigh of relief; the only trouble with this job was that you jumped every time the telephone rang – and newly married I’d been looking forward to a nice quiet evening at home.

Half an hour later as we were sitting down to dinner the telephone went again. Again it was the Chief Pilot – his voice this time strangely hesitant and subdued.

“I’ve done something terrible,” he fairly gasped, “I’ve hit a gable marker on take-off and wrecked the Proctor. You’ll have to take them in the Dragon. ”

“I’ll come straight out,” I said.

At the time, the concept of “frangible” aerodrome markers that shatter harmlessly on impact had not been thought of. Instead, gable markers at DCA aerodromes were substantial affairs framed in mild steel and covered with corrugated iron sheets. Hitting one in a fast-moving wooden aeroplane was no laughing matter.

The aerodrome at Ceduna is on undulating ground and from the northern threshold of the 17 strip at that time, most of the markers were hidden until your aeroplane topped a rise about a third of the way into its take-off run. The only way to be certain you were lined up was to take a sighting on a certain tree visible over the rise beyond the far end of the strip. In his haste to depart on this occasion, the poor old Chief Pilot (properly jealous of his long safety record), had picked the wrong tree, given the Proctor its head, and collected the gable marker beyond the crest of the rise at full bore. (They re-sited the 17 strips a couple of years later – it was too dicey as it was. )

By the time! had driven to the aerodrome, the shaken medical staff and their luggage are already back at the hangar. We push the Dragon out, I do a quick pre-flight (our aircraft are kept in stand-by condition), and we climb aboard ready to go. Even so, we have lost over an hour of remaining daylight and the long haul to Cook will take a good 50 minutes more in the lumbering Dragon. It will be dark before we are a third of the way now Sister D, Matron of the base hospital at Ceduna and senior nursing sister of our whole aerial medical service network, senses my thoughts:

“We’ve just got to get there,” she says to me quietly as I squeeze past her seat on my way up to the cockpit.

I have never flown to Cook at night, but I am not unduly concerned. I know the route well enough by day, the weather is fine and almost calm with only scattered cloud, and there is a four-day-old moon which should shed enough light for navigational fixes before we tackle the final featureless hourlong leg across the Nullarbor itself. Besides, the railway marshalling yard at Cook is lit by numerous overhead lights. On a clear night these should easily be visible from 20 miles away – more than enough to provide for undetected drift on the final leg of the flight.

Half an hour after take-off, the westering sun which has been blazing directly into my eyes, touches the rim of the distant horizon. Two minutes later it is gone, the change for the moment a blessed relief. We have just passed the straggling outpost of South Australian civilisation that is Penong. In another 20 minutes, Fowler’s Bay is somewhere off to port in the gathering gloom, and the day is but a brighter patch in the western sky.

As the darkness deepens, the crescent moon begins to offer its wan, better-than-nothing light. But as we head further west, the cloud cover, at first scattered, then broken, gradually thickens until it shuts out the moonlight.

I dim the cockpit lighting to make the most of the night visibility that remains, put aside my growing apprehension about the navigation, and concentrate on keeping the needle of the Dragon’s trusty P4 compass exactly aligned with its grid ring. The critical checkpoint for the long leg across the Nullarbor is still 70nm ahead. Worrying at this stage whether I will be able to find it in the dark is pointless – much more profitable in the meantime to ensure the aeroplane remains as close as possible to track.

We drone on and, in the darkness of the cabin, the passengers have fallen silent. Are they dozing? Or is their silence a measure of the concern they are feeling too? They have all flown enough in this work to know the score pretty well.

Colona Station – easily identifiable from its bright homestead lights in a veritable ocean of blackness – comes up just to starboard. So far so good. We are almost half way – time to alter heading. In the dim glow of the instrument lights I re-adjust the compass grid ring from 290 to 306 degrees M, gently swing the aircraft onto its new heading and reset the directional gyro. There has been no perceptible drift but that could change from here on. Near the Head of the Bight, where the plain runs unobstructed to the coast, an onshore wind often strengthens.

The moonlight now is but a faint lightness in the cloud cover – enough light to see the ground, but not enough to discern any detail, not even the Eyre Highway which at this point runs almost parallel with our track. Nothing for it but to go on and hope for something better before we reach the Nullarbor.

Somewhere in the darkness below, Tallown Hut should be sliding beneath the nose. With the cockpit lighting right off now, I strain to make out any features on the darkened landscape, but I cannot be sure of what I can see. Another 20nm and we should be abeam the last visual fix of any value – the point where the Eyre Highway emerges through the Dog Fence onto the Nullarbor itself. In any reasonable visibility, this junction of two clearly defined landmarks gives an excellent final pinpoint before taking the plunge onto the plain itself where visual tracking even in daylight becomes virtually impossible.

I have an ETA for the Dog Fence and there is no reason why it should not be accurate. But will I be able to make it out in the dark? I glance up again at where the moon should be. It is still obscured, but there are occasional thinner patches in the cloud cover.

In front of me the luminous instrument dials exude a ghostly glow and I can see the minute hand of the aircraft clock moving steadily towards the check point ETA – a minute and a half to go.

At that moment the moon emerges from behind the cloudbank into a tiny patch of clear sky and the desolate landscape becomes faintly visible in the pale milky light. A little to port and 3000 feet below, the Eyre Highway gleams white in the moonlight as it zig-zags through the grid gate in the fence! But instead of being just to port of the aircraft’s nose, this point on the road should be lying two and half miles to starboard. We are three miles east of track. At our cruising altitude, the wind off the Bight has freshened.

I altered the grid ring setting four degrees to port – according to the 1 in 60 rule, the revised heading should lead us directly to Cook. From here on it is even more vital to fly accurately. There is no backup navigational system – and what if we should miss the settlement in the dark? Well . . . we have enough fuel to get back to Ceduna, but the decision will have to be made pretty quickly – and in that case, the patient will almost certainly die.

I switch on the aircraft’s H/F Traeger transceiver (a portable flying doctor radio which has been adapted for use in the Dragon), and call Ceduna with our position report. In the darkness, the aerial loading lamp flashes brightly as the signal is modulated by my throat microphone. When done, I turn the transceiver off again to conserve battery power. (No listening watch in this particular Dragon – it has no generator. Even its standard wind-driven model has succumbed to the ravages of time. )

Beyond our spartan little world that is the Dragon’s cabin, the moonlight has gone again – this time for good. The night now is as black as pitch. It is like flying in a bowl of soup.

Just under an hour to run. Assuming the lights of Cook to be visible from 20 miles out, I should see them in 43 minutes. In the meantime, I will really have to sweat on that compass needle.

With absolutely nothing to see beyond the cockpit windows now, I put the lights on again to fly the Dragon as accurately as I can on instruments. There is not the slightest hint of turbulence in the cool night air, and the aircraft is as steady as rock. But for the uninterrupted cacophony of the Gipsy Majors and the continuous flicker of flame from their exhausts, we could be suspended motionless in space.

There is an occasional murmur of conversation from behind me as the passengers address one another in a desultory fashion. They too well know the time we should be there – as well as the consequences of navigational error.

Mentally I review the action I will take if Cook does not show up on ETA. We have only 20 minutes to find it before I must take the decision to return to Ceduna. There should be no difficulty going back – we would be returning towards better weather, more ground lights and the rotating beacon at the aerodrome itself, easily visible from 40 miles out, our real problem is to find Cook in this inky blackness – and for another’s sake, we dare not fail.

Slowly the minutes slip away. Abeam the railway settlement of Fisher by dead reckoning, I turn on the Traeger again to pass an “ops normal ” report. “Estimating Cook at 02,” I add, fervently hoping it will be so.

At 17 minutes to the hour, I switch off the lights once more and begin scanning the invisible horizon ahead for the faintest glimmer of distant welcoming light. There is nothing.

Only 12 minutes now and I am looking harder still – but again there is nothing to be seen. Have I overestimated the effectiveness of Cook’s lights?

Ten minutes . . . eight minutes . . . six minutes to ETA.

Still there is nothing in the blackness beyond the windscreen. Surely, unless something has gone radically wrong, the lights would have to be showing up now!

My mind ranges over the possibilities – unforecast headwind . . . greatly increased drift . . . steering a wrong heading. I check the compass, flight plan and chart all over again – and all is as it should be.

There is a shuffling back in the cabin and I feel the trim of the aircraft alter as the beefy Dr C makes his way forward to the cockpit.

“Ah . . . ,” he begins hesitantly . . . “Would you like me to stand here and help you watch for the lights?” He has probably been primed by the others.

“Thanks Charles, but I can manage. It would be more helpful to have you back in your seat. ” I don’t want to seem rude – but I can’t be distracted now.

Only two minutes· to ETA and still there is nothing beyond the windscreen pillar. The anxiety in the cabin is almost tangible. Well. I’ll maintain the heading for another five, then begin a square search.

At that moment, directly ahead and below, a bright beam of light crosses my vision like the flash of a distant lighthouse. I look intently towards its source – it is a car, only a mile ahead, moving slowly and seemingly erratically over the ground towards us. Beyond it now I can just make out a line of flares . . . and further to one side, dim street lighting is materialising out of a haze. The car is on the aerodrome, inspecting the ground for our arrival – we have hit Cook bang on the nose!

“We’re there!” I fairly shout back over my shoulder as I ease back the throttles to descend into the circuit.

The relief from tension is unbelievable. Behind me in the cabin. the passengers begin talking again – this time animated

From the layout of the flare path, the wind is southerly off the Bight – just as I had guessed. I make a shallow turn to line up on a downwind leg parallel with the flares, put on power again at 1000 feet AGL, and cross the railway complex before turning base. As I do so, the reason for our failure to sight Cook becomes abundantly clear: Apart from the haze which has settled over the plain, all the lights over the railway are facing obliquely towards the north – evidently a ruse to protect their reflectors from the salt-tainted southerly breezes off the Bight. Had we been flying in from any point north of the line instead of south, the settlement would have been unmistakable.

With the burden of responsibility suddenly lifted and the cheerfully lit houses of Cook sliding beneath our wings, the flight seems virtually over. Unwittingly I relax my vigilance and my pre-landing checks do not receive the attention they should.

Lining up on a long final, I motor the Dragon in over the telegraph line paralleling the railway, omitting to turn on the powerful nose landing lamp until on very short final.

When I do so it is too late. My eyes, widely dilated from straining through the darkness, are momentarily blinded by the sudden glare. All depth perception vanishes and the Dragon flies into the ground short of the first flare with a great thump. It bounces, and becomes airborne again for 50 yard. But my eyes recover quickly, and the second touch-down becomes a reasonable landing. I pray that the only thing hurt is my pride.

Thankfully it is so, and we taxi into our accustomed parking spot at the rear of the hospital. I shut down the engines and the medical staff are hastily ushered off to the operating theatre.

Breakfast in the immaculate staff dining room – always a formal affair despite the hospital’s isolation – is a little more relaxed than usual. The patient’s operation has been a success and all that remains is for me to fly the medicos home to Ceduna. Dr C has apparently forgiven me for ordering him back to his seat so peremptorily.

“I must congratulate you,” he says, “On getting us here in such conditions last night. ”

I make a suitable self-deprecating reply, and apologise for the ham-fisted arrival on the aerodrome, deliberately omitting any mention of touching down before the threshold – or of the consequences if there had been obstructions in the way.

“Oh that’s alright,” Sister D interposes airily. “We were all so glad to be here that we couldn’t have cared less!”