P G Taylor; The Last Of The Great Airmasters

He saved the Southern Cross on her last big flight.

Sopwith Pup (replica)             Image http://www.ctie.monash.edu.au

Down be dived. Soon be made two identifications. No mistaking those shark-like bodies and distinctive tails. They were Albatross Scouts. Yes, and they were painted red fighters of the Richthofen Circus. How many? One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Yes, ten of them. Six Pups against ten Albatrosses.

No faltering. Although be was only twenty years old, this patrol leader was indeed a fighting man. He knew, too, that the men of his patrol were fighting men.

Down screamed the patrol. Too soon the Huns learned of the attack. They used their superior speed, Their superior numbers were reinforced. Soon a grim dogfight was on.

Albatross D-V Scout

Now the roles were changed. The attackers became the attacked. The patrol leader had lost his initial advantage. His dive ended, be found himself surrounded by Huns. Around him, above and below, pumping lead from all angles, were ten Huns. They had cut him off from his comrades. The chattering of Spandaus followed his every move. His little machine -it was not as big as a Moth- was a lone wasp beset by a swarm of hornets. There was death in their sting ... if they could place it.

For half an hour the grim, one-sided battle was waged. There was no help for the young Australian. His only hope, his only chance was his own machine. That and the heart and the skill of the man in it. It was an aerial Dunkirk in little, with a vastly stronger enemy and a Britisher who had to fight his way out.

Rolls at Dawn - Albatross DV Scouts	http://www.artforlivinggallery.com

And so when, at long last, the last burst had been fired, and the last Hun bad been driven off, the patrol leader had cause for deep thought. He could have thought, could Lieutenant P. G. Taylor - for that was his name - that life had its exciting moments. Here he was at twenty years of age, a seasoned war bird, when he might have been doing medicine; that had been his intention before be left school. He could have thought of how he went into an A.I.F. camp in 1915. How, when months of camp stretched ahead, be had left Sydney to go to England, at his own expense, to join the R.F.C.-because in that way he would get more quickly into action. Well, he was certainly getting it!

Empire Gallantry Medal

<<< Obverse has the wording FOR GOD AND THE EMPIRE and in the exergue (below) is the inscription FOR GALLANTRY. 

Reverse: Royal Cypher surmounted by a crown with the words: INSTITUTED BY KING GEORGE V within a border of four heraldic lions.

But soon, on that hectic day in France in 1917, P. G. Taylor was to have a new appreciation of his rigger. Of his own initiative, the rigger had duplicated the control wires to elevator and rudder. And when, after landing at his 'drome, the pilot was inspecting his badly-holed machine he discovered that one each of the control wires to elevator and rudder had been shot away!

In 1918 Captain P. G. Taylor, M.C., was sent to Australia to take charge of the air fighting section of the flying training of the Australian Flying Corps. That was indeed a high post.

Royal Flying Corps (RFC) officer's khaki wool gabardine service dress tunic with pleated breast pockets, with triple pointed flaps, and expanding pockets over each hip, with rectangular flaps. Oxidised brass RFC badges are fitted to each side of the collar. Above the left breast pocket is an RFC pilot's embroidered brevet (wings). Beneath the brevet is a ribbon bar for Military Cross, British War Medal 1914-20, and Victory Medal. All the gilded brass buttons are embossed with RFC and kings crown. There are four buttons down the front of the tunic. Six smaller buttons secure the pockets and shoulder straps. Each cuff has bears a vertical slash edged with khaki braid and two horizontal rows of the same braid. The slash has three embroidered rank pips for captain. The tunic is lined with khaki polished cotton and the sleeves with blue striped cream cotton. There is an inset pocket in the lining of the right breast with a maker's label sewn inside the pocket, reading, 'A S Taylor Esq / Nov.18 1916'. A similar pocket is set into the lining on the same side at hip level. Text and photo from AWM

Demobilized, Taylor's eyes were still turned to the heavens. He loved flying. He became a pilot in the original Australian National Airways; and there he met Kingsford Smith and Ulm. This meeting meant much in the lives of all three. They were to fly to fame together. Each in his own sphere was to become a master. Taylor was to prove not only a grand pilot, but a world-famous navigator.

Taylor was farseeing. Flying with Smithy over that vast expanse of the Pacific he had noted many an island. Then they were mere valueless pin-points. But, reasoned Taylor, there would be, must be, airlines across the Pacific; and then, as stopping places, these tiny islands and atolls would be invaluable. They would be priceless too, he reasoned, for the defence of the Pacific nations. He placed his views before the authorities. To no avail. They did not have his vision. They, alas, did not realize that world events were moving so fast. But Taylor was right. Later, officialdom was to listen to another of his plans to give a lead to Empire air communications. And out of that proposal was to come the trail-blazing of the Indian Ocean, with P. G. Taylor in charge.

THE JUBILEE MAIL But of all the seas flown, the records made, the red-blooded action "over there," and the thrills of many a solo flight in civil skies, the greatest and the grimmest of all his adventures was the Tasman flight with the Jubilee mail. The big R.A.A.F. aerodrome at Richmond. Midnight. Phantom lights playing about the bulk of the Southern Cross. Shadowy mechanics. Aviators drawing on leather coats, goggles, caps. Subdued murmur of voices. Handshakes. Mechanics and visitors slowly moving back. Three men emplane. Smithy goes to the cockpit-to the pilot's seat, the port one. Taylor seats himself beside Smithy in the starboard pilot's seat. Little John Stannage has the big  cabin to himself. Later, when the flight is under way, Taylor is to come here to the navigator's table.

Photo; PG Taylor & Charles Kingsford Smith.

Smithy flicks a switch. An engine gruffs and barks into the night. Another switch is moved, and the second engine lifts its thunderous voice. The third engine comes to life. Slowly the pilot opens the throttles. His eyes sweep the rev. counters. Then the three-tongued thunder eases to a steady roar. The pilot nods. Mechanics pull away the wheel chocks. The Cross slowly rumbles out on to the wide flying field. Minutes later the three Wright Whirlwinds are again thundering. The take-off run has begun.... Then the "old bus" is aloft again -on what is to be its last great flight. 

She slips out over the ghostly land and is above the whispering sea. Roar of motors, smell of oil. Stars. Cold air. The sea, unseen. Smithy, the master, at the controls, his humorous weather-lined face faintly lit by the light of the instrument board. Taylor at the chart, the navigating instruments. Stannage with headphones, fingers giving, ears receiving, messages carried on the unseen waves of the heavens.

A hundred miles out, over the invisible sea. And the famous plane a mere mechanical speck in space, moves on under a cloud bank like a wisp of the night floating under a veranda. A hand throws something overboard. It looks like a big jam tin-until it reaches the water, Then a huge white star glows out of the sea. That is a flare. From the sight hatch in the cabin, Taylor, with bearing plate to eye, goes to work. Then some figuring. He calculates the drift. Then to the cockpit he goes and lays off the drift on the compass.

Clouds gather, spread, group together, enclosing the machine. The clouds spitting rain. Hours drone by. More clouds enfold the machine, draping her wings with vapour. Now the Cross is flying blind. The three propellers are a whirling gleam in cloud and mist and rain. At five in the morning Taylor gives Smithy a spell at the flying. They grin at one another. They don't talk much; there is too much noise. Besides, old friends do not have to talk to each other. Smithy crawls aft to the cabin; he yarns with Stannage about radio messages. Talk is easy in the cabin. Stannage's finger taps at the Morse key. A message flashes through space to the Australian land, hundreds of miles, only an air-second away.

Steady bum of the motors. Cold of the coming dawn. The mechanical speck flitting onward thousands of feet above the invisible sea.

Now Taylor is at the controls. The "old bus" is punching into cloud and driving rain. The throb of the machine is a living thing, the warmth of its mechanical heart the pilot's shelter and comfort. Taylor peers from the starboard seat over the top side of the centre motor. His glance concentrates. For through the darkness he sees a flame like a will-o'-the-wisp dancing on the exhaust manifold of the starboard engine. This is unusual, perhaps disquieting. Then as be watches he sees that a spot on top of the manifold is glowing with a lighter, brighter colour than the rest of the visible portion of the exhaust ring. He frowns. This should not be.

In mist and cloud and rain the Cross flies on. A big cloud ahead. They plunge into it and faintly it melts away from them as a ghost might edge away from a clutching hand. Everything lightens. Dawn is coming. Now can be seen a faint grey-greenness far, far below. The sea. Far ahead light creeps up over the sea. Dawn has come. Old Sol is rising up to see what he can see. He casts a beam on the nose of the machine and it takes form.

But the pilot has eyes only for that manifold. Suddenly, a flame appears on it. It dims, narrows to a fine thread, then glows to a jumping, flickering threat of light. Taylor's eyes narrow, his face sets grimly.

The welded edge of the exhaust manifold is being carried away before his staring eyes. The crack is creeping up and over behind the top of the cylinder; the metal begins to give way. Then the exhaust blows out. Soon, the watcher knows, the top of the manifold will carry away. And then ... ?

It was time for a change of watches. Smithy returned to the cockpit. Grinned. But as he settled down at the controls, Taylor pointed.

As they stared, the rapidly -breaking pipe bulged, puffed out into the air stream-was gone.

Terrific vibration shook the Southern Cross, as if some titanic hand had grasped and was shaking the life out of her. The starboard motor leaped and struggled like a bolting horse. Through the fuselage surged and pulsed a fearsome wobble that ceased only when Smithy shut down the starboard motor and in the same breath, as it were, hauled the Cross up almost on her tail. Then he opened out the other two motors to full throttle. The intensity of the vibrations slackened.

Dawn burst through the sky, lit up the rolling sea; and as it slowly came to rest the splintered blade of the propeller pointed like a finger of doom.

Two engines were still in action. But in cockpit and cabin there seemed to be silence. Grimly Smithy turned the stricken Cross and headed her back towards the Australian coast.

The Jubilee mail would not get through. All their hopes, all their careful plans were completely wrecked. Lucky, indeed, if they escaped with their lives. They hardly dared glance at one another. Sick at heart, they sat and stared as the weakening plane turned slowly back. Smithy held her nose up to the skies and now came the test of the super-pilot, the eagle of the air on broken wing fighting death, fighting with every nerve to keep height! height! height!

But even though the throttle was full on the two remaining motors the altimeter needle slowly crept down, down. Taylor hurried below to the cabin. "Overboard with everything heavy," he shouted. "Everything except the mail!"

Stannage snatched at the luggage. Out went the first case through the cabin door. Taylor hurried back to turn the drain cock on the main cabin tank. For they must even dump their fuel - all except that absolutely necessary to get them back to Sydney.

Smithy was fighting at the controls, nursing the "old bus." But it required more than the hands and the brain of the air master. Slowly the machine was losing height. Through drifting clouds feeble rays of sunlight glinted on the cold sea below.

Five hundred and ninety miles out to sea. A broken propeller, one outboard engine dead, and so a lopsided power plant-the Cross balanced as on a hair. Again and again they held their breaths as she shuddered to stall. But again and again Smithy's cunning fingers pulled her back from the fatal dive.

Ice-cold, as always in an emergency, Taylor calculated to the gallon just how much petrol he might safely dump. Calculated the speed of the machine, that terrible distance between them and land, the number of hours' flying necessary to get there, the gallons of petrol the motors would need. On two things their lives depended-on Smithy, and on the correctness of that petrol calculation.

Taylor turned the drain cock. The life-blood of the Southern Cross began draining away to sea. Stannage had hurled the luggage, equipment, freight, tools, all out of the cabin door. The bags of precious mail in piles lay lashed in the cabin with ropes.

In the old days, with horse, coach, and plane, always in every disaster the driver or pilot placed mails before self. Save the mails! History, a newer history was repeating itself, the hard-pressed eagles of the air were trying to save the mail, the Jubilee mail.

MEN WHO NEVER GIVE IN

Taylor hurried to the pilots' cabin. "Everything's in band below!" he said.

Smithy and he glanced at one another. Grimly they smiled-they had been in tight corners before-and turned to their fight again. Now the altimeter showed five hundred feet.

"That lightening of the load has done it," said Smithy. "She's just about holding the height now. She'll do it if the motors can stand up to full throttle."

Throughout the first crisis and thereafter John Stannage had tapped out the dire news. Both sides of the Tasman had learned of the drama over the mid-ocean.

Thus ran his radio story.

7 a.m. "Propeller smashed on starboard motor. Please inform all stations stand by. May not be able to hold height."

7.1 a.m. "Turned back. Please stand by for position and course. Bill is busy. Please tell all ships to stand by on 600 metres. 

7.4 a.m. "Am going to dump heavy things, and gas also. "

7.7 a.m. "Have to dump the lot, I think. Can't keep height. Hope they have a fast destroyer at Garden Island. What a hard end for the old Cross."

7.15 a.m. "Looks like we are going in. Of course it would happen when we are right in the middle of it! Wonder what splintered the propeller? Smithy says not to dump the mails."

7.21 a.m. "One of the other engines spluttered."

Hour after hour as the fight went on so the messages came crackling through space. Australia and New Zealand listened breathlessly.

With hands and feet Smithy, at the controls, was holding the Cross in the air, coaxing her as a champion rider would a hurt and touchy horse. Sometimes she staggered. Sometimes she lurched. But she kept plunging on, just staying in the air. Smithy was feeling her through his hands and feet and mind, feeling just where her strength lay and utilizing it, nursing it to push her on, shielding her weakness all he humanly could. With his airman's genius and what remained of her strength he was working to win support for her stricken body from the slowed-up air stream. 

At the magic of his touch she laid her wings upon it at exactly the one and only angle at which she could still fly and keep height. But one slip and she would roar her battling way down to the sea, hopelessly beaten against the odds of too much weight and too little power. But hour after nervy hour the plane battled on. The deep roar from the two remaining motors reminded Taylor of the snarl of a cornered beast voicing defiance.

"Good old Cross!" he whispered, "keep your nose into it, old girt. Just keep on keeping on."

Stannage came smiling with a message received through the air-from A.W.A.

"All extremely sorry hear your unfortunate experience. Everything possible being done. Every one hoping the 'old bus' holds out."

And again. From Sydney. "Pilot boat Captat'r2Cooh has left, intercepting your course given at 10.47. H.M.S. Sussex will be ready to leave in three hours if you fail to reach the coast. Faith in Australia approval given for use. Now endeavouring locate pilot. Will be dispatched on your course soon as possible. Please radio instructions."

In the cockpit they grinned cheerfully. They were not now entirely alone in the world. Each turned back to his job. Hours went by. Patches of sunlight lit up the sea. The Cross was now three hundred and thirty miles from land. Yes, they might make it.

And then Taylor noticed a faint trail of blue smoke blowing from the port exhaust. The port motor was burning oil! Full well they realized the terrible significance of that. The engine was short of oil. If the supply could not be replenished the hot motor would burn itself out and then, with only one motor left, nothing could save them. Down, down to the sea they inevitably and quickly must go.

The dreadful irony of it! The working motor, the port one, crying, as it were, for oil; a tank full of oil in the useless starboard motor. If only there was some means of getting that oil and feeding it into the motor dying for want of it! But there was the starboard oil tank away out under the wing, away out in the howling wind.

Perhaps everything would be all right. Taylor went forward to the starboard seat beside Smithy to give him a spell. He took the controls, feet on the rudder bar, the wheel in his hands. Immediately he felt the battle of the screaming air against the staggering machine. For every minute of five fearful hours Smithy had sat there, fighting a terrible -battle. Yes, a fighting man, Smithy. 

Taylor glanced at the port oil-pressure gauge. It showed steady at sixty-three pounds to the square inch. He sighed in great relief. Everything was all right. Everything was going to be all right. He flew on, then with next glance at the gauge the blood seemed to freeze in his veins. The needle was flickering. The pressure was failing. This was a register of death.

Smithy's lined, tired face turned to the gauge. His eyes narrowed. The lines deepened. He knew the worst. He took over. He throttled back the port motor, gave it several bursts. Then opened it full out again.

The pressure read just below sixty pounds. Grimly he smiled at Taylor. He shrugged his shoulders. He could "take his medicine."

The needle quivered ever so slightly. Then slipped to a lower figure. Continued on the down. Very soon the pressure was down to fifty pounds. It wouldn't be long now! Starved for oil, the motor would crack to pieces. Then they would fall down to the waiting sea.

Taylor went down to the cabin. Stannage, busy at the wireless, looked up questioningly. Then when he heard the dire news shrugged with a smile. And rapped out this message. "Port motor will only last quarter of an hour. Please stand by for exact position."

And the world waited. Nothing more could be done. Taylor crawled back to the cockpit. Smithy was taking off his boots. He grinned. Good old Smithy, be would fight to the very last!

The pressure was down to thirty-five pounds. Taylor was staring, listening. "Get the oil from the starboard tank, quickly. Get it! Get it!" Was it a voice? Imagination? What?

He hurried to the cabin. He flung off his shoes, belted his leather coat tightly and snatched a light line. Then back to the cockpit.

"Going to have a stab at getting some oil," he shouted. Smithy turned his face with a cheery smile that said "Good old boy." But be shook his head. The attempt meant death. All three were old pals; they might as well all go together.

"I'm going to have a stab at it," shouted Taylor determinedly. He stood on the starboard seat and flung a leg over the side. Like a clutch from a gigantic band the air stream snatched at his limb. The noise was like a jeer at the futility of his venture.

But Taylor went on. He pressed down his leg, groped for and found the streamlined strut which runs out from fuselage to outboard motor. With toes braced on the strut there was space, sheer space, below his heel. Smithy was watching, tremendously alert at the controls. Now burnt smoke in a long trail was pouring from the exhaust. The sea was coming up closer. There were eager waves upon it, leaping at them.

Taylor firmly grasped the cockpit edge then slung over the other leg and found its toe-bold. Now he was standing on the thin tube, as a driven mouse pressed flat by the wind might crawl along a guttering. He gasped as the breath was whipped from his lungs. The wind screamed on and around his face. It pushed him with terrible force.

With shoulders braced against the edge of the wing be clung. The screaming wind would blow his eyes out if be looked ahead. With clenched teeth, face tautened, shoulders hard against the wing, he clung there, his hands gripping the edge of the cockpit.

Now his resolution was steeled. Now he was ready to dare all. He let go with his right band and moved out towards the engine. Inch by inch he edged along the strut while clinging to the cockpit edge with his left band. Bracing his shoulders hard against the wing he edged out-out-out.

He could not reach the engine and still grip the cockpit. He must let go his grip on the cockpit. He fought for a long, long breath.

Stannage, white of face, was staring from the plane.

Taylor pressed his shoulders against the wing, steadied and strengthened his toe grip on the strut. Then let go his hold, of the cockpit. The die was cast!

Instantly be wanted to fling out his arms to the engine. But it was not the Taylor way to gamble. Clear mind and steel determination were at work. His the deliberate, the mentally more difficult way.

He reached the engine mounting. He booked his left arm around a strut and bent over the cowl. His fingers worked to loosen the cowl pins. The first pin resisted. But his long years at the sails and rigging of yachts had given Taylor's fingers unusual strength. They were clever. The pin came out, and the others too. Thus freed, the side cowl was pulled clear so that the drain plug was accessible.

A spanner? ... Stannage was leaning far out, a spanner in his band. Taylor shuffled back along the strut. He could just reach and take the tool. He shuffled back.

Smithy was handling the machine as even be had never handled a machine before. A broken machine, slowly, steadily losing height. And a man precariously perched out there, away out there in the wind, like a bird's nest far out on the branch of a storm-tossed tree.

Straddling the strut, an arm booked around the engine, be got to work with the spanner. Yes, he could unscrew the drain plug. But he had nothing to put the oil in.

Another shuffling, inching trip along the thin metal tight-rope to the fuselage, where John Stannage had an improvised container ready. It was the metal holder of a thermos flask, the mouth splayed. Back again to the engine. He unscrewed the plug, filled the container, screwed back the plug.

And now to get back, with only one hand free!

He did it. But as he passed the tin to Stannage the suction of the slipstream whipped half the oil away.

Stannage emptied the oil into a small suitcase-it was the only container he had. Remember all the gear had been dumped. In a matter of seconds Taylor was again on his way out to the dud engine. Again, and yet again. In all he was to do it six times-six times he walked that thin bridge of death with gale-like winds opposing his every step.

He was exhausted when be clambered back into the cockpit, Mind and body cried for rest. But the tiny needle on the oil-pressure gauge was a spur. The pressure was desperately, almost fatally low. Now they were almost down to the sea. That oil must be put in the port engine, away out on the other wing I

On the port side Taylor put his leg over the side. He fought to place his foot on the port side strut, then partly forced his body out.

A howling blast hurled him back. He crouched there breathlessly. This was much, much worse. Now be must fight against the slipstream from the two working motors. He pushed out into the roaring flood of wind. And again he was hurled back into the cockpit.

Beaten and breathless be stared into Smithy's eyes and those eyes spoke. The pilot's hand put the throttles wide open. And his team-mate knew what he was going to do. Hauling and coaxing and willing and lifting the Cross up, lifting her for extra height.

Labouringly she responded, trying hard. Seven hundred feet was her utmost limit. Then Smithy nodded, and shut down the port motor. Taylor went over the side. The one~ remaining motor was roaring with a terrible labouring strain as it struggled to hold up the machine. But the force of the air stream was lessened by half. Taylor felt be could just fight against the wind. Now, he must be quick and sure. He knew that with only one motor the Cross must quickly lose height.

As quickly as possible be slithered and crabbed out to the port motor and draped himself over the cowl. Just in time. The Cross had almost touched the surface of the sea. The waves were reaching up. Spray struck the machine. Now Smithy opened up the port motor. Gave her everything. She roared, picked up, began to climb.

Taylor clung there watching the waves drop down as Smithy and the Cross fought again to regain height. With his bead thrust against his chest Taylor clung desperately. There was the roar of the straining' motors at full throttle. The drive of the air from the propeller seemed to suck the very air from his clinging body.

Smithy climbed high as he could. Then shut down the port motor. Feverishly Taylor worked freeing the top cowl, the fillet cap of the oil tank. He moved along the strut to grasp the flask of oil from Stannage, back, and poured it into the tank.

Moments of awful suspense. Then gleeful faces, shouts and waving from the cockpit. The oil-pressure gauge was creeping up.

Taylor buried his face in his arms and laughed, laughed down at the angry sea.

Smithy signalled. Taylor lay over the cowl again, clinging tight. The motor came on with a booming roar. Again the Cross began to roar up from the sea. Taylor clung, waiting for height so that with the engine off he could again pour more oil into the tank. As he clung he felt a glorious exhilaration. Even though he was in mid-air with a million demons whistling in his ears he had achieved what had seemed to be the utterly impossible. He knew, too, that he and his comrades now had a fighting chance.

Again and again be crawled out to feed the port motor with oil. Again and again Smithy won height and with but one engine in action gave a brief but blessed respite to Taylor, clinging gnome-like at the engine.

But the damage bad been done. The port engine was in its death throes as the gallant "old bus" reached the coast. And thus, with but one sound engine of three the world's most famous aeroplane, came home for the last time.

But there is far more than sheer gallantry in Captain Taylor's flying career. With Smithy in the Lockheed Altair Lady Southern Cross, he made the first and only single-engined crossing of the Pacific. With Charles Ulm and "Scotty" Allen, be made, in 1933, an England -Australia record (six days seventeen hours) in the Faith in Australia, a mere 95 m.p.h. aeroplane. With Smithy he made Australian intercity records. He planned and commanded the first flight across the Indian Ocean. And flying his own Percival Gull he made a Batavia-Sydney record and carried out other excellent solo flights. So as war bird, airline pilot, navigator, relief pilot, and solo flier Captain Taylor, M.C., E.G.M., has proved his splendid worth.

He is the last of Australia's great air masters. By performance, inspiration and by a great technical skill, he has helped others to find their aerial way. But there is another reason why he will be long remembered-he will live on in books he has written.