England to Australia Flight
Part VII: Problems and More Problems
by Peter McMillan
The Borderlands were greener than I had expected, with
long parallel ridges of farmland like a bunched-up carpet
in need of straightening. A steam train inched along a
narrow-gauge railroad, telling us that we had reached
India, as did the sandstone palace of a former maharajah.
Turning north toward Jaipur, we faced a new hazard: kite
hawks. The sky was thick with them. We managed to dodge
those flying in ones and twos, but when we overtook a
large flock, we could do nothing but close our eyes and
wait for the sickening thump — a potential disastrous
prospect for Lang and me, since our heads were only twelve
inches from the tips of the props. The thump never came
though a few birds passed between our wings.
Ross Smith hadn't been quite as lucky. As he took off
from eastern India, a kite hawk had flown straight into
the port propeller. There was a crash as if a stone had
hit the blade, and then a scatter of feathers... It could
have easily shattered the prop.
The news in Delhi, meanwhile, was not good. As soon as
we landed, we were told that the plague had spread to
at least 20 towns and cities, killing more than 50 people.
Delhi residents, however, did not appear to be overly
concerned. Many felt that the media had overblown the
crisis.
To be ready for a dawn flight over the Taj Mahal, we
had to make a short flight the next day to Agra, 120 miles
to the south-east. Lang generously offered to remain in
Delhi for a dinner with government ministers so that I
would be free to make the flight.
Because of a press conference at the hotel, however,
I was delayed until almost dusk. By the time I got through
with security, the Vimy, with Mick Reynolds at the helm,
was taxiing out to the runway in a race against the setting
sun. The plane had no instruments for night flying. I
sprinted past the prop blast, hopping up onto the back
of the wing, and slid into the seat, minding the turning
propellers.
As we got closer to Agra, a city of some 900,000, we
radioed ahead to the airport to confirm that all the runway
lights would be turned on, since we were now flying in
total darkness. To see the engine gauges — six feet away
from me on the sides of the engines — I had to ask Dan
to shine a flashlight from his seat in the rear cockpit.
The control tower said everything would be ready. But
as Mick made our final approach, all we saw were dozens
of smudge pots lined up in the darkness. We later learned
that these were all they ever used, except that, for our
benefit, they had lit them all.
Mick made a smooth landing, despite a tense moment or
two when flames from the pots licked at the bottom of
our cloth-covered wings.
Firing up the Vimy's engines at first light, we took
off over the Yamuna River, a tributary of the Ganges,
and followed it to the Taj Mahal, the tomb of Mumtaz Mahal,
wife of the 17th-century Mogul emperor Shah Jahan. As
we circled the elegant structure, flying in close formation
with our two support planes, I hardly dared to take my
eyes off the other aircraft for more than a second. But
when I did, I saw an iridescent pearl in the first rays
of sunlight, recalling Ross Smith's description of a matchless
white jewel reclining in a setting of Nature's emeralds.
Back on the ground we had to face the fact that we hadn't
planned to refuel in Agra and we had stayed above the
Taj Mahal longer than we expected. Indian Air Force officials
had said they could provide drums of gasoline at Agra,
but none had shown up. Shell offered to send fuel from
Delhi, but that would take at least a day. So Squadron
Leader Kamal Deep, our military liaison, went off to look
for gas.
He returned a few hours later in Russian-built truck
with a single empty drum in the back, along with a small
man in rags. I climbed aboard, and together we bounced
down a crowded, dusty road, scattering bicycles and animals,
until we reached a worn-out-looking filling station. I
saw only scooters filling up. What kind of fuel was it?
"Normal gas," said the cashier evasively.
"Eighty octane," said another man.
"Sixty-five," corrected yet another.
With a sense of foreboding, we pumped the mystery fuel
into our beat-up drum, which began to leak like a sieve.
The little fellow wrapped his arms around the drum, plugging
the largest holes, as we lumbered back to the Vimy. There
Mick and Dan attempted to siphon the noxious liquid out
of the drum with a garden hose, sucking and spitting gas
onto the dirt, where I noticed it didn't evaporate. Not
a good sign. If it didn't evaporate, it wouldn't burn
too well.
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