Heroism in the Bush

A hitch had also occurred in loading arrangements. Four passengers were already booked on the flight from Brisbane – a young English insurance executive named James Westray; R Graham, the manager of the printer’s supplies company in Sydney; W Fountain, a New York architect supervising the construction of a new picture theatre in Brisbane; and a J Barnett. The problem arose because a passenger who had arrived on the aircraft from Townsville insisted he had a through booking to Sydney: but with another four passengers due to join the flight at Lismore, no seats were available. The passenger remained adamant however, and as the landing at Lismore now seemed doubtful, he was finally allocated a seat. His name was J S Proud, a mining engineer.

There was a further brief delay because of the last minute arrival of passenger Barnett – he had been driven to the aerodrome by a business colleague instead of taking the company coach from the city. But finally all was ready. The cabin door was closed, the steps rolled away, the engines started, and VH-UHH taxied out. A few minutes later it took off into the blustery south easterly, setting course towards the distant MacPherson Ranges on the NSW border.

* * *

VH-UHH was due at Lismore just before 2pm, but when nothing was heard of it there, only the passengers who had missed their flight were concerned. As VH-UHH carried no radio, it was assumed that Boyden had continued direct to Sydney, probably following a route further inland to avoid the worst of the coastal weather. But towards the end of the day at Mascot aerodrome, as late afternoon turned to evening with no sign or word of VH-UHH, there was first wonder, then concern. There was also a sense of unbelief – never before had a company flight failed to turn up within a reasonable margin of its scheduled arrival. It had never happened with the Avro Tens; much less was anything expected to go wrong with the ultra modern, fully instrumented Stinsons.

Captain Boyden, a former wartime naval pilot, had 22 years of flying experience behind him, much ofit in highly demanding New Guinea operations; and with him in the aircraft was another experienced Airlines of Australia captain. Captain Beverley Shepherd had flown from Sydney that morning and was not rostered for the south bound flight. Normally he would have been staying overnight in Brisbane; but he had a dinner engagement that evening with aviatrix Jean Batten who had just flown her Percival Gull from New Zealand.

As in the case of the overdue Miss Hobart three years before, it was at first hoped that the aircraft had made an unscheduled landing somewhere inaccessible to a telephone. But as this initial optimism faded with the passing of the hours, there was finally real anxiety for the Stinson’s safety. The aviation industry was perplexed; as a type, the Stinson trimotor was the acme of safety and modern equipment.

At first light the following morning, two Stinsons took off from Archerfield to begin working south over the route from Brisbane while two of the company’s Avro Tens left from Mascot to comb the countryside northwards. They were initially hampered by low cloud, but as conditions improved, a great variety of civil aircraft, including the Batten Percival Gull, joined with three Hawker Demons and a Dragon Rapide of the RAAF in what was to become another of the most intensive air searches in Australia’s history.

Because of many seemingly reliable reports – from Tuggerah, Long Jetty, Gosford, and Patonga amongst others – that the Stinson had been seen in flight less than 70 kilometres north of Sydney, the search was concentrated on the southern section of the route. NSW Police spokesman Superintendent Bryden told the press: “Police along the coast from Lismore to Gosford have made investigations to confirm all reports ofthe lost machine. It has been proved that the plane reached the northern shores of Broken Bay. ”

Thus, although the northern area was searched briefly as weather permitted, it received scant attention by comparison with the rugged, heavily wooded gorges of the Hawkesbury River valley. But as the days dragged on without uncovering a single clue, it was reluctantly concluded that VH-UHH, somehow stricken by the violent weather, must have come down in the sea. “The missing Stinson . . . is believed to have crashed into the sea between the northern head of Broken Bay, Hawk Mead and Barrertjoey,” the papers reported.

Five days after the aircraft had vanished, the official search effort was reluctantly called off. “Searches by air, land and water have now abandoned hope of finding the Stinson airliner,” one newspaper declared. In banner headlines,another posed the question on everyone’s lips: “Is it another Southern Cloud?”

But for an extraordinary intervention from a most unexpected source, the mystery would have undoubtedly become so. Providentially, on an isolated mountain farm deep in the MacPherson Ranges of southern Queensland, there was a resourceful bushman who was also an independent thinker. On the day of the Stinson’s disappearance, the weather up in the mountains, particularly the force of the southerly gale, had been the worst for years. But the Sydney bound Stinson had evidently passed over as usual that afternoon – relatives and friends on neighbouring mountain properties had seen it. It was flying low, they told him, right in the base of the driving cloud. Yet the newspapers that reached him days late, told how Sydney bound passengers had waited in vain at Lismore for the Stinson to arrive. To Bernard O’Reilly there was only one answer – and that answer was lying somewhere in the tangled rainforest of the MacPhersons.

On a large scale map of the ranges, O’Reilly drew a pencil line from where his neighbours had last seen the Stinson, direct to Lismore. The plotted line crossed four steep east-west ridges, all of them jungle covered. If the Stinson had come down in the MacPhersons, O’Reilly reasoned, it would be lying somewhere on the northern slopes of one of these ridges.

The amazing story of how, on Saturday, 27 February, eight days after VH-UHH had vanished, Bernard O’Reilly set out alone on foot to find the wreckage in a vast area of almost impenetrable mountain forest, walked out again to organise a rescue team, then led them back to the crash site to save the lives of the two remaining survivors, has passed into Australian folklore. Ironically the survivors were John Proud, the man who would not have been aboard VH-UHH had he not insisted, and Joseph Binstead, the Sydney woolbroker listed as “J Barnett” (because his wife worried about him travelling by air), who would have missed the flight had it not been running late because of Proud’s insistence.

O’Reilly’s extraordinary feat, his astonishing endurance, and the efforts of his rescue team which, after hacking a path up the jungle clad mountain, took 11 hours to carry the survivors out, was an achievement in the finest traditions of the Australian bush. This extract from O’Reilly’s own book, Green Mountains, gives some idea of the near impossible task he set himself:

Breakfast before dawn (on the second day of his lone expedition), and halfan hour from camp brought me to one of the most glorious cascades I have ever seem. If my madcap search did nothing else, it would be well worth the discovery of this fall. Climbing out of the gorge, tension increased,for this was the first of the four lateral ranges, on any one of which the wreck might be.

By 8am I was on the summit of its southern extremity, Mt Throakban, enveloped in white clouds. None of us had ever been to Mt Throackban, though its great green cone away to the south east had beckoned enticingly. But it would have entailed a lot of hard work and time and there were many nearer peaks to richly reward exploration.

Throakban and its surrounding country are smothered in tangled growth of equatorial luxuriance,and never a day passes without cloud on its summit. For 15 minutes I stood in the cool moist wind, looking into a grey blank, then the racing clouds split and a vast green sea of ranges and gorges came into view.

Here and there were creamy white splashes whichI knew to be trees in bloom, then suddenly I saw something which made me jump. Eight miles away by the map, on the third range, Lamington Plateau,just where it swelled up to join the border range, was a treetop that was light brown.

In spring, when trees are getting fresh leaf growth, it is not uncommon to see a brownish treetop, but this was late summer. The tree must have been dying. What had caused it? Natural causes?No,trees dying like that die a branch at a time. Lightning perhaps? But why in all the ocean of trees was this one freshly killed tree situated where the pencil line crossed my map? Fire? No naturalfire had occurred in that dripping rainforest since the world began. But a 100 gallons of petrol. . .

Swiftly the clammy clouds swooped down again. I put down my head and tore into the soaking green jungle in my haste to traverse the gorges and ranges between me and that clue. The going was all blind; I did not see that tree again until I was 20 yards from it eight hours later . . .

Hours of climbing and descending went by. Every here and there was evidence of cyclone violence – trees that had split as they smashed off, leaving huge, jagged, yellow splinters pointing upwards. Other trees had been uprooted, their great buttresses lifting a mound of red earth 12 feet high. At one point, on the edge of a 2,000 foot cliff, I looked across the northern rivers of NSW, spread out like a green map and dotted with farm houses which looked like mushrooms. Just a brief glance at it, then I was scrambling down the next gorge.

Progress up the next range was very slow. At this stage weariness was beginning to overtake me. My trip had not been just a matter of scrambling over rough country; it had been a battle as tiring as if I had been forcing my way through rough surf The moral effect too was depressing, as more and more the seeming hopelessness of my task became apparent. The cheerlessness of the dripping underbrush, the grey swirl of the clouds through the timber, the silence of the birds and the lack of human company, all combined to bring my spirits to the lowest ebb.

It was 1pm when I reached the top of the ridge. Some time was wasted looking for a break in the trees which might permit another glimpse towards Lamington Plateau. I climbed a tree, but its top was in the clouds and a view was impossible. What should I do now? The answer was startling. From the direction of Lamington Plateau, about three miles away, came a short, clear human call. Then another: A human voice in all that green wilderness? What could it mean?

My first thought was that the call came from where my pencil line crossed the map- from where that dead tree was. Were they the men of the missing plane? Reason ruled this out . . . human endurance could not have gone sofar: No, the calls came from someone as foolish as myself, looking in that vast area for a wreck which evidence had shown to be in the sea near Sydney. There was a strong temptation to answer, but it could only lead to confusion and misunderstanding, and might lead that man miles out of his way on a false trail. My decision was to hold my tongue until I reached Lamington Plateau. It was now only about three miles to the top of Lamington Plateau, but there was still a range and two gorges in between.

Three hours later, about 4 o’clock in the afternoon, I stood on the lip of what I believed to be Lamington Plateau. If I had held a straight course, my position would now be near that dead tree I had seen eight hours earlier. But there had been no sun and no visibility, so perhaps my reckoning was all wrong. This too, was the location of those calls. Well, that could easily be tested-just a matter of waiting until my breath came back for one big “cooee”. It echoed sharply across the gorge. A pause – then came the mystery call again. But this time so close that it had the effect of physical shock – it could not have been more than 200 yards down through the timber to the left! I answered sharply and started down in that direction. A second voice joined the first. We

exchanged calls to guide me through the thickly meshed tangle of undergrowth.

Who were they? ‘Members of a search party from the Lamington district,’ said Reason. ‘Survivors of the wrecked plane,’ said a little voice. ‘There couldn’t be survivors from a crash in this country-not after this time,’ saidReason. ‘Why are they on that line on my map where the dead tree was?’ asked the little voice. I put the little voice aside, and refused to become excited. They would be bush chaps, searching like myself. Well, a bit of company would be good after these two lonely days . . .

Only 20 yards away now. But what was this?A big gap in the treetops just ahead! I tore a piece of vine aside to get a better view. God in Heaven! The great tree beside the gap was blackened by fire, right to its branches!A numbness shot through my limbs, a sort of coldness that was worse than fear and worse than pain or shock, but was a combination of all three, a feeling that has stayed with me, and is with me now, even as I write.

Before I looked down, I knew what I would see – a mass of smashed and charred metal. It was more than that· it was a horrible unclean thing which held the trapped remains of what once were men – a repulsive thing I could not go near. The voices came again from below the wreck, men alive – but in what condition? I stood for a moment, afraid to go on, afraid of what I would see.

Proud I saw first, his eyes far back in his head like those of a corpse, lying as he had lain for 10 days on that wet ground with a broken leg that was green and swelling and maggoty. ‘My God!’ I thought, ‘You’ve lain all these days in hell, and now I’m too late to save you!’ Who can describe the anguish I felt in that swift second? Then I turned to Binstead. He tried to shake hands, a poor hand that was like raw meat. His legs too, were like that,his trousers worn away from crawling over rocks to bring water. There was some talk, lots of talk, but who remembers what was said? The first sane remark I remember was B insteads: “How about boiling the billy?”

* * * From the evidence of Binstead and Proud and O’Reilly, from meteorological records, from accounts of those who were the last to see VH-UHH in flight, the sequence of the accident’s development and its aftermath was finally pieced together. Indeed, there was much enthusiasm for the fact that survivors’ evidence was available; previous major airline disasters had left no survivors, which made effective investigation so much more difficult. Having evidently decided to attempt a landing at Lismore, Captain Boyden had set course as usual from Archerfleld. The route, though it would avoid the heavy rain battering the coast, would take the aircraft directly across several steep sided spurs of the MacPherson Ranges, as well as the main ridge itself which, rising to almost 4,000 feet, runs roughly at right angles to the coast. One of O’Reilly’s neighbours, whose small mountain farm Jay in the upper reaches of the Albert River Valley only a few miles by air from the crash site, watched the Stinson that day with more than usual interest. His attention was drawn to it because he was surprised to see an aircraft at all on such a wild day and by the fact that the Stinson was much lower than usual. It seemed to be flying right in the base of the overcast cloud, at times passing briefly through lower patches. Though this overcast was above the tops of the surrounding ridges, further south the strong moist wind was capping the ranges with a bank of cloud at lower level. The farmer watched the Stinson droning southwards, buffetted occasionally by turbulence, but flying normally, until it was lost to view beyond the bank of cloud resting on the mountain top. The passengers Proud and Binstead, both of whom were sitting at window seats on the port side, also said that the aircraft was flying visually, but almost in the base ofthe cloud, as it approached the MacPherson Ranges about 25 minutes after takeoff. The weather was deteriorating and they entered rain, then it became turbulent as they passed over a number of small farms on the mountain slopes, the last terminating in thick forest. From this point on, the mountains rose steeply, decreasing the aircraft’s height above the ground. Soon afterwards, their view was obscured by a cloud below the aircraft, and from the change in engine note they seemed to be climbing. The turbulence became worse, then the cloud beneath them parted again and they caught sight of treetops uncomfortably close below. Concerned, they were initially reassured by the relaxed expression of the copilot, whose face they could see through the circular window in the door to the cockpit – he appeared to be joking with the captain. Their reprieve was short lived. Within seconds the trees were only feet below the aircraft, then the view through the windows on the opposite side of the cabin was suddenly filled by a heavily wooded mountainside; it seemed to be just off the starboard wingtip as the Stinson banked, apparently turning back. Binstead saw that Westray, sitting just in front of him, was alternatively looking out the window and then towards the cockpit; he seemed very nervous. Glancing again at the cockpit himself, Binstead saw that the copilot’s expression had changed to one of alarm and he was reaching across to manipulate something with his left hand.

Suddenly the aircraft lurched abruptly and there was a splintering crash as it rode across the top of a big tree, breaking off some of its upper branches. They plunged into the dense jungle canopy and there was a second, heavier impact as the Stinson struck a tree about 100 feet above the ground. The starboard wing was torn off and an instant later a limb of the tree burst through the starboard sideof the cabin. It smashed into Graham, sitting in the second seat on that side, killing him instantly. Portion ofit also struck Binstead, in the row behind on the opposite side, across the knees. The aircraft, its forward speed now almost dissipated, then struck the trunk of a massive third tree and fell down it to the ground, coming to rest steeply nose down with the port engine wedged against the tree’s base.

Proud, in the front seat on the port side, was thrown to the floor in this third violent impact. Struggling to get up, he realised his right leg was broken. The cockpit door was swinging ajar, and through it he glimpsed the copilot slumped over the instrument panel. But already the Stinson was on fire, the rear of the cabin filling with dense black smoke. Glancing about him, Proud saw the second window on the port side had sprung from its mounting in the crash. Somehow he reached it, wrenched it away and began to clamber through. By this time B instead, in the third row of seats on the port side, had recovered from a blow to the head. A big man in late middle age, he later vividly described their escape from the burning aircraft:

I was knocked out by the final crash when my head struck the side of the machine-I still have alumpas big as a pigeons egg on my left temple. The next thing I recollect is opening my eyes to a blinding flash and I saw the plane was on. fire at the back -flames were coming in near the cabin door. They had a strong hold and there was no means of escape that way. I looked forward and saw Proud, who had been sitting two seats away from me, smash a port window a,nd attempt to scramble through, head and shoulders first.

I tried to get up but my knees were pinned against the seat in front. I wriggled out and went to push Proud through, but he cried out, “Mind my leg-its broken. ” I got closer and helped him more steadily – I had to lever his leg past the frame of the window. Then this young fellow, without a groan or complaint, seized me by the hand and started to drag me through. Without his help I don’t think I would have got out. Luckily I had taken off my coat,the. first time I had done this when travelling in a plane. Even without it, it was a tight squeeze and nearly all my clothes were ripped.

By this time the plane was on fire, but someone had also pushed me from behind. Standing on the wing, the two of us then saw Westray in the cabin. We called to him and his head came through the window. He was a small chap and we had no difficulty helping him out, but he was burnt on the back and right hand before he got clear.

Proud looked back inside and heard groans, but there was no movement from Fountain in the rear seat on the other side. The cabin was by then full of flame and smoke. In fact, no sooner had we got Westray out than flames burst all over the seats where we had been sitting. We had to leap for our lives, jumping about five feet to the ground to get clear. Proud got down somehow; it must have been agony for him, but he never complained.

Westray and I helped Proud get well away from the fire – the heat was terrific. We came out of an inferno into heavy rain, moving to a safe distance about 30 yards down the steep slope. Proud then looked at his watch and said it was 1. 45pm – barely half an hour since we had taken off

We could only watch as the plane was reduced to a heap of twisted and charred wreckage. The flames raged for about 15 minutes, the plane burning itself out in about half an hour, but several trees caught. fire, with plenty of smoke, which lasted about five hours. I had no doubt that this would give a clue to a searching plane. At any moment I expected someone to appear over the

ridge tofind out what it was all about. As soon as it stopped raining, Binstead climbed to the top of the ridge himself to try and get their bearings. He was appalled to see how dense the forest was. It would be impossible for strangers to the bush to make their way out ofsuch country; far safer to wait for someone to come. None of them yet realised their utter isolation; it had all happened so soon after leaving Archerfield. Their brief time in flight and the glimpse of farms below them shortly before the crash, made it seem unlikely that help could be far away.

With Westray, Binstead then tried to make Proud comfortable. His leg was not a pretty sight; broken between the ankle and the knee, the bones were projecting through the skin. After that they got a fire going with fabric torn from the severed starboard wing. Binstead continued: The three of us stayed together throughout that first night. I think we were all stunned by the suddeness of the tragedy. We propped a log against the machine on which to rest Prouds leg and stop him from slipping down the slope. Logs had also to be used to prop ourselves up. All night we sat, scarcely talking. Our thoughts were on the men who had not got out. (The burnt bodies of the pilots in the remains of the cockpit with the other two passengers in the framework of the fuselage behind were plainly visible to them). We kept the. fire going to help attract attention, but about 2 o’clock in the morning, the finally put it out. When daylight came, I dressed Proud’s leg as best I could and bound it to keep the rain from stinging the wound. Proud, though in great pain, was cool. We really didn’t know what to do, but at about 6. 30am Westray stood up and said he could see a farm down in the valley with sheep on it. Proud and I told him there was no farm and no sheep and tried to urge him to calmer counsels, but he wouldn’t listen.

“I think I’ll beat it,” he said. finally. We told him not to go, but he went. The last we saw of him was when he disappeared behind a bush about 60 yards down the slope. I thought it risky for him to attempt it – he was English and no bushman. Still, he was game and so confident of bringing help that for a time it gave us fresh

heart. During the day Binstead salvaged a half gallon metal coffee flask from the wreckage – one that Boyden had carried with him on his flights – and set out to look for water. The nearest he could find was 300 yards down the almost sheer side of a nearby gorge. Binstead continued: I crawled down the mountainside to the stream once a day, pushing through scrub and vines that made it seem more like a 100 miles. My hands were cut to pieces and swollen with the poison of the thorns. My feet were justas bad. But while my strength lasted our water supply was assured – the flask held enough to last us a day. For food, all I could find were small red berries which bushmen now tell me were from Midginbil Palms. We began to eat them on about the third day. I didn’t know whether they were poisonous or not, but I watched the birds and thought if they could eat them, so could we. They tasted sweet and we took the risk. I don’t think they did us much good, but they did us no harm. But at the finish I was too weak to stand the rough climbing along the side of the gorge to collect the berries and had to husband my strength to get down for water and bring it back to Proud.

No one will ever know the sufferings of Proud-Jack, I now call him – during those nine days. Often he urged me to leave him – he thought he was done for: But he had saved my life and I told him I would stick to him whatever way things turned out.

There was never any panic. Jack and I talked it over and decided to conserve our strength as much as possible. We would take it in turn to cooee at half hour intervals. We kept this up for days, but never got any response. Jack busied himself with a rough sort of diary, but I kept a lookout for any possible searching planes. At the finish my main job was to try and keep the flies from getting to Prouds injured leg. Finally I ripped away a piece of charred fuselage and bent it into a shield which I placed over his leg. It was fairly effective.

As the days went by; Binstead found it increasingly difficult to make the trip for water. Like Proud, he was getting very weak. On Sunday 28 February, nine days after the crash, he went down the gorge early in the morning and got back about noon. He then attended as he could to Proud’s leg which had become decomposed and fly blown, then began gathering staghorns to make himself comfortable for the night.

At about 4 o’clock that afternoon he thought he heard a “cooee” and got Proud to cooee back as he had the stronger pair of lungs. At first they were not sure because they had been tricked many times by bird calls, but before long they became certain it was a man’s voice. A little later O’Reilly emerged from the bush above the wreckage. “You poor bastards!” he exclaimed with pity as he took in their condition. “I could have been here six days ago. ”

“I think he was more overcome than we were,” Binstead said. “He seemed to break up and couldn’t talk. To cheer him up, I asked who won the test match. ”

Though Binstead did not know it, O’Reilly’s silence was for a reason he could not share. As O’Reilly wrote later: I had been trying to collect my wits and decide on a plan of action. Returning home was out of the question- it was 22 miles away across impossible country and it would be well into the fifth day before I could bring back a doctor from that quarter: I knew that the crash was close to the NSW border (which runs along the crest of the MacPherson Range) and that somewhere down on the NSW side there were settlements. But the great Border Walls had only one point of accessibility in those parts which was almost impossible tofind from the high Queensland side. But out on the Queensland side (to the west), the settlements of Hillview, Lamington and Christmas Creek were relatively close; these would be my best mark.

I looked at Proud. He seemed already beyond medical help, but if there was a chance for him, a doctor would have to be on the spot within 24 hours. The thing to do was to get to civilisation by the quickest way. lf that gorge below was the extreme south branch of Christmas Creek, the first clearing would be about nine miles away. It was now 4. 30pm – no chance of getting out of the big timber before dark. My last words to them were, “I’ll bring back a doctor and a hundred men. ”

Initially following the way Binstead had taken to his supply of water, O’Reilly scrambled on down the steep mountainside towards the west and civilisation. For well over a mile down near vertical slopes in tangled forest, his keen bushman’s eye was able to follow the tracks left by Westray. Then he came to a precipice where the rushing mountain stream became a 20 foot waterfall. A mass of broken foliage on the cliff face told its own story – Westray, attempting to climb down, had fallen. Expecting to see his body on the rocky slope at the foot of the drop, O’Reilly instead found signs that the injured Westray had crawled on, somehow negotiating his way down the slimy rocks for another three quarters of a mile. Here O’Reilly came upon his body. It was in a sitting position against a rock, a cigarette between his fingers and a smashed ankle still dangling in the water where he had been bathing it. Westray had been dead several days.

The afternoon light was beginning to fade and O’Reilly raced on, down the treacherous stream bed, running, leaping, falling against rocks and getting up again, his fatigue and emotions numbed by the horror he had found and an overwhelming sense of urgency to bring help before the survivors died. Darkness fell and he drove himself on as ifin a dream. All sense of time left him and he felt only that he was running an obstacle race in a black underground river. At last, three hours after leaving the crash site, he emerged from the jungle into open forest and not long afterwards came upon a timber getter’s track. Suddenly in the darkness there rang out the crack of a rifle: it was a settler, shooting flying foxes. Astonished to see O’Reilly; he told him the nearest telephone was at Lamington, still nine miles away.

The settler caught horses for them and together they rode on through the night. Reaching a farm house where there was a utility truck, they drove on to Lamington, finally drawing up at the home of John Buchanan at 9pm. Buchanan, another experienced bushman and a well known identity, knew more about Lamington Plateau than anyone else in the district.

Enlisting the help of the local telephone exchange girl, O’Reilly quickly put atrunk line call through to an incredulous GA Robinson in Brisbane. Robinson immediately gave O’Reilly full authority to organise the rescue as he saw fit. The startling news was flashed around the nation. Later that night, in the Sydney suburb of Wahroonga, Proud’s elderly mother was too overcome to come to the telephone when the news was conveyed to her. Several miles away in Manly; Mrs Binstead had returned home that Sunday evening from church – a memorial service for her husband and other victims of the crash. She collapsed on being told he was alive.

Meanwhile, O’Reilly and Buchanan had quickly formulated a rescue plan. The closest available medical officer was Dr NALawlor of Beaudesert, nearly 30 miles to the north. He would be asked to join a party of picked bushmen at the foot of the ranges which O’Reilly; despite his now advanced fatigue, would lead back up the gorge he had come down – the most direct route to the wreckage. They would carry medical supplies, nourishment for the victims and waterproof coverings. Buchanan in the meantime, with every local man the nearby Hillview postmistress and the Beaudesert police could muster by telephone during the night, would push up a ridge on the western ramparts of the Lamington Plateau. At dawn they would begin cutting a track up the backbone of the range to the wreckage. The survivors would then be carried down this track on makeshift stretchers and transferred to ambulances from Beaudesert.

Getting on the road again at 1. 30am, O’Reilly met up with the doctor’s party, and an hour later they began the gruelling trek back up the mountain. The hazardous route down the gorge which the desperate O’Reilly had traversed in three hours in darkness, now took the party eight hours to retrace. It was 11 o’clock on the Monday morning by the time the exhausted rescuers finally reached the survivors.

Proud and Binstead were fed brandy, eggs and milk in small doses, afire was litto boil water, and Dr Lawlor attended to Proud’s leg. On O’Reilly’s advice, he had come prepared to amputate, but a little later he announced that the leg could be saved. A makeshift tent was erected on the plateau edge above the wreckage, and the survivors were carried up and made comfortable. By early afternoon they were dry for the first time in 10 days and sleeping under sedation.

By dark that Monday evening, the jungle track had been cut through to the crash site and latecomers told of the army of men assembled at the foot of the range to help carry the survivors out in the morning. A canteen had been set up there by local women; there were also newspaper reporters, photographers, newsreel camera men and radio announcers, all waiting to relay the gripping story to the outside world.

The last act in the drama began at dawn. Working in shifts of only 15 minutes because of the arduous mountain conditions in rain and mud, it took the rescuers 11 hours to bring Binstead and Proud down to the waiting ambulances. By\9pm on Tuesday; 2nd March – 11 days after the horror of the crash and fire, they were being cared for in the Beaudeserthospital- the finale to one of the most amazing search and rescue epics in aviation history.

The bodies of Boyden, Shepherd, Graham and Fountain were later buried at the site of the crash, and that of Westray by the mountain stream where O’Reilly had found him. It was evident to the Air Accidents Investigation Committee that although the last witness to see the Stinson in flight said his view of the aircraft was finally obscured by cloud, VH-UHH was not flying in cloud for any length of time. Rather,it was lost to view because it had passed above the cap of lower level cloud which the gale force wind, affected by orographic uplift, was producing in the lee of the ranges.

Probably intent on remaining in sight of the ground to enable him to makea visual approach to Lismore, Boyden apparently kept just below the cloudbase as VH-UHH crossed the ranges. In normal circumstances this should not have posed a problem; the main cloudbase was certainly not high, but it provided adequate clearance above the ridges which lay in the aircraft’s path. In fact the Mt Widgee peak, which the aircraft was seen to pass over, was actually higher than the ridge on which it crashed. The elevation of the crash site was approximately 3,000 feet, some 500 feet below the highest point of the Lamington Plateau.

Why then did VH-UHH crash? Why was Boyden not able to continue the flight safely through the corridor of airspace which lay between the main overcast and the top of the Lamington Plateau?

The answer is to be found in the severity of the southerly gale that was blowing at mountaintop height that day. Although strong south easterly winds were forecast for the northern section of the air route to Sydney, it was only in the days following the accident that the true force of the gale became manifest.

At Woolgoolga and Coffs Harbour on the northern NSW coast, heavy seas caused damage to wharf installations, while further north the motor vessel Barbinda was disabled by heavy seas and had to be taken in tow. Further out to sea, passengers aboard the P&0 liner Taiping sustained injuries from the violent motion of the ship, which the captain described as the worst he could remember.

On the slopes of the MacPherson Ranges themselves, according to O’Reilly and a number of his mountain neighbours, the weather was the worst experienced in years. “I can’t remember when the weather was as bad,” one told the Committee’s investigators. “It’s many years since we had such a terrific wind,” said another, while a third commented thatit was “a terrific galefor a plane to be out in. ”

And Captain J Kerr, the Airlines of Australia pilot who flew the Stinson VH-UGGon the Sydney/Brisbane service on the afternoon of the accident, said that he had encountered an exceptionally strong tailwind that day – around 70mph – from just south of the MacPherson Ranges.

Prepared as Boyden was for strong headwinds and turbulence over the mountains, it seems that he had no idea of the real wind conditions at altitude, nor of the magnitude of the downdraughts that existed on the lee side of the mountains from which the aircraft was approaching. Though the more northerly ridges of the MacPherson Ranges would have been sheltered to a degree, the Lamington Plateau on which the crash occurred, a flat-topped mountain wall rising near vertically for well over 3,000 feet from the coastal plain, was exposed to the full force of the gale. As VH-UHH continued southwards towards the plateau, the highest section of the MacPherson Range on the aircraft’s route with the exception of the nearby Mt Widgee peak, Boyden no doubt maintained as much height as the overcast cloud allowed. But here,it seems, the base of the cloud lay close to the mountain top, and there was but a small vertical clearance through which the aircraft had to squeeze if visual contact with the ground were to be maintained. Approaching the spur on which the crash occurred, VH-UHH would have fl. own directly into the invisible downrush of air on its lee side. Although Boyden apparently made a last minute attempt to turn back, it was too late and the aircraft was carried below the summit and into the waiting tree tops.

The dense tree canopy and underlying jungle growth seems to have cushioned the crash to a degree and the final impact was not as severe as might have been expected in such circumstances. From the evidence of Binstead and Proud, it is even tempting to speculate that if the aircraft had not caughtfire, most of those on board might have lived. But as it was the aftermath of the fire that led O’Reilly to the site, would they ever have been found in that vast inaccessible rainforest? In view of what befell Westray while attempting to walk out of the ranges, their fate, like that of Southern Cloud, might well have remained a mystery for decades to come, if not forever.

The above was an edited version of the original chapter relating to the loss of VH-UIIll from Air Crash Vol I, published by Aerospace Publications and written by Macarthur Job.