THE Great War was on, and the Sydney Naval Recruiting Depot was very busy. An officer whose chest blazed with ribbons stood very straight, staring down in amazement. At smart attention facing him stood an
orderly, not a smile on his weather-beaten face. Beside the orderly stood the most innocent-faced, tiniest lad that ever you would see. This lad was offering his services to His Majesty's Royal Australian Navy.
"You enlist?" gasped the officer. "Not a chance, son. Better go back to your mother."
The would-be recruit flushed, staring straight up at the towering officer. Doggedly he retold his story. He wanted to. do his bit, and size wasn't anything.
The orderly's face twitched; solemnly he winked at the picture of Nelson on the wall. The officer gasped, put his hand to his mouth, coughed.
"Sorry," he muttered. "Got a bit of a cold, lad. But there's absolutely nothing doing; the Navy is full right up. Go back home-there's plenty of time. This is going to be a big war, and very likely later on we'll need your services. But not just yet, lad. And
so - good day to you."
So the tiny lad had to march. Really, he was only thirteen years old, and looked younger. He was just four feet seven inches high and weighed four stone eleven pounds. But he had the heart of a lion.
Thus young Arthur Butler. For years his tiny size and baby face were to go against
him - so many people judge on appearances. But on the football field, where he was always the dwarf of his side, those opponents who thought he could be treated with scorn soon realized their mistake. For be was as hard as nails; and he never knew when he was beaten.
Arthur Butler walked out of the Recruiting Depot determined to do his bit, no matter what that great big officer had said, no matter what his size, no matter how childish his looks.
They did not want him in the A.I.F. or in the Australian Flying Corps; so Arthur got a job at the Government small arms factory at Lithgow, this being the nearest approach to serving his country. And didn't
he work! The average figure for boys packing charger clips was 14,000 clips a day. Within a fortnight this lad was packing 36,000 clips a day. Soon, he was promoted to be an apprentice, making tools and jigs. He became a first-class craftsman.
But be was still small, still much younger-looking than his years. It was his clever fingers, his quick mind that were developing so fast. And his ambition was to become a pilot, particularly a solo aviator.
After the war be secured a job with the Australian Aircraft and Engineering Company as mechanic and engineering apprentice. He studied hard, worked hard. Very soon he became a ground engineer, an engineer with ideas.
His smallness came in handy now, for those old planes were small and every pound of added weight counted. Also the engines were not very reliable; and an engineer often had to travel on a plane just in case. So Arthur used to be chosen, not only because of his engineering skill, but because of his smallness and light weight.
One day a new pilot was engaged on the Melbourne-Adelaide service. Arthur had to go with this plane and soon his hair began to rise on end. After a bumpy take-off, the plane began to do all sorts of things a plane should never do. This nervous pilot obviously did not know his Job.
Soon he was off his course. Arthur knew. He had been flown over the route before and
he had a retentive memory. The pilot sat hunched in the tiny cockpit forward, obviously ill at ease. Arthur was in the cabin behind him, with the body of the plane between himself and the pilot. It was difficult to attract the pilot's attention and signal him back to the course. Again and again he had to correct the pilot's course throughout that nightmare trip. It was the landing that worried him most. But they managed it all right.
That night Arthur thought out a plan. The return trip had to be done and he determined to take no more chances. He would "drive" the pilot home. So on the morning of the return trip he produced a coil of light
rope and explained his plan. Thankfully, the pilot agreed. When he had climbed into the cockpit Arthur tied one end of the rope round the
pilot's left arm, the other end round the right. Then he arranged the "reins" back along the body of the plane, and climbed into his own seat. Thereafter, from back in the cabin Arthur "drove" the pilot whenever he got off his course, pulling on whichever "rein" was necessary. Thus he kept him on the air track, just as a driver would keep a horse to the road.
Arthur Butler developed into a first-class ground engineer, holding all licences-" tickets," as they call them. That was only the start. He qualified as a commercial (B licence) pilot. He designed and built an aeroplane. And when, on a minor technical point, the authorities refused it a certificate of airworthiness, Arthur determined to go to England to see if he could get the plane adopted and manufactured there. Or, if be failed in that, to get a job as a test pilot. He had very little money, for nearly everything he earned had been spent on his studies and his plane. But he had determination.
Arthur landed in England full of hope-and immediately found that his youthful appearance still went against him. He was a young man now, but he looked a mere
boy far too young to have designed a good aeroplane or to have had any considerable flying experience. When be did manage an interview, the big men
looked on him simply as an unknown Australian boy. And of course they were far too busy to take any notice of him.
His funds ran very low; but he battled on. Eventually there appeared to be nothing else for it but a quick return to Australia while he still had his passage money. He determined that he would build a bigger and better plane and fly it
himself - and show the world. Thus thinking, he was cycling through Cheshire. Just off the road, be spied a small
'drome. He turned his cycle towards it instinctively. He entered the gate, walked to the hangar.
A man came out. "Sorry," said Arthur, "I've no permission to be here. But I come from Australia, and when I saw that little plane I simply had to have a closer look."
"So you're a visitor from Australia?" said the watchman.
"Yes."
"You're keen on planes?"
"I love them."
"Oh well," said the watchman doubtfully, "I don't think Mr. Comper would mind you looking at the plane. And it is a good plane, too," he added proudly.
"It's a little beauty," said Arthur enthusiastically, and hurried to the plane.
It was a single-seater, low-wing monoplane, sitting there as if it didn't wish to be higher than Arthur-for it was only five feet six inches high. With its wings folded it was only nineteen feet long and nine feet wide. It could almost be put into a home garage. But to Arthur's experienced eye there were speed and strength in its lines, and-yes-it would have range too.
The watchman stood by as Arthur, with shining eyes, pored over the plane.
"You seem to know a lot about planes, " said the man at last.
"I work among them," replied Arthur, "and I fly them too."
"You fly them?" exclaimed the watchman. "Yes, why not?" asked Arthur. Then
he straightened up and laughed. He was standing beside the tiniest plane be bad ever seen and, as be knew,
he was certainly a very small pilot. His hand went out to the plane; its fabric seemed to warm to his touch.
"She's a beauty, right enough," said the watchman. "She was designed and built by
Mr. Nick Comper for this year t s King's Cup race, and he flew her himself. She came third, too," he added proudly, "despite her small size."
"And did Mr. Comper design her himself?"
"He did."
"Then he's made a very good job of her."
"He has that!" agreed the watchman.
Just then a cheery-looking man came to the hangar.
"That's Mr. Comper now," said the watchman. "I'll have to explain your presence here."
The English designer and Arthur Butler got on well together from the start. Now that the owner was present Arthur examined the plane in greater detail.
Mr. Comper looked on with shrewd eyes, not a little surprised when he learned that his visitor was not only a pilot but a designer too.
"Have you your pilot's licence with you?" asked Comper.
"No," answered Arthur, "it's where I'm staying."
"Right. Bring your ticket along and if it's in order you may take my plane for a flight."
Arthur fairly jumped for his bike. He was out of the gate like a shot and
pedaling full speed down the village road. He was back in no time.
Mr. Comper looked at the licence. "Yes," be said, "it seems in order. Go ahead."
Arthur squeezed into the tiny cockpit, and laughed - it was like a mouse getting into its hole, the machine and be seemed to be one. He took off. He knew that down below
the owner was critically watching his every manoeuvre. But that didn't spoil things. Arthur fairly revelled in that flip.
When at last he came down, Comper was enthusiastic.
"That's the way she should be flown," be declared.
Here at last was Arthur's great opportunity. Here at last was an executive who did not put off the young Australian because he looked too young. Besides, he greatly admired Arthur's flying. So, as they talked, Arthur soon told of his hopes. Comper did not want Arthur's plane, and he did not want a test pilot. But one day Arthur came away from that little aerodrome almost walking on air. A Comper "Swift" was to be made available to him for an attempt on the England-Australia record. And, of course, it was to be a solo record.
But it was going to be mighty hard. Hinkler bad made the first solo flight. Smithy had broken his record. Then C. W. A. Scott, another great pilot, had cut the time down to nine days three hours and twenty-five minutes. And this was the target, set up that same year, at which Arthur was to aim.
Arthur was delighted to find that now his smallness and lightness were going to add to his chances, just when he needed every inch of space, every pound of pay load. He
was so small that part of the space that would be taken up by a usual-sized pilot's body could now be used for an extra petrol tank. And this increased the flying range of the machine to
1,300 miles, meaning that less time would be lost on landings for petrol.
Finally there was just sufficient room for Arthur to pack tightly down into the cockpit. The Swift, now
loaded could carry only one more pound of weight. This was all that Arthur was allowed for food and luggage. He
did not care; petrol meant far more to him than luggage. And as to food -well, he would see it out somehow; he would stoke up each time he landed for petrol.
He discarded boots; he flew in slippers. And a well known London paper called him the "Carpet Slipper
Airman. "
Arthur had one secret dread-of going to sleep of nights when far up in the sky. So he bought an alarm clock, with the idea of setting the alarm to go off every half-hour.
The flight started on 31 October 1931-and almost immediately the clock refused to alarm! So Arthur improvised another "alarm." He did not shave; and when be felt inclined to sleep be fiercely rubbed the bristles of his face. That kept him awake!
At Naples someone tampered with his magneto while he was having a meal. Had be not been a first-class engineer who had studied every part of his machine he would have lost the record there and then. At Brindisi the Italian police held him up for half a day because of a passport technicality -an agonizing experience when every moment counted. When he took off from Brindisi he was half a day behind schedule. He sped from Egypt. By now he was part of his plane. They had teamed up splendidly; a little man in a little machine. By touch and sound the pilot knew every feeling of the machine.
The stars came out in a brilliant sky; land and sea, so far below, seemed some other far-away world. He gazed at the stars that seemed so close, and suddenly he smiled at the thought of how small he was. Those stars were each a gigantic world; but not one of them could make an aeroplane and fly it through the skies. He rubbed his chin vigorously. Yes, he was quite awake, flying up here all alone with the stars
and God.
At Akyab be was about to take off when be discovered that a tank had been "milked." Some wretched creature-had stolen sixteen gallons of petrol from that tank. The pilot's life might well have depended on that petrol.
He reached Jask. He was quarantined for the night because cholera had broken out at his previous stopping place.
Thousands of miles yet to go and the sands of time fast running out.
He swooped down on Calcutta. When he was ready to take off, the aerodrome was under water.
He ran into monsoons, furious squalls by night and day, when the universe was a blinding sheet of rain tortured by thunder blasts. With set teeth, he clung to the controls of the gallant machine, throbbing through the blinding storm.
He came to the crossing of the Timor. His heart was singing "Minutes! Minutes! Minutes!" Minutes to reach Australia, minutes to break the record. In brilliant sunlight over the lazy sea the machine droned on, singing with him, speeding through the sky. Minutes-minutes-minutes. Far below a fleet of pearling craft looked like gulls upon the sea. He gazed down and laughed; he hoped they would find some pearls, some really good pearls.
The hazy Australian mainland appeared. Soon he saw the harbour, the peep of white roofs around the deeply foliaged shores of Darwin. He landed-only one hour
forty two minutes ahead of Scott's time.
It was a record, not only for solo flying, but for all types of flying-nine days one hour
forty-three minutes. Little Arthur Butler and the little Comper Swift bad scored a great victory.
Chronologically, two Davids had beaten the Goliaths of distance and time. |
