England to Australia Flight
Part IX: New Engine
by Peter McMillan
By Saturday, October 15, six days after our crash landing,
the formerly peaceful scene around us had been transformed
into a circus. A steady stream of villagers in holiday
mood flowed in and out of the trampled paddy, directed
by military police and army troops in green and camouflage
uniforms. The noisy chatter of the crowd was punctuated
by the honk, honk of bicycle horns from flavoured-ice
vendors, who were doing a brisk business in the stifling
heat.
With little sleep, eyes stinging from the smoky air,
and only the most basic of hand tools to work with, we
were filthy, weary, and desperate to make an escape. But
first we had to repair the landing gear, straighten the
collapsed tail wheel strut, replace the starboard engine,
and rebuild an airstrip. We had determined by now the
the engine was ruined. An exhaust valve had destroyed
a piston, snapping the camshaft into three pieces. Fortunately
a spare V8 was ready to be shipped from Brisbane, Australia.
Mick delivered it from Jakarta in the Nomad, doing a
carrier-style landing on the strip that had been cut through
the paddy's matrix of low earthen walls by a hundred farmers
under Lang's direction. Malcolm Wood, replacing Ian, followed
in the Islander with tools and supplies.
After eight hours of manhandling the new engine into
place, we wiped the thick layer of Sumatran dirt from
the propeller, bolted the propeller onto the engine, and
tightened the flying wires. The new motor barked to life.
It was time to say goodbye.
The police managed to push back the crowd enough to let
Lang taxi the Vimy to the south end of the landing strip,
though the path through all the people was still narrower
than the aircraft's wingspan. As we slowly gathered speed,
stirring up a blinding storm of dust behind us, people
were diving out of the way. Our tires sank into soft spots
as we bounced down the runway toward the Nomad, which
was parked at the northern end. We lifted into the air,
and Lang turned us abruptly to the left to clear the chase
plane.
"We made it!" Lang shouted, grabbing my shoulder
in celebration. "We got out!"
The odd thing was, I didn't share his jubilation. Though
I was just as relieved that the Vimy had escaped, I was
still nagged by doubts. I wasn't sure the aircraft could
make it to Jakarta, let alone to Australia 1,700 miles
away. Flying from now on would be an exercise in suspense.
The new engine ran smoothly, however, on the short flight
to Jakarta, where we stayed three days to finish repairing
the landing gear. Then we headed east across Indonesia
hopping from island to island — Bali, Sumbawa, Timor.
Lang and I hardly spoke during these long flights, which
told me that he was worried too. I found myself unconsciously
tightening my seat harness, as if that would help.
At the village of Kupang on Timor we were met by schoolchildren,
costumed dancers, traditional musicians, and chanting
old men whose teeth had been blackened by decades of chewing
betel nut. I tried to relax and enjoy the festivities,
but I couldn't ignore the haunting voice of doubt. I wasn't
looking forward to spending more than seven hours the
next day flying over the shark-infested Timor Sea.
Our takeoff from Kupang on Day 42 — the last of our journey
— was not a confidence builder. Despite the fact that
Lang and I were the only ones aboard the Vimy, it took
us more than 20 minutes to reach our maximum altitude
of 1,400 feet. As we left the coast behind, I kept looking
over my shoulder, watching the last bit of green disappear
on the blue horizon.
Our engines were running adequately, but each time we
hit a bit of turbulence their note changed, making my
pulse race. I had to trick myself into not looking every
few seconds at the gauges—tachometer, fuel pressure,
oil temperature, oil pressure, water temperature—because
I knew that if I looked long enough, the needles would
begin to wobble.
Three hours later I spotted a few sailboats on my side
and marked their latitude and longitude in case we needed
to come back and ditch near them later. We were still
more than three hours from land. If an engine failed now,
the aircraft would sink below the waves without a trace.
I imagined what the skeptics would say then:
"What a pity, so close."
"Good effort. Too bad about the Vimy."
"Those fools should have quit in Sumatra."
With only 95 miles to go, I faintly heard the control
tower in Darwin.
"Over there," I said at last, pointing to a
thin white line in the haze on our left. "That's
Bathurst Island, right?"
"Yep," Lang said. "Welcome to Australia."
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