The Fabulous Flying Mrs Miller

by Carol Baxter

  Chubbie already knew from Bill’s preparations that night landings were to be avoided at all costs. The Red Rose had no lights on its panel, no night-flying instruments and no landing lights to illuminate the path ahead or to show the ground below. A crash-landing was a serious possibility—a disastrous way to commence their adventure, a deadly way, perhaps. Yet Bill seemed strangely unfazed. He looked over the cockpit rim on one side and then the other until he spotted a suitable field. As if his eyes could see through the darkness, he touched down on the bumpy ground and taxied safely to a stop.

  She was impressed.

  England’s relations with France over the last hundred years had been a study in ambivalence: enemies to begin with, allies at the end, with intervening periods of wary contempt. French customs officials at Paris’s Le Bourget airport cast suspicious gazes over Chubbie and Bill when they landed there the next morning. Learning of the flight’s destination, their looks of wariness changed to astonishment. They asked to see the pair’s luggage. Eyebrows rose even higher. A 12,000-mile trip to Australia, of all places, with a female passenger and virtually no luggage? They stared at Chubbie in amazement.

  French Imperial Airways pilots gathered around them, intrigued by the tiny British plane. Bill took one of the pilots up for a short demonstration joy ride and the French pilots reciprocated by taking them out to celebrate. Surrounded by air rich with the aromas of coffee and pastries, with the majestic Eiffel Tower stark against the skyline, the two visiting fliers had a Parisian evening to remember, one that ended with them paddling barefoot in the cool fountain waters outside the Folies Bergère.

  It was the type of merriment Chubbie had imagined when she proposed joining the flight.

  Fog again for the third day in a row. Chubbie decided that she and Bill must be fog magnets. By 10 am, visibility had improved enough for them to take off. Soon afterwards though, fog engulfed them again. It was eerie and disconcerting, almost claustrophobic, and its chilly dampness clung to them in their unprotected cockpits.

  Bill increased his altitude to ensure they cleared the cloud-sheathed mountains. Unable to climb above the fog layer, he maintained his course by compass alone. As long as its needle remained true, and the wind didn’t push them into areas where the mountain peaks pierced the heavens, and engine trouble didn’t force them down, they might yet outfly the fog layer.

  Near Dijon, a rain-burst lashed the plane. Water droplets ricocheted off the propeller. Although their faces were largely protected by their windscreens, the rainwater sluiced into their open cockpits, leaving them cold, sodden and miserable. Bill dropped lower and lower, down to the dangerously low altitude of 100 feet, still unable to see the ground clearly and hoping it wouldn’t rise up suddenly to become a hill or mountain. By the time the clouds thinned over Dijon, he had flown nearly blind for two-and-a-half exhausting hours. They landed for lunch and a breather before taking off again for Lyons, their stop for the night. To their surprise and delight, word of their adventure had spread and a crowd had gathered at Lyons to welcome them.

  Day four and the weather continued to test Chubbie’s optimism. As they flew from Lyons to Marseilles down the picturesque Rhône Valley, violent cross-winds assaulted them. The wind howled through the wings and struts, slamming against the plane from one direction then another, throwing it around so violently, so terrifyingly, she wondered if its nuts and bolts could withstand the strain.

  They couldn’t.

  The strut bolts on the port side sheared. As the Avian lurched up and down in one particularly rough air pocket, the flying wires between the upper and lower wings slackened. These bolts and wires held the two wings together and gave the Red Rose its rigid wing structure and inherent strength. Any weakening allowed the two wings to move independently, creating strain on the remaining struts and wires. Unless the wind eased soon, the plane might be pulled apart.

  As she clung to the side of her cockpit, the plane suddenly plummeted. The freefall shot her from her seat and slammed her into the centre section between the cockpits. Only the sturdiness of her seatbelt and buckle kept her from being thrown from the plane. They kept falling—100 feet . . . 200 . . . 300.

  Their freefall ended as suddenly as it had begun, as if a parachute had miraculously bloomed in the sky above them. She dropped down into her seat again with an almighty whack. Looking around her with relief, she tugged thankfully at her seatbelt, a timely reminder of the importance of a secure buckle.

  Eventually, the cross-winds eased. As they neared the Mediterranean seaport of Marseilles, the sun peeped from behind the clouds. For the first time she could see patches of blue sky, a hopeful omen after four days of depressing greyness.

  They hadn’t planned to stop for the night at Marseilles but they needed time to repair the plane. In the past, Bill would have alighted and walked off, leaving the repairs and maintenance in the hands of the RAF mechanics. Now the two of them were solely responsible for the daily service, a task that usually took about four hours.

  Chubbie’s main jobs were to clean the plugs and to filter the petrol to prevent water entering the fuel tanks. Filtering petrol was a ghastly job. Once she found something to stand on, she would pour fuel from a can through a chamois leather into the tanks. It didn’t always make it. She usually wore bright red petrol burns on her skin for hours afterwards, more so when the weather was windy.

  Bill had initially seemed surprised at her willingness to help, as if he had expected her to stomp her foot and say ‘No!’—that she had paid her passage and refused to get her hands dirty. When he realised she wasn’t just taking control of the joystick for a lark, that she wanted to learn everything about piloting and maintaining a plane and was willing to do whatever was needed, dirty or otherwise, his attitude towards her began to change.

  Men had always been drawn to her bubbly effervescence. On this trip, though, when they encountered her intelligence and pragmatism, her courage and adventurousness, many men began to look at her differently. Bill was among them. During the preparations for their flight, when he saw her transforming his dream into reality, his look of respect had seemed to turn inward, as if he were seeing a movie reel of what the future could hold. Now, as each day of their journey passed, as she filtered the horrid petrol and climbed back into the cockpit despite more fog and rain and wind, and as she survived each life-threatening experience without screaming that this wasn’t the holiday she had expected, that she wanted to go home—in anything but a plane!—she glimpsed another look in his eyes. It was unexpected.

  She helped him re-bolt and tighten the strut screws. In the previous few days, it had become increasingly obvious why long-distance pilots needed planes that could be easily maintained and why the pilots themselves required more than just basic mechanical skills. It would have cost too much money to pay for assistance everywhere they landed. Moreover, if Bill was correct, in many of their future landing places there wouldn’t be any mechanics to pay, whatever the cost.

  Bill used the turnbuckles to ‘true up’ the rigging. This involved tightening and loosening the wires until the paired wings returned to the correct rigging angle, a critical part of the plane’s aeronautical design. As they worked, French aviators came to assist them, offering an international helping hand and a spirit of friendship.

  Afterwards, these newfound French friends took them into Marseilles to see the sights. They ate at a peasant restaurant where hens strutted between the tables and climbed over their feet. Chubbie was ravenous, as always. Bill refused to carry stores on the plane, telling her that every ounce mattered, that the plane needed fuel more than her stomach. The restaurant staff brought sardines and onions with thick hunks of bread and cheese and vinegar-like French wine. It was their final chance to savour French food and culture. The next day, they would pass into Mussolini’s Italy.

  Chubbie had known that the foul weather wouldn’t miraculously improve when they crossed the invisible border, but she hadn’t expected it to deteriorate. The fo
g was now so thick she couldn’t see the plane’s nose. It masked the mountains that swept all the way down to the shoreline. Bill was forced to fly at 200 feet above the grey Mediterranean waters, always keeping the shoreline in sight so they could ditch into shallow water and swim to safety if anything went seriously wrong. When they reached Pisa, he mischievously circled the town’s leaning landmark, astonishing the tourists tramping the unbarricaded ledges.

  Blinding rain replaced fog on the leg to Rome, again forcing them out from the shoreline. As Chubbie hugged her soaking body in a futile attempt to keep out the cold, she wondered if she would have to fly all the way back to Australia before she saw much sunlight. She hadn’t expected such appalling weather. It was only halfway through autumn.

  When she had lain in her bed imagining their trip, her thoughts had focused on the sights and exciting experiences she would have in the places they were to visit. Six days of flying had taught her that their airborne experiences were the most dramatic. In fact, the tales she could now tell would deter most people from climbing into a cockpit. Yet, strangely, she herself wasn’t deterred. Indeed, she was having so much fun she wondered how she could ever return to the boredom of married domesticity.

  Rome bore an ancient splendour, with the bridges spanning the Tiber looking like clips cutting a silver ribbon into segments. Naples, the next day, had a different magnificence: the looming presence of Mount Vesuvius as a backdrop.

  Upon landing at Naples, they received a warm welcome from the local airmen, as warm as the welcomes at Pisa and Rome. Two years previously, Italy’s most famous aviator, Francesco de Pinedo, had flown a seaplane from Italy to Australia and had been treated with such kindness that the Italians were keen to reciprocate. They were even happier to be of assistance when the Australian was a pretty young woman.

  Shortly before they were due to depart the next morning, she was sitting in the rear cockpit hand-pumping petrol when she caught her knuckles on the plane’s interior wall. Blood dripped over her hand. When she showed her new friends, they flocked to her aid with a bottle of iodine.

  A moment later, Italo Balbo came striding towards them. Soon to become Mussolini’s heir apparent, Balbo was a National Fascist Party Blackshirt and Secretary of State for Air. He was endeavouring to build up Italy’s air force, not only because of his own enthusiasm for aviation but because his empire-building leader saw it as a means of achieving his planned conquests.

  When Balbo reached the Red Rose, he shook Bill’s hand and offered him every success in his venture. He turned to Chubbie. Before she realised what he was about to do, he gallantly bent over her hand and kissed it. When he raised his head, blood and iodine stained his mouth. Aghast, she stared into the eyes of this powerful Blackshirt, who had the ear of a dictator renowned for his acts of brutality.

  Balbo smiled.

  ‘The age of chivalry is not dead,’ she would later write with great relief in her journal.

  At Catania, Sicily, a special messenger arrived with a note from Mussolini, offering his best wishes for a successful trip. They stashed it among their luggage. They already had the words ‘Viva Mussolini’ splashed across the Avian, written by Italian airmen who worshipped Il Duce. They hoped these advertisements for Italy’s ruthless dictator wouldn’t create problems for them once they left Italy.

  The lonely British outpost of Malta, rising defiantly from the Mediterranean Sea, was their last European stopping point. They stayed for two nights, allowing themselves enough time to thoroughly overhaul their plane before the lengthy sea crossing ahead.

  The weather had finally turned in their favour when they took to the air at 9 am on Monday, 24 October. Three RAF seaplanes followed them as they began their journey over the Mediterranean’s sparkling waters. Two cruisers were also positioned at different locations along their flight path to render assistance in the event of trouble. The Red Rose chugged steadily through miles of clear sky as the rising sun wrapped them in its crisp light and welcome warmth. Around midday, without experiencing even the slightest hint of trouble, they crossed the Mediterranean’s southern shore into Libya.

  After flying 2000 miles, they had left the relative familiarity and safety of Europe for the hazards of North Africa. They had always known that if disaster was to befall them it would most likely happen after they left Europe. However, their conversations with Italy’s airmen had left them even more concerned about the next legs of their journey. Inclement weather and engine trouble would be the least of the perils they might face.

  Chapter Five

  Politically, Libya was a sporadically erupting volcano. For centuries, conquering armies had tramped across its sands. In 1911, its most recent conquerors, the Italians, had used planes to drop bombs on its former occupiers, the Ottoman Turks, with brutal efficiency. It was the first nation to turn aircraft into weapons of war. Italy renamed Libya ‘Italian North Africa’ and began transplanting its own citizens—Italian-speaking Christians—onto territory Libyans saw as the land of Islam. The Italian occupying forces also ruthlessly slaughtered and subjugated the native population, particularly after Mussolini’s ascension in 1922. Thus, the Red Rose was flying into territory in which a plane itself was a symbol of an unwanted conqueror’s power and brutality, while its crew—white and Christian—were considered infidels by the increasingly wrathful Islamists.

  Italy’s airmen had warned Chubbie and Bill about unrest in Libya, saying, ‘If you have to make a forced landing anywhere along the coast, you are in for a bad time. So, whatever else you do, take our advice and fly with the Union Jack on your machine.’

  Appreciating the advice, Chubbie and Bill had searched Malta’s shops and purchased a little silk automobile flag, which they tied to one of their plane’s struts. If any disgruntled Libyans came within shooting range, they would hopefully see the distinctive red, white and blue British flag and hold their fire.

  The Italians had also told them they would be welcome at Italian airfields, which were positioned on military bases dotted along the Mediterranean coastline. One was at Tripoli, their first North African stopover.

  Tripoli’s airmen mobbed them, handing Chubbie a flower bouquet so large it dwarfed her diminutive frame. They organised an afternoon tea dance, with delicious cakes and lively music. She danced and flirted with the smitten airmen, enjoying herself tremendously except for the mortification of having to entertain the men in her dirty breeches.

  That evening, they dined with the British Consul, who had grave concerns about the political situation. The Italians were building a road from Benghazi to Tripoli, which had infuriated the Libyans. A skirmish had broken out—directly under the Red Rose’s flightpath—so stray bullets posed another threat.

  Chubbie already knew about the danger of deliberate potshots. When Alan Cobham had flown to Australia two years previously, an angry desert Bedouin had fired a shot at his plane which, by an unbelievable stroke of bad luck, had killed his engineer. That the Red Rose might find itself flying over a battle zone was a peril she hadn’t previously considered.

  The next morning, Bill turned east to follow the Imperial Airways route along the North African coast, climbing high to keep away from danger. He and Chubbie felt apprehensive about landing in Khoms (Al-Khums), seventy-five miles from Tripoli, where they were to collect fuel and oil supplies. As it happened, the Libyans welcomed them as warmly as their conquerors had.

  From Khoms, Bill’s plan was to fly directly to Benghazi, however a strong headwind forced him to re-examine his maps. He decided instead to stop at Sirte, another coastal Italian air force base some 160 miles from Khoms.

  As they flew over ochre desert, over seas of sand and scimitar-shaped dunes, they spotted a huddle of tents and congregating Libyans. From high in the sky, they looked like toys in a children’s sandpit. Bill stuck his head over the side to inspect them more closely. Seeing four sharp puffs of smoke, he pulled his head back in, relieved he had maintained his high altitude.

  The headwind tu
rned into a forty-five-mile-an-hour gale. It picked up the sand and whirled it around them like a maelstrom. In their unprotected cockpits, the fine granules—more dust than sand at this height—worked their way into their teeth and ears and hair and down the backs of their clothes, chafing like sandpaper. They dismissed the personal discomfort as annoying but not dangerous. More worrying was the thought of granules working their way into the carburettor. If the engine failed, they would be forced down onto Libyan soil away from the safety of an air base.

  Willing the engine to continue humming steadily, they battled through the sandstorm. When Bill calculated they were two hours overdue, he decided that the headwind couldn’t have slowed them down that much, and that the sandstorm must have blinded them. He turned around and headed back the way they had come. Spotting a village, he prayed for a favourable welcome and dropped down to ask for directions. It turned out that they hadn’t missed Sirte after all. They still had another hour to travel. They reached the base just as dusk was falling.

  For the first time, they faced a language barrier. Even Chubbie’s schoolgirl French was of no use. As they struggled to explain themselves to the military officers staring suspiciously at them, they remembered the Italian newspapers they had stashed in their luggage, which carried the front page reports of their exploits. They pulled them out and offered them as a letter of introduction.

  Suspicion turned into delight and effusive greetings. The Sirte commander’s only concern was how to accommodate Chubbie in an all-male base while maintaining his countrymen’s reputation for chivalry and kindliness. He ended up accommodating her in the gaol while Bill was invited to share his own quarters.

  In the evening the officers presented them with a delicious dinner and opened the base’s last two bottles of champagne in celebration. Afterwards, they sat on the balcony smoking Italian cigarettes.