The Only Thing To Do

One incident that took place in Bass Strait in August 1944 (which I suppose could be regarded as somewhat “late in the early years”), illustrates the effect of these shortcomings, when everything did not go “according to Hoyle”.

The flight, in Australian National Airways’s twin-engined Stinson A2W, VH‑UYY, left from Essendon for Tasmania, with landings scheduled for King Island, Smithton, Wynyard, Launceston and Flinders Island, then returning to Essendon by the same route – nearly eight hours flying.

Despite deteriorating weather, our flight proceeded normally as far as King Island and Smithton. But because of prohibitively adverse conditions at Wynyard, we departed Smithton intending to skip the landing there, and instead follow the coast visually to the mouth of the Tamar, so we could continue up thatto Launceston.

But as the flight progressed, with a lowering cloud base and extremely poor visibility, it became impossible to maintain visual contact, even flying low. So we decided to climb to 3000ft, continue to Launceston on instruments, and carry out a let-down using the comparatively primitive radio compass we had and the Launceston ‘homer’ (read NDB today). Under these conditions, having regard for the fact that we carried only minimum fuel, it was essential to obtain an up-to-the-minute weather report from Launceston to determine if we could achieve this safely.

Having positioned ourselves over Low Head (the eastern headland at the mouth of the Tamar), using the broadcasting

“ But the ship provided us with assistance we hadn’t counted on – the wake of the steamer was quite visible as we flew inbound and proved an excellent visual aid! ”

station transmitter there to home on, we called Launceston to pass our position report and obtain the required weather.

At this stage, however, we found we had suffered a complete radio communication failure – confirmed by the absence of any voltage indication and the lack of any reply to our transmissions.

You can imagine the operational difficulty that now faced us. To go on to Launceston without the assurance of a successful IFR approach, and without being able to transmit our position, left us facing two hazards: insufficient fuel to divert to anywhere else if conditions did not permit an instrument approach; and the possibility of collision with other aircraft.

We decided to let down from Low Head on a northerly heading out to sea, hoping conditions would allow us to establish visual contact over the water.

From there, we could fly a visual approach back to Low Head emergency aerodrome, again using the broadcasting station, to establish an inbound track.

As we broke out of cloud at low level on our outbound track, we caught sight of the good ship Nairana, which had just steamed out of the Tamar estuary northbound for Melbourne – in fact we nearly collided with her masts! But the ship provided us with assistance we hadn’tcounted on – the wake of the steamer was quite visible as we flew inbound and proved an excellent visual aid! The beach to the east of Low Head lighthouse hove into sight through the rain, but visibility was extremely poor – only about half a mile. Although Low Head aerodrome lay only one or two miles inland, and was only 20ft AMSL, it was completely enshrouded in cloud and drizzle, making any sort of approach impossible.

As luck would have it, the tide was right out, leaving a wide expanse of hard smooth sand. Making the only decision now possible, we began a turn to the left and, keeping the beach in sight with some difficulty, but assisted by the line of breakers, we lined up on a reciprocal heading into wind and landed on the beach.

Our passengers were somewhat bewildered by this unexpected arrival, but were quite philosophical when we explained the situation. Des Moran-Hilford, the first officer, set out on foot for the lighthouse to telephone Launceston, advise them of our plight, and request a taxi to take the passengers into Launceston.

It so happened that Captain Ivan Holyman, the company’s managing director, was en route at the time from Hobart to Melbourne, on board a DC-2 with Fred Patterson as captain. I learned later that, on learning of our beach landing, he asked Fred to go down to appraise the situation. Needless to say, the attempt was unsuccessful and he discontinued the descent without getting below cloud, though we heard them close overhead.

Later on, I rang Melbourne myself from the lighthouse and pointed out that things were getting a bit critical – the result of continuing bad weather and the relentless incoming tide. Doug Way, the senior route captain, insists that I said “What will I do?” and that he replied “Get that bloody aircraft off the beach before the tide gets it!” About half an hour later, the cloud had lifted just enough for us to takeoff and get across the sandhills to Low Head aerodrome. By this time the tide was coming in and our wheels were splashing through the wash of the waves as we took off! We landed at Low Head and laboriously hand-pumped two 44-gallon drums of fuel into the tanks. After getting another weather report, we flew the aircraft to Launceston, conditions there turning out to be quite reasonable after all.

Abandoning our Launceston-Flinders Island leg, we flew back to Essendon viKing Island. Feeling rather pleased with myself for achieving such a successful outcome to a very hazardous situation, I telephoned the operations manager, Laurie Johnson. I was rudely brought back to earth by his curt statement that unscheduled landings were not appreciated by the company – in fact they were frowned upon! The sad epilogue to this tale is that some six months later, the same aircraft suffered a catastrophic inflight structural failure over Redesdale, Victoria, while operating a scheduled trip to Kerang, the first leg of the Melbourne-Broken Hill service, with a full load of passengers.

There were no survivors.

VH-UYY was one of four Stinson ‘A’ airliners imported by Airlines of Australia in the mid 1930s. Originally three-engined aircraft, two were destroyed in accidents in Queensland, one of them, VH-UHH, becoming the subject of the extraordinary rescue epic described in the late Bernard O’Reilly’s book, Green Mountains. The two remaining aircraft, VH-UKK and VH-UYY were modified by Australian National Airways to a

Logbook Tales

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com. au, ph 02 6280 0111). twin-engined configuration, using more powerful Pratt & Whitney Wasp engines.

VH-UKK was grounded after the Redesdale accident and soon vanished into obscurity.

H H H

As a boy of 14, the late Hughie Bond paid the princely sum of a guinea for his first flight in a Farman Shorthorn, piloted by the legendary Major Harry Shaw, one of the number of ex-AFC pilots largely responsible for the beginnings of Australian civil aviation in the early post-WW1 era.

He later learned to fly at Essendon, and in 1937 joined Australian National Airways. He flew DH. 84 Dragons and DH. 89 Rapides, and served as a first officer on DH. 86s. He then flew with Ray Parer’s goldfields air service in New Guinea, escaping with his life when the Boeing 40H4 biplane he was flying crashed and burnt in the ranges en route to Wau. Badly injured and posted missing for several days, he was finally rescued by a ground party.

Rejected as medically unfit for the RAAF in 1940, he joined the Flying Doctor Service, operating DH. 84s from Broken Hill until 1943, when he joined the Department of Civil Aviation as a Flight Checking Officer – the then-equivalent of an Air Traffic Controller.

Dogged by ill-health, he was unable to gain public service acceptance as a permanent officer, but finally managed to convince the Department he was fit enough to continue flying! He re-joined ANA, gaining a command on the recently modified Stinsons, which the company had inherited from Airlines of Australia. In 1950 he transferred to Ansett Airlines, where he flew DC-3s, Convairs and later, Viscounts and F27s.

He finally retired in 1960 with a total of 17,500 hours.