Air Safety

Despite its relative isolation, the ways of the little township reflected the conventions of the day. Its pecking order was clearly defined, and for my parents, life was probably pleasant enough. The gracious bank residence where they lived in modest style boasted its own acetylene gas plant for lighting, complete with miniature gasometer, they had a live-in housemaid (17 shillings and sixpence a week, plus keep!), my mother held formal afternoon tea parties, and my father’s position was one of respect. I recall a bridge evening when, greatly privileged, I was permitted out of bed to join the adults for supper, the men immaculate in black ties, the women elegant in evening dress. So much for Ocker Australia!

In the country in the early 1930s, aeroplanes were a rarity. The mere sound of one (invariably a single engined biplane) droning somewhere in the distance was enough to bring the populace out of doors to scan the sky. And when one actually landed in somebody’s paddock on the outskirts of the town, it would unfailingly draw a hastily assembled crowd. Occasionally a “barnstormer” would arrive, usually in a DH.60 Cirrus Moth, and proceed to earn some pocket money by taking the more adventurous of the locals for joy rides at ten shillings a head.

One particularly exciting day, ANA Ltd’s Avro 10 trimotor VH-UMI, Southern Moon, the sister ship to the yet to be ill fated Southern Cloud, flew low overhead to drop newspapers, a trial run for a daily delivery scheme that for some reason never materialised. To the disappointment of all, Southern Moon did not attempt to land. Instead, Mr Forrester, the local newsagent, mounted astride his Indian motorcycle with sidecar, collected the bundled papers from where they fell between the creek and the railway line.

But the occasion to which I first allude was an even more notable event, one that had been advertised well in advance. This particular Saturday, the township was to be honoured with a visit by Captain L H Holden, MC, AFC, wartime fighter pilot and instructor, who would be flying the DH.61 Canberra — an aeroplane that could carry no less than eight passengers in an enclosed cabin! Not only this — Canberra was to be accompanied by a new side-by-side two seater Blackburn Bluebird biplane, VH-UOG. Though the fact escaped me at my tender age, both aeroplanes belonged to Australian Aerial Services, the operational wing of the Larkin Aircraft Supply Company in Melbourne. Flights would be available in both aircraft.

Called the Giant Moth by the de Havilland company, the DH.61 was designed in the late 1920s “for colonial use”, as the magazine, The Aeroplane, would have it. Intended as a replacement for the successful DH.50s operated by WAS Airways, Qantas and Larkins’, its design followed the same general arrangement — a two bay single engined biplane with the pilot seated in an open cockpit behind the fully enclosed cabin. But it was a good deal bigger, with seats for up to eight as against only four in the DH.50, and powered by a substantial Bristol Jupiter XI, a geared radial engine developing 500hp (373kW).

Without doubt it was the biggest aeroplane most people in the district had seen. So much so that Captain Holden was able to command the princely sum of a pound per head (a lot of money in 1930) for rides in the luxury of Canberra’s cabin, as against the going rate of ten bob in the open cockpit of the more spartan Bluebird. I know, because Gladys, my mother’s housemaid with whom I was quite matey, smartly attired for the occasion in a two piece brown costume and matching cloche hat with feather, was pleased to cough up that amount (more than her week’s wage) for the privilege!

The weather smiled, what seemed to me a great crowd of people turned up, and the gleaming silver aeroplanes proceeded to do their stuff. Childhood memories remain clear — the seemingly vast bulk of the DH.61; my father lifting me up to show me “where the man sat” in the high set open cockpit on the humped back of the fuselage, seemingly far above our heads; passengers stepping up into the cabin through the port side door; the Jupiter’s huge and fearsome looking four bladed wooden propeller; the engines of both aircraft revving momentarily as they were shut down after each flight. So taken was I with the glories of the Giant Moth that I paid the Genet Major engined Bluebird scant other attention.

I begged my parents to let me “go up”, as the idiom of the day had it, but they were not encouraging. Though I was disappointed, their refusal came as no great surprise. I had not really expected such indulgence, for my mother “hated aeroplanes” and my less passionate father mistrusted barnstormers, probably not without good reason, considering the reputation many of them had gained for themselves in the “pre-control era” immediately following the war years. Not that my parents had always practised what they now preached — both of them had “been up” in their younger days, my father in the gunner’s seat of an Australian Flying Corps Bristol Fighter in France during World War 1, my mother in an Avro 504K flown by F H (Frank) Roberts from a Queensland cattle station in 1920.

“I’d let you go up with Kingsford Smith,” my mother told me by way of concession. This was by no means as fantastic as it now seems, for the legendary Smithy was himself still barnstorming from time to time at that stage. To my regret, her promise never had the opportunity of fulfilment.

As it happened, my parent’s caution was vindicated before the day was out. Late in the afternoon, during one of Canberra’s many flights with a capacity load of passengers, its Jupiter engine gave trouble and Holden had to make a forced landing back into the paddock from which the aircraft were operating. Watching Canberra touching down in a taildown wheeler, I did not of course realise it marked the end of the day’s flying for the big biplane — and the end of my childhood experience of this historic aircraft.

Just what the problem was, I cannot say for certain. There was talk at the time that the engine had seized, though this is probably questionable. What I do know now is that geared Jupiter XI engines, unlike their lower powered predecessors, were notoriously unreliable, as West Australian Airways discovered to their cost when they replaced their DH Hercules trimotors with twin engined Vickers Viastras on the Adelaide/Perth service in the early 1930s.

Whatever the engineering truths of the failure, the whole episode did nothing to dispel the perceived family wisdom that aviation was an uncertain and often dangerous business. Despite the successful inter-capital services that Kingsford Smith and Charles Ulm’s ANA Ltd were now operating daily between Melbourne, Sydney and Brisbane, the view persisted strongly in our household that aeroplanes, as a means of travel, were best avoided. Yet my own personal fascination with flight remained undiminished — as did my secret adulation of the likes of Captain Les Holden!

A few months later in March 1931, fate further decreed this adult view of aviation not unreasonable when ANA’s Southern Cloud disappeared without trace after departing for Melbourne in bad weather. The mystery was first announced to the township via its one and only “wireless set”, an early broadcast receiver located in the bar of the two storey Royal Hotel. Oddly, considering the ultimate significance of this first major Australian airline accident, the news did not seem to have enormous impact at the time, at least in our little community. The simple explanation was that people regarded fatal accidents as inevitable in aviation. Those whose lives and work was bound up with aeroplanes had to expect tragedy from time to time — it was as straightforward as that. In any case, the exalted affairs of ANA Ltd seemed light years distant — none of those affected by the disaster were known to anyone in the township personally.

For me, the real crunch was to come 18 months later. In September 1932, I was shocked to be told that my now legendary childhood hero, Captain Holden, had “lost his life” in a flying accident. He and “two other men” had been killed when they flew into a hillside. Their aeroplane “just came out of a cloud and went straight into a hill,” my mother explained. “They all get killed if they keep at it long enough,” my parents philosophised.

This event, far more than the loss of Southern Cloud, gave me cause to think furiously. If the gallant Captain Holden whom I had seen flying Canberra with such calm aplomb could be killed so easily too, was there perhaps something in what my parents avowed?

As is often the way with lay versions of flying accidents, the truth of the matter was somewhat more involved. In fact, the unfortunate Holden had been killed through no fault of his own.

In May 1931, having bought Canberra from Larkin’s, Holden shipped himself and the aircraft to New Guinea, where he secured a contract with the NG Administration for air freighting operations between Salamaua and the goldfields at Wau. The following year in August, pilot T O’Dea, who had joined Holden at Salamaua, damaged Canberra in a takeoff accident. Holden promptly returned to Australia to obtain a new set of DH.61 wings, as well to buy another aircraft for his expanding business. During his stay, he had occasion to be travelling as a passenger from Brisbane to Lismore in New England Airways’ Puss Moth, VH-UPM, flown by Ralph Virtue, younger brother of the company’s well known chief pilot, Keith Virtue.

Approaching Byron Bay in rain and poor visibility, the aircraft was seen to crash into a hillside, killing all on board instantly. Predictably, the Air Accidents Investigation Committee ascribed a cause usual to such circumstances — pilot error in pressing on too far into deteriorating weather. But some time later, after reviewing a number of Puss Moth disasters in various parts of the world, a panel of Australian aeronautical engineers demanded the case be reopened. It was then found that the accident was but one of eight involving structural failure of Puss Moth wings as a result of flutter in turbulence. Modifications developed by de Havilland in England subsequently corrected the problem.

Of all this I knew nothing at the time, of course, and it would probably have been beyond the ken of a small boy in any case. But if my family imagined the untimely demise of the acclaimed Captain Holden would permanently dampen their elder son’s susceptibility to the fascination of flight, they reckoned without the possibility of further inspiration.

One fine morning not long afterwards, another aeroplane unexpectedly came over the township, bringing out the inevitable crowd of the interested and curious. A single engined biplane, though not the usual little Moth, it circled, dropping lower and lower, until it was evident to those watching with mounting anticipation that its pilot was selecting a place to land. It finally made an approach into the north on the eastern side of the town, disappearing from view as it descended behind the low hill beyond the paddock that backed on to the cow yard at the rear of our garden. Scores of excited people now set off in hot pursuit, climbing through fences and running over the brow of the hill towards where the machine appeared to have landed. Casting all childish caution aside, I followed hard on their heels, my friend Erny, the boy next door whose father was the Postmaster, running with me.

Puffing hard, we reached the top of the hill well behind the others, but were daunted to find the aeroplane nowhere in sight — it had actually landed beyond the next hill, a good deal further away than we bargained. Boldly, we kept on, finally reaching the machine, now surrounded by the small crowd, quite out of breath.

Though the aircraft had been on the ground for some minutes, its engine was still ticking over and the three leather helmeted occupants were still in their seats, one of them holding his goggles in one hand and supporting his head with the other. “One of the men was sick,” a bystander informed us, by way of explanation.

Even to my young eyes then, the aeroplane looked rather old fashioned. Certainly bigger than a Moth, it had the usual two open cockpits, but the front one seated two passengers side by side, with the pilot on his own behind them. However, its wing arrangement was what seemed most unusual, the upper mainplane having a shorter span than the lower, so that the interplane struts canted outwards from top to bottom. The resulting overall impression of drooping wings was accentuated by the triangular structure supporting the centre section above the fuselage. Angular tail surfaces and large diameter, wire spoked landing wheels, with small section tyres, completed the machine’s venerable appearance. I also noticed with astonishment that the pilot wore horn rimmed spectacles beneath his flying goggles, a thing I could never have imagined upon so heroic a figure!

As we all stood gawking, he leant forward and shouted a few words to his passengers above the noise of the engine. With that he waved the people vigorously out of the way, opened the throttle enough to get the machine moving, and taxied away to our right towards the southern corner of the paddock. Here the aeroplane turned around, paused for a moment, then began its takeoff diagonally across the field into the northeast. Finally, its engine noise now muted by the distance, and its tail almost directly towards us, it lifted steadily into the calm morning air.

For me, watching the ungainly looking machine transformed into a thing of grace as it rose, defying gravity, against the background of the distant hills, was a magic moment. For good and all, I was hooked!

But as I made my way back home with lightness of heart, I encountered my mother, driving the back streets in the family Baby Austin. She was looking for me and was far from pleased. Where had I been? (as if she didn’t know) How dare I run away without permission, I was to get into the car immediately; I would be driven straight home where I would be punished for my disobedience.

I was indignant and thought my mother’s attitude highly unreasonable in the circumstances. But the threatened punishment didn’t seem to matter. I had experienced — tasted would be a better description — something I would never forget. Subtly that morning, I had caught what my wife still calls “the disease”. Notwithstanding the fate of Captain Holden and so many others, this was surely for me! Whatever the obstacles, to fly (preferably without crashing!), was what I had to do. Indeed, in years yet undreamed of, it would become a profession as well as a passion — not least the “anti-crashing” bit!

In all those years that thankfully did follow much later, I often wondered what type of aeroplane it was that had so inspired me that fateful morning long ago. By default I concluded it must have been a Genairco, this being the only design I knew of with the cockpit layout I remembered. But photographs I had seen of Genaircos, and indeed an actual example of the type is in the Air World museum at Wangaratta, did not sit squarely with the image from my childhood memory — what I can only describe as a distinctive “daring young men in their flying machines” look. It was not in fact until I was researching for photographs to illustrate Air Crash, Volume 1, that I happened upon a picture taken at Sydney’s Mascot aerodrome in about 1930. There, standing on the apron in front of Air Travel Ltd’s hangar, was the very aeroplane I remembered so well!

The caption told me that it was an Alexander Eaglerock, VH-UGK, an aircraft of US manufacture (rare in Australia in those days), the only one of its type on the register, and that it was normally flown by one Rupert King. This information later triggered another thought: somewhere, sometime, I had seen a photograph of this Rupert King. The picture had shown the head and shoulders of a man wearing heavy horn-rimmed glasses, its caption explaining that despite poor eyesight, Rupert King had been a well known Mascot based commercial pilot in the years between the wars.

A hunt for further information finally bore fruit in the Aviation Historical Society’s Journal, Volume 26, No 2. In an excellent piece by Sydney historian, Greg Banfield, it told me Rupert King was an Australian who learnt to fly at Hendon in 1917 and served with the Royal Flying Corps in Palestine. After the war, he instructed with the NSW Section of the Australian Aero Club, before founding Air Travel Ltd in 1928.

In addition to the OX-5 powered Alexander Eaglerock, his company had a DH.60X Moth, VH-UHB, doing instruction, charter work and aerial photography. The Eaglerock, according to King, “was very slow, but safe and easy to handle … a good reliable aeroplane”. King and his company did much to increase public understanding of the capability of aircraft in charter operations, but like so many pioneering enterprises in that difficult era, finally became a casualty of the Great Depression. Barnfield’s story concluded with the note that King suffered from myopia, hence his requirement for thick-lensed spectacles when flying.

The jigsaw puzzle was coming together — after a lifetime of wondering, I at last knew the identity and background of the man responsible for my “old captivity” — and all that it had begun as a result. Little could he have realised what he was setting in train when he put the Alexander Eaglerock down in the paddock at Cumnock that morning to provide a few minutes respite for an airsick passenger!

Incidentally, contrary to my parent’s early prognostications to the effect that “they all get killed if they keep at it long enough”, Rupert King’s life did not end in an aeroplane accident. He died of natural causes in Sydney as recently as 1987 — at the ripe old age of 92!

*An Old Captivity was the title of an imaginative novel by author, aeronautical engineer and pilot, Nevil Shute.