by Carol Baxter
She would never forget Professor Egger’s party decorations, which featured a miniature model of the Red Rose he had made himself. He attached it to a lightbulb and used its electricity source to power the tiny propeller. The plane buzzed around and around all evening to everyone’s amusement and delight.
When their piston and cylinder finally arrived from Bernard Leete and the engine was repaired, they faced a new problem. The mushy paddy field had been ideal for a forced landing but was less than ideal as a runway. So they stripped everything from the plane to reduce its weight to a bare minimum. Bill even siphoned off petrol until the plane had only enough to reach the racecourse.
Chubbie’s job was to stand on the mud embankment that served as the end of the makeshift runway to help Bill calculate how much run-up he had. Watching the plane hurtling towards her, she thought it terrifyingly short. However, Bill, skilful and fearless as ever, lifted off just before he reached her.
At the racecourse, they refuelled and repacked the plane. They would continue their journey the following day, 2 January 1928.
Meanwhile, all around the world, people were eager to learn of their latest adventures. Had the engine problems been repaired? Had the Red Rose lifted successfully off the paddy field?
No longer was the Red Rose’s flight just a few words slipped into a newspaper’s telegraphic section. Many newspapers were publishing detailed reports, with each instalment communicating yet another drama in its seemingly unending journey. ‘Red Rose still blooming’ was the headline in one newspaper when it advised its readers that the plane had indeed escaped the paddy field’s muddy clutches.
That revelation led to a new question: ‘What on earth will happen next?’
Chapter Ten
Rangoon’s New Year’s Eve party had been a last supper of sorts for Chubbie and Bill. They were about to commence the most dangerous part of their flight, the stretch that would take them south-east to Australia. Even Britain’s supportive aviation experts had expressed concern about the Burma-to-Darwin run. With no RAF presence in any of the South-East Asian countries, they would be reliant on whatever the locals could muster up as landing fields. And the news from those who had flown into the region was that the haphazard results could barely be considered adequate.
Early Monday morning, they set off from Rangoon to head across the Gulf of Martaban before continuing south down Burma’s narrow coastal territory. About twenty minutes into their journey, the plane started to lurch up and down like a bucking bronco. It dived suddenly, but pulled up again a moment later. Then it bounded around as if Bill had lost all control of the joystick.
Chubbie turned in her seat and shrieked, ‘What’s the matter?’
Bill shouted back a single, unexpected, terrifying word: ‘Snake!’
The plane had been moving swiftly when he spotted the brown snake uncurling itself underneath Chubbie’s seat. About three feet in length, it had a flat head, a dark cylindrical body and a blunt tail. He had no idea what type of snake it was or whether it was dangerous or not. And he wasn’t keen to find out.
Unable to leave the controls to deal with the emergency, his only choice was to take his feet off the rudder pedals and try to stamp on it—hence the strange lurches and bounds as he attempted to maintain control of the plane. The last thing he needed was to be fighting a stalled engine, a diving plane and a potentially deadly snake at the same time.
When he failed to crush the snake, the wily creature slithered through the open hatchway under Chubbie’s seat. ‘Look out!’ he screamed to Chubbie, and pointed towards the floor.
Just before they left Rangoon, Chubbie’s hostess had said to her, ‘Do not forget! Before you leave, have a good look in the machine for snakes. Your machine has been out in the field for some time, and all those swamps are infested with snakes. You might find that you are carrying an extra passenger if you do not make a search.’
Chubbie had thought the woman was pulling her leg. She had been so relieved that the engine was repaired and the plane was out of the paddy field and they had cash warming their pockets, that the warning had slipped her mind. Until now.
Seeing Bill pointing down, she looked at her cockpit floor. She saw an inquisitive head peeping up at her from the hatchway.
Never before had she removed her joystick from its clip so quickly. She whipped it into the air and whacked the snake over and over again. Blood splashed everywhere. She opened her eyes—half-closed in horror during her killing frenzy—and looked more closely. It didn’t move. It looked dead. She waited for a moment longer. When it still didn’t move, she reached down and picked up its bloodied body and tossed it over the side of the plane.
Later they learnt that the snake was called a krait and was one of the deadliest in the region. While usually found in or near water, it also liked brick piles and rat holes and the occasional house—and now planes. Sluggish or docile unless threatened, its venom was a powerful neurotoxin that caused muscle paralysis. Once bitten, a person soon lost the ability to see or talk and died of suffocation within four to eight hours.
If Bill had been bitten, it would have proved a double fatality. The next landing was going to be difficult, even for a skilled pilot, and Chubbie had never landed a plane.
Back in Karachi, when Bill and Chubbie had talked with their RAF friends about their flight plans, a pilot who knew the Burma–Thailand region told them they’d have to fly all the way from Rangoon to Victoria Point (Kawthaung) in south Burma because there were no airfields in-between. Bill did the calculations and worked out that the distance was 650 miles, too far for comfort given the possibility of flying into petrol-guzzling headwinds.
‘Then go to Tavoy,’ the RAF man advised. ‘You can get gasoline there but there is no place to land. However, if you come down at low tide, you will have plenty of room on the beach.’
Needing details about the moon and tides so they could set off at the appropriate time for a low-tide landing, Bill and Chubbie had visited the ‘experts’ in Rangoon. They were advised to land at 3 pm at Maungmagan Beach, about eight miles west of Tavoy (Dawei).
The experts were wrong. When they flew over the beach at the suggested time, the tide wasn’t out, it was running full. And no wonder the calculations were incorrect. Chubbie would later learn that the experts’ chart was dated 1882.
The Red Rose didn’t have enough fuel to remain airborne until low tide. Bill flew up the coast looking for a suitable landing place and found a beach about nine miles north of Maungmagan. The high tide had left only a narrow strip between the jungle and water’s edge, so it was a tricky landing. When the plane stopped, its wheels were in the water. Aside from their nearly catastrophic Rangoon landing, it was the most difficult of their touchdowns so far.
Hundreds of Burmese people thronged to the plane and sat in a half-circle around it, talking animatedly to each other and pointing upwards, as if the Red Rose was a strange bird that had materialised from the sky. No Europeans were among them and there seemed to be none living in the vicinity, so Chubbie and Bill used simple sign language to communicate that they were hungry and thirsty. A man brought over a large green coconut, which he cut using a filthy knife he had wiped on his dirty leg. Others passed them raw turtle eggs and bananas. Chubbie and Bill secretly buried the turtle eggs in the sand but ate the bananas with relief and relish.
With the worst of their hunger and thirst sated, they assessed their situation. They couldn’t leave the plane unguarded, because the curious locals had already torn its fabric covering in several places. Bill didn’t want Chubbie to attempt the long walk to Maungmagan because it was impossible to know what dangers she might face. And he didn’t want to leave her alone with the plane because the Burmese were again trying to clamber all over it. Their only choice was to remain on the beach until the tide turned.
Even the tide seemed against them: it turned during the night, when it was too dark for them to take off. They were stranded there until the next low tide.
&
nbsp; Bitten by sandflies and chased by crabs, they had a dreadful night. With no blankets, they had nothing between themselves and the bitter cold. They couldn’t even snuggle up together for warmth and go to sleep, because the plane needed guarding. And they couldn’t take turns on guard while the other slept, because the locals sat around all night talking. By daylight they were exhausted, hungry and livid.
At 10 am, the tide was low enough for the small beach to act as a runway. After Bill lifted the plane off the sand, he swooped down on the crowd who scattered in terror. It was payback for the chatter that had kept them awake all night.
The Europeans at Maungmagan had been concerned about their non-appearance and were relieved to see them land on the beach. The fuel didn’t arrive from Tavoy until 3 pm, so they were forced to delay their departure until morning. At least they had a policeman to guard the plane overnight.
The expatriates put them up for the night. When Chubbie sank into her comfortable bed, she thought that even a single night of hardship showed that the simple things in life—the ones normally taken for granted—were fundamental to everyday happiness. Perhaps, for people to fully appreciate what they had, everyone needed the occasional dose of hardship.
Their second beach take-off in a row went smoothly and they headed south towards Victoria Point on the southernmost tip of Burma. There the landing strip was just a forest clearing, so primitive that Bill was worried he couldn’t land on it. Forced to do so because of his low fuel supply, he stopped just short of the trees. With no room to taxi in a circle, Chubbie jumped to the ground to swing the plane around. When she stepped in front of the propeller, she was horrified to see a nasty drop only a few feet ahead.
Monkeys chattered in the lush rainforest trees as the local rubber planter welcomed them. He loved entertaining the occasional aviator who came through and he took them to his comfortable log bungalow for the night.
The next morning, as Bill looked at the clearing, he was even more troubled about his take-off. In these hot tropical climes, his fuel-laden plane needed 350 to 400 yards to lift off the ground, plus more flat terrain for him to commence his climb. But the Victoria Point runway was not only short, it faced a hill covered by trees.
Grim-faced, he stood looking at the hill. Then he shrugged and said fatalistically, ‘I suppose we can get off all right.’
They did . . . just. And then another problem arose when they were airborne. They realised that their maps were packed in the fuselage and the only way to access them was to land and unpack them. Bill shouted at Chubbie; Chubbie shouted back. It turned out that he had asked her to pack the maps and she had assumed he’d already taken out those he needed.
They managed to land safely and locate the necessary maps and take off once more. But it left them with a feeling of foreboding, a feeling that every time they evaded disaster by only a whisker they were one step closer to the occasion when they wouldn’t.
Again they flew into filthy weather: dense clouds and heavy rain. They had been told they could land at Penang’s racecourse but it proved to be surrounded by trees and houses, making a take-off difficult. Penang’s beach was too small and cluttered with fishermen’s boats, so they flew another fifty miles to Taiping’s polo field. It wasn’t ideal either—small, surrounded by hills and covered in water. Short of fuel, they had no choice but to land there.
The next morning, when they gave their plane a final once-over, they noticed that the top fuel tank was leaking. All their efforts of the night before—checking, cleaning, filling the tanks—had been wasted. They would have to drain all the petrol into tins, lift out the tank, seal the hole and fill it again.
By the time they replaced the tank, their sweat had glued petrol, oil and dirt to their skin and clothes. As they had lost so much travelling time and as they had been told there were no Europeans at the next stop, they decided not to worry about cleaning themselves but just to get going. If they did happen to encounter a solitary countryman when they arrived in Kuala Lumpur, he would surely understand their situation and forgive their filth.
Chapter Eleven
No Europeans in Kuala Lumpur? What a cruel joke. Kuala Lumpur proved to be the seat of government in British Malaya and every official and his elegantly coiffed wife was crossing the landing field to welcome them.
Chubbie looked down at herself. Grimy khaki shirt and shorts. Dirty tennis shoes with no socks. Oil-covered legs. She also knew without checking her cracked mirror that her face was streaked with grease and oil. She looked at Bill. He hadn’t shaved. His dirty shirt was fastened with a large safety pin at the neck and he too was sock-less and clad in filthy shoes. She had never felt so mortified in all her life.
They spent the night at Government House. Thanks to the loan of clothes from a fifteen-year-old girl, Chubbie was able to lunch and dine in style and to swim and play tennis. In the evening they partnered at bridge. It seemed so civilised after their many recent hardships.
Drenching rain left them looking like drowned cats by the time they reached Singapore the next day. They flew over the racecourse, which seemed the most suitable place to land, however they had been told to land on the Balestier Plain so they dutifully followed their instructions. When they climbed from the plane, they found themselves in a couple of feet of water.
A cinematographer and a reporter splashed over to meet them, along with a swarm of locals. Within minutes, the ground was a quagmire.
‘What a dreadful landing place,’ was Bill’s first comment to the press. He added that, in view of Singapore’s size, it was one of the worst landing grounds he had encountered.
His remark wasn’t tactful but was hardly inaccurate. Indeed, the Malayan Saturday Post would later use his remark to chide the authorities for their shortsightedness. ‘This airman, quite justifiably, will take away a bad impression of Malaya’s utter lack of preparedness for flying machines, except for seaplanes, because our mentality remains that of a generation ago.’
They remained in Singapore for two days, relaxing and socialising in addition to thoroughly overhauling the plane. Bill had been thinking about precautions for their flight over the Torres Strait to Darwin, the most dangerous leg of their entire journey. He decided that at their final stopover before they set off for Darwin, he would obtain thirty automobile inner tubes, a quick-action pump, and some coils of rope, which he would pack in their spares locker. If they suffered engine trouble over the sea, he would endeavour to make a pancake landing on the water. Unless they were unlucky enough to come down in rough seas, the plane should stay afloat long enough for him to pump up the inner tubes and lash them around the plane. Prior to their departure he would provide the authorities with their course and cruising speed. He would also request the authorities to advise the shipping in the area that the Red Rose was making the dangerous crossing and that, if they were four hours overdue, a search should be activated. If they hadn’t been found by nightfall, he could use his powerful electric torch to signal to any passing planes or boats.
Over the weekend, their new friends in Singapore asked them about their future plans—after they had reached Australia, of course. With the end so close, Chubbie and Bill had also been discussing the future. Chubbie couldn’t bear to go back to the prison of her married life, not after her adventures and not now she was in love with Bill. They’d had no private time together since they left Persia—the dangers of discovery and scandal were too great. But their feelings for each other hadn’t changed; in fact, they had strengthened. When they were alone, they had discussed ways in which they could remain together, ways that would seem acceptable to the censorious public. The solution, they had decided, was to keep adventuring.
They told their Singapore friends that they would need to fit a new engine in Australia and relax for a while. Afterwards, they would probably make a return journey to England in the Red Rose. If all went according to their tentative plans, they would be back in Singapore in March. So they wouldn’t be saying ‘Goodbye’ to their Singa
pore friends when they left the following day but ‘Until we meet again’.
As they flew down the coast of Sumatra on Monday, 9 January, they crossed the equator and set another record. Chubbie was the first airborne woman to ever cross that invisible line.
Bill had hoped to stop only for a quick refuel at Muntok (Mentok) on the Island of Banca (Bangka); however, heavy monsoonal rain slowed their passage. When he saw Muntok’s landing strip from the air, he wished they hadn’t needed to land there at all. It sat on a slope and was covered in knee-high grass. At least the warm welcome from the Dutch crowds made up for the shocking landing field.
The Dutch held a reception for them that night and read out a long speech in perfect English that itemised every step of the Red Rose’s journey. As Chubbie listened to the speech, she felt both astonished and humbled to realise that over the past few months, as they had suffered trial after trial and had felt so alone in their suffering, people all over the world had been following their journey and taking a passionate interest in their wellbeing.
When she climbed into her bed, she thought that tonight she was resting her head in Muntok and tomorrow Batavia (Java). Within days she would be doing the same in Australia.
‘The Red Rose draws nearer,’ advised an Australian newspaper excitedly.
Muntok’s Dutch residents had no intention of sleeping in, despite celebrating the Red Rose’s adventures a little too freely the night before. Flocking to the aerodrome soon after dawn, they watched the aviators completing their final preparations. Around 7 am, they cheered the handsome pilot and his diminutive sidekick as the pair headed towards the plane. They watched Chubbie climb into her cockpit while Bill walked around to the front of the plane and with a mighty heave spun the propeller. The engine roared. They cheered again as Bill climbed on board and began to taxi. They continued cheering as the Red Rose sped down the short runway and lifted into the air.
