(Sir) Charles Kingsford Smith MC; Smithy The Supreme

Already there had been too much delay for his liking, and be knew there would be many months of training in the A.F.C. before he could become a war bird. His parents had refused to allow him to enlist until his eighteenth birthday. Now, surely, his unit, the Signallers, was the quicker way to the "line." It was. Young Corporal Charles, as he was then, went into action on Gallipoli. 

Then there was Sinai, and afterwards France, and action enough to satisfy any fire eater. 

"My intentions are to take up flying in Australia after the war," be wrote to his parents when be got the good news. "It is an honourable and an interesting career, and at home there will be possibilities for our services." How very right this young soldier was!

Chilla had been a fine young soldier. Although it was a stern course learning to be both an officer and a war bird, he was still full of fun, bubbling over with life. As in boyhood and youth, many was the spot of mischief he was in. But there must have been flying blood in his veins, for after five hours' instruction he was flying solo. "It was grand having the old bus up in the air by myself," he wrote.  In that letter he used a term that was to figure in the world's flying history. Do you recognize it.? In France Second Lieutenant C. Kingsford Smith was posted to No. 23, a scout squadron of the R.F.C. The pilots had to fill in a report every time they went aloft on active service. In the regulation form this is the story of his first victory.

Wind Direction: S
Machine: Spad
Passenger: Solo
Time: I hr.
Height: 11,000 ft.
Course: Offensive patrol
Remarks: Brought one Hun down. Gun jammed and had to leave fight.

You see, war birds were not expected to write long descriptive stories about their doings. The authorities wanted only the important details. But in that particular patrol, Smithy shot up a lot of troops and the buts were burning when be sped away from that Hun camp. He knew the fire from the ground bad been severe and unpleasantly accurate. But until be reached his 'drome he did not realize how narrow had been his escape. For there was a slanting bole gouged in the collar of his tunic. The man who owns that tunic is one of the proudest men in Sydney.

But what was a narrow~ escape or two? Only part of the game. It was stiff luck not getting official confirmation for a couple of Huns he had downed. But, as his O.C. was to say, young Kingsford Smith was one of the best fighters in the unit, full of grit and a splendid pilot. Besides, thought the young airman, there were plenty more Huns to down. He'd get them. But he didn't. The boot was on the other foot.

This is how it happened.

Military Cross	1914/15 Star	British War Medal	Victory Medal

14 August 1917. A dawn patrol. Cold up there in the drifting clouds. Visibility bad. But that was the kind of weather the Huns liked for snooping around. Nothing doing this morning, though. Not a sign of them. The patrol leader looked at his wristlet watch. His keen experienced eyes again swept the skies. Still empty. He fired his Verey pistol. It was the signal to go home. The patrol broke up. Now each pilot was his own master. His the choice of route, of adventure, on the homeward flight.

Lieutenant Kingsford Smith was in no hurry. Plenty of fuel in the tank. Plenty of time. And a razor-keen eagerness to add to his tally of Huns. His glance sweeping the skies suddenly halted, deepened. Through the rifts he could see ... yes, there were two Hun two-seaters. Down through the clouds the little Spad dived, down, down with ever-increasing speed. Then for the pilot a sudden, a dreadful shock. The world spun about him. There was only one clear realization -a fearful pain in his foot. Just as his dazed senses recognized the new sounds pinging past his head and chipping into the cockpit, be slumped forward, unconscious.

His a terrible awakening. The plane was in a spin. Little holes were suddenly appearing all around him, as bullets bit into wood and fabric. Death was racing up to meet him. And as his trained mind knew full well, Death was speeding right behind him. The pilot sensed, too, what had happened. As he dived on the two-seater, another Hun, a scout ambushed in the clouds above, had dived on him.

A SPAD similar to the type Smithy flew.

And this Hun still had him in his sights. Yes, Smithy bad been hit-badly hit. Blood was pouring from his foot, and be was feeling deadly sick. And here was this Hun plane, its Spandaus spitting, still on his tail. Desperately Smithy struggled at the controls. 

First he had to pull her out of this sickening hurtling spin. Yes, he had her now. Now this Hun-how to get clear of him? That dreadful pain was growing in intensity. Blood was squelching in his boot. A deadly nausea was clouding, his vision. There was only one thing for it-he had to try to speed up his dive, and thus out-speed that screeching devil on his tail. The race was on, with the Hun both a contestant and a leaden spur. Down from the sky slanted the pursued and the pursuer. And when at last the British lines were crossed, the anti-aircraft guns thundered into action. Under fire the Hun broke off the chase, wheeled, sped away.

Now Smithy bad only one enemy to contend with-that ever-growing faintness. He did not know until later that the Hun's first burst bad shattered a group of nerves in his foot and that two of his toes and portion of his foot would have to be amputated. And worse still, that be would never fly again in the war. The only bright spot in the many months of hospital and pain that were to follow, was the day he went to Buckingham Palace to be presented with his Military Cross by the King-especially because of a mishap that occurred. 

The custom is that a commoner must never turn his back on the King. So after receiving his M.C. Smithy moved backwards. But he was on crutches. They slipped and the young Australian fell. Officials rushed to help him, but it was the King himself who gave is arm as Smithy reached his feet. His Majesty was most concerned-previously he had conversed with Smithy for several minutes-and when he was satisfied that Smithy could move away unaided, the King told him to waive ceremony and go the easiest way. Smithy did. And as he used to say, smilingly, he was one of the very few people who had been privileged to turn his back on the King.

After be ad been demobilized there were several hard and disappointing years for Smithy. Big things promised, only to fail. First there was the £10,000 England-Australia flying competition. That seemed to be a golden chance for him. His flying experience had broadened; be had been an instructor after his wound had prevented further service "over there." He and three young pals had secured the use of a fine aeroplane for the competition. Again things looked well. But once more Lady Luck turned her back. The authorities said Smithy's crew was too young, didn't have enough experience.

Sorely disappointed but still determined to fly home, Smithy then tried his luck in the United States. There, he thought, he could get backing for a flight to Australia. His funds were so low that, on the last stage of the train trip to California he only had oranges to eat, and be had no clothes but the uniform he wore. So here he was, a young Australian in a foreign land, lone-handed, seeking the chance to attempt what was to prove, eight years later, one of the greatest flights of all time. To earn a living, he did joy riding. He did wing walking, and other stunting for the movies. He flew a patrol to scare flocks of birds away from newly planted rice. At one period things were so bad that be painted signs for a motor fuel company. 

But all the time he was trying to secure a machine for a Pacific flight. On several occasions he nearly succeeded. Once be reached the final negotiations for a Navy flying boat, but, as always, lack of funds stopped him. Perhaps he was lucky after all. For none of the machines then available had sufficient range. But this much is certain-if ex-Lieutenant Charles Kingsford Smith bad got a machine, be would have given the Pacific "a fly." He had the route and every detail worked out right down to moving picture rights. But after all his strivings be bad to come home to Sydney by boat - and third class.

Disappointments had hurt, but not daunted, Charles. He still sought his destiny in the air. These were exciting years for him. First flying for the Diggers Aviation Company, a venture that made big money and had expensive crashes mainly due to the recklessness of the pilots. Yes, maybe our Charles himself was a bit reckless. Then he was one of the first pilots with West Australian Airways when, in 1922, they began the first airline in the Commonwealth. 

Now for the first time Smithy settled down to serious work. He who had been an electrical apprentice when he enlisted seven years before, was now an air pioneer. There were many difficulties and dangers in this job of starting an airline. Several times, after a forced landing in the lonely waterless bush of the North West, Senior Pilot Kingsford Smith had to tap out an SOS on the telegraph line. Once when thus stranded he and a passenger were without food for thirty hours.

But it was not all peril and privation. Smithy was still brimming with fun and frolic. And one day he and a fellow pilot named Taplin indulged in a prank that no one else has attempted. They went up, in a Bristol Tourer - a plane that had a pilot's cockpit, and aft, a tiny hump-backed passenger cabin. There was no communication between cockpit and cabin.

Well, when the plane took off Smithy was in the cockpit and Taplin in the cabin. When the plane landed their places were reversed. How they had changed places in mid-air was never explained. It was a secret, that madcap stunt.

In 1924 Smithy left the air for a ground venture. With Keith Anderson, who had been a fellow-pilot in W.A. Airways, he established a motor transport business in the North West. This was a district of big sheep stations, wide distances, and such primitive land transport that loads to and from the outback stations were carried by camel teams. These trips usually took weeks, and sometimes months. Smithy and Keith changed that. But it was hard, back-breaking work. 

The routes were tracks rather than roads; in summer the temperature climbed to 125 degrees; and in the rainy season the claypans were tremendously heavy going. Smithy himself took the most difficult trips. They used to occupy up to three weeks. There was one time when he was in a hurry. He thought he could beat the rains, but when he reached the Murchison it was running a banker. That should have meant a wait of many days. So Smithy built a raft of empty petrol tins and drums, and ferried his truck across. A bard man to stop, Smithy.

The partners made good money. But both their hearts were still in the air. Also they had two ambitions. The first was still Charles's - to fly the Pacific. The other, his friend's suggestion, was to fly the Indian Ocean. While they were carrying on their cartage business, they were trying to get backing for the flights, the Pacific having precedence. But the money was hard to raise.

They decided to try their luck in Sydney. They flew there in two Bristol Tourers they had bought. Then they began a flying business - joy riding, aerial photography, charter flights. They were doing well when one day another young man got in touch with them. He was the same age as Smithy, a lean, dark fellow with a fighter's jaw and unshakable self-confidence. Like them be was an ex-soldier. His name was Charles Ulm. For three years he bad been trying to start an airline between Perth and Adelaide. But to no avail. Now be sought the co-operation of expert airline pilots. That is how Smithy, Keith and Charles Ulm came to join forces. 

They tried hard but they failed to get Government support for their airline project. But Ulm became fired with enthusiasm for the Pacific project. His keen organizing brain got to work - and soon the Pacific project was big news. But never at any time was there sufficient money. These young Australians knew what they wanted. Never before had an aeroplane flown over 7,000 miles of ocean.

Never before had an aeroplane been called on to fly three over-water hops of 27½ hours, 34½ hours and 20 hours quick succession, two of them over un-flown wastes of ocean. So Smithy and Ulm knew that only the best could do the ,job-the best in pilotage, navigation and radio skill, and of course the very best in aircraft. They went to America.

Here, in the United States, they were two more or less unknown foreigners in a nation of 127,000,000 people who prided, themselves on being able to do more in the air than any other nation. With dogged persistence the two aerial adventurers fought against a host of difficulties. They got their aircraft in installments as it were. In one purchase the air frame. Then the engines. Then the instruments. But the Australians were down to short rations and shabby clothes when at last Captain A. G. Hancock came to their assistance. He paid the last big bill. That cleared up their financial troubles.

When on the morning of 31 May 1928 the Southern Cross took the air from Oakland, three nations were represented in the venture. There were Smithy and Ulm, as co-commanders, and the organizers of the flight.

In the big cabin were two Americans-Captain Harry Lyon, a hard-bitten sea dog, at the navigator's table, and Jim Warner, as radio man.

The plane was a Fokker, a Dutch product, and the three Wright Whirlwind engines were American.

Westward Ho it was, and after the hop to Honolulu there were nearly 5,000 miles of skies that had never before been traversed by man-made wings. Now Ulm, the great organizer, was proving himself in another capacity. Although he had not qualified as a pilot he was taking his shift at the controls. He was to fly 30 of the 83½ hours of that epic journey.

Then the biggest and the longest trans-ocean flight of all time-3138 miles with only a pin-point to aim it. It took them 34½ hours. But it will be centuries before the names of these men are forgotten.

Suva to Brisbane should have been easy for them-a mere 1,795 miles. But the Storm King swept across their aerial path. The Southern Cross was flying in a blinding chaos of wind and rain. So terrific were the blasts that the wind screens gave in at their frames; sheets of rain surged into the cockpit. No escape, no protection for the pilots. Aloft, they were imprisoned; there was no passage to the cabin. Yes, they beat that storm. But they were 110 miles off their course when they made their Australian landfall. If there had been the same error approaching Fiji the Southern Cross and its gallant crew would only have got as far as ... Davy Jones's locker.

Thus in 1928 was the Pacific air conquered for the first time. There were honours for the crew and big money. Smithy and Ulm could have found ease. But theirs was not a stunt flight. They had objectives beyond mere fame and money-making. Before their flight was over, they had planned other air ventures. For theirs was the long vision. They foresaw the commercial importance of the aeroplane. They could see fleets of big air liners giving fast and reliable service where, before, the train or the steamer was the only method of travel. We'll change that! they said.

How gloriously they tried! First they "showed how" in their homeland. They flew non-stop from Melbourne to Perth. They air-blazed the trail across the Tasman Sea. Then, with their company, Australian National Airways, they gave regular air services to four States. It was a gallant venture, by far the most ambitious in Australia's flying history. Smithy and Ulm hoped eventually to link up every State of the Commonwealth, to extend to Tasmania, and to England. They had with them a body of pilots unequalled in the world. 

But the authorities could not, or would not, see as far ahead as these pioneers. And there were other setbacks. In 1929, on the eve of a flight to England to buy aircraft for their airlines, the "old bus," as Smithy affectionately called the Southern Cross, was forced down on a mud flat in the far North West. They were lost, and their fuel was exhausted. For twelve days they were missing. And in the search Smithy's old friends, Keith Anderson and Bobby Hitchcock, were themselves forced down, to die of thirst in the desert.

Then, in the most mysterious disaster of Australia's air history, the Southern Cloud flew to an unknown doom. That was a cruel blow to Australian National Airways, and in 1931 the company was forced to close down.

But in the meantime Smithy had been gaining his conquering way in the skies. He had flown to England, had flown the Atlantic, and crossed the United States to Oakland, thus completing the aerial circumnavigation of the world. No one had ever done it before.

Then Smithy proved himself a champion in another sphere. He had been war bird, stunter, airline pilot, and big plane commander. Now, be shone out as a solo record breaker. In 1930 be flew from England to Australia in just under ten days. Three years later he clipped the time to seven days four hours-another record.

There were to be air mail flights to and from England, and pick-up flights when the early mail services of Imperial Airways broke down. There were two more return flights to New Zealand, a flock of interstate records (in the Lady Southern Cross) and in 1934 another Pacific crossing - the first and only one in a single-engined machine. Smithy had a bitter spur on that flight. He should have been in the Melbourne Centenary air race. He wanted to be in that marathon classic. But everything that could have gone wrong, did go wrong, and Lady Southern Cross was a non-starter. 

Smithy had become used to disappointments, but he was grievously hurt where instead of sympathy he received criticism. And some cruel creatures even sent him white feathers and ugly letters. But although there was never need for Smithy to show he was not a coward, on that second Pacific flight he had a chip on his shoulder. It was a lucky thing for those critics that they did not say their evil things in his hearing. For he could most certainly take care of himself with his fists. He was surprisingly strong, too. In his younger days be could tear in two a pack of cards.

By now Smithy and Ulm had parted flying company. Smithy had become the sole owner of the Southern Cross, and Ulm had the Faith in Australia. Each had striven mightily to further Australia's aviation. There had been awards for them - for Smithy a K.B.E., an A.F.C. and the honorary rank in the R.A.A.F. of Air Commodore; for Ulm an A.F.C. and the honorary R.A.A.F. rank of Squadron Leader. But the oversea services they had hoped to operate had gone to other companies; and neither of the old comrades could settle down to a land job. So there was Smithy, Australia's greatest son of the air, flying about his homeland and New Zealand, earning a living with joy flights; and Ulm, after a return flight to England, still striving to establish a trans-Pacific service.

It was Ulm who first went to his death. He was trying to broaden the Pacific air highway as it were, and thus further his claims to undertake a Pacific airline. He had an Airspeed Envoy and a crew of two. In November 1934 they took off from San Francisco. Their first stop was to have been Honolulu. They never reached it. In the waters over which he had flown to fame six years before, Charles Ulm went to his death. With him died his two companions. There was no trace of airmen or plane.

He was Honorary Air Commodore Sir Charles Kingsford Smith, K.B.E., M.C., A.F.C. But rank, title and decorations did not of themselves earn him a living. To help in what was to be his last attempt to start an oversea airline, he sold his beloved "old bus" to the Federal Government. They paid £3,000 for it. That was a bargain sale. But Smithy's negotiations for a company flotation went ill in England. To tide him over financially he set about another record flight to Australia-in the Lady Southern Cross. With him was Tommy Pethybridge, a fine young Sydney man who was both a pilot and a ground engineer.

It was not the usual smiling, trained-to-the-minute Smithy who started out on this flight. He was deeply worried. Besides his business troubles there were difficulties over the fuel load for the English take-off; he was not allowed fully to tank up. Gone was his razor-keen zeal. This was not just another glorious adventure, but a hard business proposition to raise sorely-needed money. And he did not have the same magnificent physical fitness that, in the past, had enabled him to come through smiling from many an air thrashing.

So it was not a happy start. Smithy had been ill. There had been postponements. In the first start, a vicious storm was encountered near Italy.  So heavy was the ice formation on the wing that the leading edge was badly gashed.
	Lady Southern Cross

They limped back to England for repairs. On the morning of 6 November Smithy tried again. "There will be no turning back this time," be said. "I must stick up somehow."

In less than thirty hours he was at Allahabad 5,000 miles away. But that wasn't good enough-he was nearly three hours behind Scott's and Black's time. They stayed only a brief hour on the ground. Then for another giant stride through the skies-to Singapore. Theirs the short-cut route, the dangerous one. It takes them far out over the waters of the Bay of Bengal.

Two ships of the air pass in the long night. Jimmy Melrose in his Percival Gull is also speeding to Australia. He knows Smithy's venture; has an idea of where he would be. So when out of the night, high up, there gleams a man-made light, Jimmy identifies it. That is the flame of the Altair's exhaust. It passes on.

Now Lady Southern Cross is due at Singapore. There they know the expected time of arrival. But hours pass and the now-anxious watchers continue to scan the skies. In vain. Something has happened. The plane must be down; its fuel range could take it no further. Death must have struck from the skies.

By air and on land and water, there were searchings. No word. No sign of plane. No word of crew. Until many months later a landing wheel was washed up on a lonely beach. It had come from the Lady Southern Cross. That was all that was left of the venture - that, and an imperishable memory of the world's greatest airman.