JEAN BATTEN.

Ashburton Guardian, Volume 56, Issue 73, 8 January 1936, Page 3

JEAN BATTEN.

“BRAVE LITTLE WOMAN” GLOWING ENGLISH TRIBUTE. To her friends she is “Jean;” to the world to-day—Miss Jean Batten, the first woman to fly the South Atlantic, writes a special correspondent of a London journal. Few of us who were at '.Lympno at dawn, despite tlie fact that we were her friends and had the utmost confidence in her ability, believed that slio would put up such a marvellous performance. Her fighting spirit, in the face of many difficulties, has brought her on top—and to-day she has flown from Lympne to Brazil in the fastest time yet, crossed the South Atlantic in record time, and been the first woman to do it. Added to this, she is the only woman to have flown to Australia and back—and she is just 25! Judging from this summary you would imagine Jean to ho just “efficiency.” Bhe is this and more—she is a very unassuming, charming woman, prone to tho many characteristics of tho individual termed “human.” I am able to reveal for the first time how the grim head of superstitious omen threatened to invade her outlook just prior to tlie Atlantic flight. Jean was staying at a. Mythe hotel as the guest of tho Hythe Chamber of Commerce, and after watching the mayoral procession to church on Sunday morning she walked to Lympno aerodrome—for she had to he near her beloved monoplane. “Doesn’t she look loyclvf” she exclaimed as she approached, referring to her machine. Among the many peoplo at tho aerodrome was Mr R. G. Doig who owns a “Flying Flea,” and lie persuaded Jean to bo photographed with his machine. As a mark of his gratitude lie gave her a tartan scarf “for luck,” lie said. Shortly afterwards Mr Doig decided to attempt to fly. Jean said, “Don t do it in this wind, it’s madness.” But he did—and crashed. This upset her tremendously—she walked inside the hangar—afraid to look at tho wrecked “Flea.” “No,” she said to me, “I can’t look—l won’t look—l must forget it.” So we wen t tothe silver monoplane and started to change the plugs. Later in the evening when favourable weather reports had come in, and we were packing away “essentials” in the locker of the aeroplane, Jean said, holding up the tartan scarf: “Oh, dear! What shall I do with this ? I feel it may bring bad luck after to-day’s crash—yet I don’t want to hurt the poor boy. Wliat shall I do. 1 advised—and the scarf was packed safely away at the back of her locker, and Jean donned her lucky New Zealand flag as a muffler. Southerly winds at Lympne call for a “take-off” over a long line of dark, sinister-looking trees, which fringe the complete southern edge of tho aerodrome. “How I dread those awful trees, Jean said tome on Sunday. “They make mo think of a cemetery. .!. do hope I shall not have to take-off over thorn m the morning. Monday morning came, and wind at tho aerodrome was due south. I could see that she was dreading the take-off, for it meant crossing the dreaded line of trees. First she cut her petrol load to 109 gallons, 05 loss than the maximum. Then she went all lound the aerodrome, with Major Dupe, the airport officer, looking for a way out. At last she came hack and said to me, “Well, 1 shall have to do it after all/ This is the worst part of the flight.” Still, dogged as ever, she climbed into her machine, ready to face it a brave little woman—all alone. Then just at 0.20 —her engine started, the “An revoirs” over, and everything ready—tlie wind changed, veering east. Jean was able to take her little*.silver monoplane over tho southeast corner —away from those dreaded trees . . . • And wo knew this to he a happy omen!