Charles Kingsford Smith and Those Magnificent Men (69 page)

T
he hearing proper for the Air Accident Investigation Committee Inquiry started on the morning of 16 May 1929 in Darlinghurst Courthouse, which was as packed with people as it was thick with tension. Not surprisingly, the first man in the dock—and make no mistake that was exactly where he was—was Charles Kingsford Smith. He had been the captain of the ill-fated flight, and it was for him to explain himself and to answer the very serious allegations that had been made to the effect that the whole episode had been a publicity sham gone wrong, and that as a result two good men were lying dead in their desert graves.

As he swore to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, the famous pilot looked rumpled, tense and jumpy…and still not quite recovered from his experience at Coffee Royal, to judge from his rather haunted gauntness, although whether that was from physical or emotional trauma was not clear.

There was no doubt, however, that he could still scarcely fathom that it had all come to this, that Keith and Bobby were dead and he was being asked to defend his role in their deaths. Around the court, the press and the spectators, including devastated and angry family members of the two dead men—most of whom blamed Smithy for their loss—leaned forward so as not to miss a word as the proceedings proper began. Foremost among them was the clearly grieving Bon Hilliard, staring at her former boyfriend through the puffy eyes of one who had spent a lot of time crying.

Mr J.H. Hammond, KC, the barrister assisting the Crown, was at first relatively gentle, taking Kingsford Smith through the background of the flight before starting to get to the core of the matter.

The food taken on the flight, for example, was that really sufficient for a trip that always had the potential to land in extreme conditions?

Pretty much, came the reply. It was true they hadn’t foreseen what subsequently happened to them—who would?—but it was more than enough for a trip 50 per cent longer than the ‘hop’ they thought they were going to take.

‘When we landed,’ said Kingsford Smith sombrely, ‘we had seven sandwiches and about a flask and a half of coffee.’

‘And where were the emergency rations?’ asked the barrister.

They had definitely been stowed in the
Southern Cross
, the pilot explained patiently, but unfortunately someone had removed them before departure. Neither he, nor Ulm, nor any one member of the crew had any idea of that before they had taken off.

It wasn’t that the barrister snorted derisively at this response—he was far too sophisticated for that—but an eyebrow raised quizzically throughout left no-one in any doubt what he thought. But moving right along. The next line of questioning focused on the charts the men had taken on the flight, and whether those, too, were sufficient for the task at hand.

Nothing that the aviator replied to this made the eyebrow drop, but at least the barrister was not long in getting to the next, rather more serious matter. It was about the decision to leave Richmond air base when they did, even without the favourable weather report they needed.

Yes…well.

On this subject Kingsford Smith seemed a lot less sure of his ground and it wasn’t necessarily easy for the furiously scribbling journalists in the court to follow the trail of telegrams back and forth, but it at least seemed established that the
Southern Cross
had, in fact, departed without having received the favourable weather report that would have been expected.

And then the counsel ratcheted up the tension even further.

Why, when the aerial had broken, had they continued on their transcontinental flight?

‘We regarded the risk of another take-off as not worth turning back,’
²
he replied.

Over the next several days, Kingsford Smith was led to give his account of the rest of the journey: how they hit terrible weather, couldn’t find Wyndham, came across the two missions, had to make an emergency landing on the mangrove flats at the place they had come to call ‘Coffee Royal’ and so forth. With the barrister questioning him all the while, Kingsford Smith then took the court through the efforts they made to get themselves rescued, including lighting the fire, fixing a makeshift generator and trying to send a signal out on the radio.

Why had they only burnt wood on their signal fires, when if they’d burned some of their remaining engine oil, they could have made black smoke?

‘Because,’ Kingsford Smith explained patiently, ‘we were in a green environment, and the white smoke from wood fires shows up better against that, than the black smoke would have.’

This time the barrister not only raised a quizzical eyebrow, but followed up with a lengthy question as to how that could
possibly
be. Billowing black smoke less visible than tepid white smoke? What nonsense!

No sir, not nonsense. That was just the way it was.

It was when the question was put as to why they had not tried to transform the receiver into a transmitter, however, that things became tense again.

Smithy replied: ‘We wanted to hear if anybody would have the sense to send out the latitude and longitude of Port George Mission Station, which had seen us pass over.’

So none of this was contrived to be a publicity stunt?

A stir in the courtroom…Now they were really getting to the heart of the matter, as the examining counsel produced and tabled a copy of the contract that had been signed by Ulm and Kingsford Smith with Sun Newspapers together with the Melbourne
Herald and Weekly Times.
It stipulated that the sum of £500 be paid to the pilots for the exclusive account of their flight to England, and a further £500 if they beat Bert Hinkler’s record time of sixteen days—and only £250 if they made it to England but failed to beat Hinkler’s time. In return, the pilots undertook that the only information they would provide would be to the aforementioned newspapers, and they would be in breach of the said contract if they talked to anyone else in the press.

Thus definitively establishing the strength of the bond between the pilots and these newspapers, and the kind of money on offer, the first day’s proceedings ended as the myriad journalists rushed to file their copy. Kingsford Smith could read the largest account, in the
Sydney Morning Herald
the following morning—‘DRAMATIC FLIGHT STORY: KINGSFORD SMITH’S EVIDENCE’—as he made his way back to the court for another day of testimony.

And on this morning, Mr Hammond was not long in causing the journalists to start furiously scribbling once again. In precise, clipped, emotionless tones, he read to Kingsford Smith the article from
Aircraft
, which stated flat-out that the whole thing was nothing but a ‘publicity stunt’, implying that the airmen had deliberately got themselves lost. And then, rather theatrically, the barrister laid the clipping on the table, before suddenly turning savagely towards Kingsford Smith and thrusting his head forward the better to spit out his words.

‘Was there any premeditation?’ he snapped. The members of the Air Investigation Committee leaned forwards, as did everyone else in the courtroom, evincing the ancient human instinct that bringing your ear just a tiny bit closer could make all the difference. No-one wanted to miss the response.

‘It is an absolute deliberate and malicious lie,’ Kingsford Smith answered with no little force, ‘and I am very glad to have been given the opportunity to publicly say so.’

The barrister shuffled his papers, with the same definite action that a man might use to reload a rifle, and came up with a second clipping from
Plain Talk
, the purport of which was that Keith Anderson had been in on the whole ruse, and had gone out after the
Southern Cross
so he could reap a public reward, while Ulm and Kingsford Smith’s part of the deal was the massive publicity that was generated.

This time Kingsford Smith was
really
angry, barely able to get his words out such had the fury taken hold of him. His hands gripped the dock.

‘Another deliberate malicious lie, that affects a dead man’s reputation, and which I consider disgusting,’ Smith replied. ‘I think it is disgraceful.’

Mr Hammond: ‘It has been said that a certain newspaper was party to this supposed stunt. What do you say to that?’

‘There was no stunt at all, and there was no arrangement with any newspapers or person other than the perfectly fair contract mentioned yesterday.’
³

Fred Myers, who was representing the Anderson and Hitchcock families, stood up and addressed the wearying pilot.

‘You have heard the extract from the publication stating that it was suggested that Anderson was to find you. There has been also a suggestion that you endorsed a promissory note for £300 on Anderson’s plane and that that was part of the same arrangement. Is that so?’

‘That is a
deliberate lie
!’ Kingsford Smith burst in.

‘It was merely a personal friendship?’

‘Yes.’

The journalists kept scribbling. This was providing terrific copy for their newspapers and no-one wanted to miss a word.

A moment of rare relief from the tension in the courtroom came when Smithy was closely questioned about his health prior to take-off. He told the inquiry that although he had the flu in the days leading up to the flight, his doctor had told him he would be right to fly.

‘Did you get a certificate to this effect?’ asked one of the members of the investigation committee.

‘I could get one,’ Smithy replied deadpan. ‘All I have at present is a bill.’
⁴

Muted laughter swept the courtroom.

Perhaps the most exciting moment of the first few days’ proceedings began when, from the bench, Geoffrey Hughes asked Kingsford Smith if he would again attempt the flight to England.

‘Probably, yes,’ was his answer, ‘with even more adequate provisions.’

‘Although you considered the preparations for this flight were perfect?’

Kingsford Smith controlled himself.

‘We are not supermen,’ he said quietly.

‘Don’t think that I am suggesting you are not a superman,’ Hughes replied. ‘Why did you take risks on this flight?’

‘We are in the position of pioneers,’ was the quiet answer, in the manner of one explaining something patiently to another who just can’t grasp the concept. ‘And pioneers always take risks.’

‘But it was not necessary to pioneer difficult routes when there were other routes?’ Hughes suggested.

‘I do not see why,’ Smithy replied firmly, ‘that in the future, direct long-distance routes should not be used, and why we should not help to eliminate the risks on those routes.’

As in, yes, they could have got to Wyndham by making lots of short hops between aerodromes, but that was not what the trip had been about. They were
pioneers
of getting from one spot to another, in the most direct manner possible, and by forging forward in that manner they would be making the way easier for those who would follow, who would inevitably include passengers.

At least there was some positive testimony from Captain Leslie Herbert Holden on how only a pilot of consummate skill could
ever
have put the
Southern Cross
down in the spot that Smithy had.

And then it was the turn of Charles Thomas Phillipe Ulm.

What of the assertions that the whole thing was a ‘publicity stunt’?

‘It is a deliberate lie; too despicable to talk about!’ Ulm snapped, glaring angrily at both Mr Hammond and the journalists who had penned these slurs. ‘I’d like to get some of those newspaper men out there for a while.’

‘In a publication called
Aircraft
,’ said Mr Hammond, ‘the word “stunt” is used in connection with the flight.’

‘I have read that article,’ the grim answer came, ‘and I know the man named Hart who wrote it. We did not sue him for libel because we know he has no money and never will have any. The paper is not published in Sydney. He brings it out wherever he can find some poor stupid printer to print it. The writer is a deliberate liar.’

‘It is said that it was a “stunt” and a “newspaper stunt” at that,’ persisted counsel.

‘An absolute lie!’ Ulm retorted.

Counsel went on reading from the article, which included the statement that ‘Mr C.E. Kingsford Smith’s attempted stunt flight to England has resulted in the death of Commercial Pilot Keith Anderson.’ Ulm broke in on the reading with a protest to the chairman: ‘I think this is most unfair!’

Brigadier General Wilson turned to Ulm.

‘You are getting the opportunity of answering them,’ he said.

‘Well, I deny it!’ Ulm was getting very angry.

‘Don’t deny it until you hear it read.’

‘I know who wrote it, sir,’ protested the outraged airman.

‘Do I understand from your attitude that you would rather I did not ask these questions?’

‘No, go on, go on! I’m glad you are asking them.’

‘Do you think I am asking them in anybody’s interest but your own?’

‘No,’ Ulm answered, ‘I am sorry. I got heated for a moment.’

‘Do you think steps should be taken to prevent people going off on harebrained flights?’ Hughes asked.

‘If they are harebrained, yes. But I would not like to say what form the control should take,’ answered Ulm.

Dozens of other witnesses were then heard—seventy-four in all, with the hearing also being held in Melbourne and Adelaide—including Captain Clive Chateau, who told of his angst when he heard that the
Southern Cross
had left without receiving his favourable weather report, and that the plane also couldn’t be contacted. He nevertheless was most forceful in dismissing any suggestion that Ulm and Kingsford Smith had set the whole thing up so as to generate publicity as ‘absurd’.

Harold Arthur Litchfield, who had of course lived through it all, was equally forceful in rejecting the insinuations as ‘malicious lies’.