VILLA CISNEROS REACHED

Press, Volume LXXIV, Issue 22431, 18 June 1938, Page 21

VILLA CISNEROS REACHED

Flight Over Arab Encampment dusk-landing AT THIES Miss Batten’s 1600-Mile; Journey by "The Press’’ under special ' arrangement.) CHAPTER IX (Continued) Very soon I was passing over a long, tapering sandy stretch, its golden yellow accentuated by the deep blue water of an inlet which almost severed it from the mainland. Picking up the map I read, “Ed Dajla Sahria Peninsula,” and looked ahead for a glimpse of Villa Cisneros, which should be at the southern end of the peninsula. Early adventurers in these parts had evidently mistaken the large inlet for the mouth of some great river, and not bothering to explore the blue strip had given it the name of Rio de Oro ("River of Gold”) and sailed away. I wondered whether there was really gold here, or whether the name referred to the golden sands on each side of the inlet. To the south of the sandy strip I could see radio masts of Villa Cisneros, and was soon flying over the rows of tiny black tents of an Arab encampment. After circling the square white tower of the fort I flew across the aerodrome. There were wheel and tailskid marks on the ground, so evidently the surface, if hard, was crusty or covered with a soft layer of sand, I thought, shutting off the engine. The aerodrome was really a large part of the desert fenced off with barbed wire, and as I glided down to land it was as if I were entering a furnace, so intense was the heat.

It was extremely difficult after being hours in the air to judge accurately one’s height above the ground when landing on sand. Especially is this s 6 at midday, when the sun has reached its meridian and there are practically no shadows. The heat rising from the sand made little waves in the atmosphere just like the ripples above a fire. As I rubbed my eyes and stared down at the golden surface the heatwaves gave the illusion of sandhills, and for one frightful second I imagined that .they were real hillocks which would overturn the machine. Touching down near the hangar I switched off the engine,, for there was a regulation forbidding taxi-ing on this aerodrome owing to the miniature dust-stcrm created by doing so. Mechanics wheeled the machine into the shade of the hangar, and at once commenced refuelling. Lunch With the Comandante I did not intend staying long on the ground, for there was another 680-mile flight to Thies, where it was imperative that I should land before sunset, as no night-landing facilities were available there. I watched the native boys busily straining the petrol through the chamois-leather filter, and wondered idly why it was necessary for 12 of them to cluster round each tank as it was filled, whereas the refuelling could, have been finished in 10 minutes had they distributed themselves and filled all tanks simultaneously. As each was filled there was a loud shout from all 12 as the petrol overflowed and poured down the wing. A lot of talking ensued as the cap was replaced, and exactly the same process repeated at the next tank. I had salvaged the packet of sandwiches before the petrol-tin being hoisted on to the side of the machine overbalanced and distributed parts of its contents into the tucker-box. Opening the packet I found that the bread had dried . up, and just as I finished the ham and thrown the bread to some persistent native dogs a motor-car pulled up outside the hangar. From it stepped a Spanish officer, who saluted and explained in French that the Comandante of the base sent his compliments and would be very pleased if I would join him at lunch. I looked at my watch and wondered if I could really afford the time for lunch. Where was the house? Was it far away, I inquired of the officer. He pointed to the square white house just outside the boundary of the aerodrome, and I decided to accept the invitation. As soon as the refuelling was fin-, ished I accompanied the officer to the house, where the Comandante and his wife were waiting to receive me; The large white house was typically Spanish with its arched doorways and cool blue-and-white-tile floors. How restful I, felt, sinking into a deep chair and sipping a cool drink and conversing with the Comandante and his wife in my best Spanish. Each of the children was presented to me, and looking at the four bright little faces I wondered how it was they were so healthy in this great heat. “I flew right over your country yesterday,” I told the charming little wife of the Comandante as the silent-footed servant served the lunch. She was surprised, and rather sorry that I had not landed in Spain. Would I not care to stay and rest for the night, she inquired. I had a vivid mental vision of the cool room where I had bathed my sunburned hands and face on my arrival, as I reluctantly declined her invitation. The time was passing all too quickly, so, thanking the Comandante’s wife for her hospitality, I bade good-bye to my newfound friends. Cloud of Sand Marks Take-off Although it was so hot in the open the Comandante kindly offered to accompany me to the aerodrome, where the machine was, quickly wheeled out of the hangar and the engine started up. The slipstream from the propeller was whirling up the sand, which looked like a smoke-screen behind the machine, and the fine, choking dust wa s blowing into my eyes and mouth, so that I could even taste the grit between my teeth. Quickly bidding good-bye to the Comandante, I climbed into the cockpit and took straight off. As I turned to fly back across the aerodrome. the cloud of sand defined my line of take-off, and through the yellow haze I could see the white-clad figures on the ground waving goodbye. Not River of Gold, but Hearts of Gold they should have called this place, I thought, remembering the kindness of my new-found friends, living so far away from their own country m this lonely outpost. . For the next 300 miles the route lay inland, but as visibility became steadily worse and the yellow dust blotted out the horizon I decided to alter course and steer for Port Etiene, where I could land if the sandstorms were blowing farther south. Mile after mile of barren sandy desert slipped past, with never a tree or bush or even a blade of grass to relieve the monotonous yellow. I felt very lonely flying over this vast stretch, for utter desolation reigned supreme, and not a sign of civilisation was to be seen anywhere. The wind was northerly, about 40 miles an hour, I estimated as the machine sped southward, covering the next 200 miles ip just over an hour.

I did not fly over Port Etiene. but cut across the top of the peninsula and continued on down the coast, leaving Spanish territory and crossing the border to French Mauretania. A name on the map caught my eye, “He des Pelicans,” and gliding down I flew-low over the island, in the hope of seeing some sign of life, but seemed just as desolate as the jest of the coast. A hundred miles farther south I could hardly believe my eyes when a flock of about 1000 flamingos rose like a lovely veil of pink tulle from the islands over which I was flying. Shortly afterwards I saw a small flshing-smack. and when a little native village with three men on camels riding toward it came into view, I considered this must be quite a thickly populated district. Terrific Heat The heat was terrific, and it was almost with feelings of relief that I hailed the sight of an approaching rain-storm. “It would at least cool the atmosphere,” I thought, flying low along the coast as the heavy tropical rain pelted down so fiercely that I could only just see the white line of rollers breaking on the beach beneath. When the rain had almost ceased I removed my topee, and putting my head out the window let the rain drench my hair and cool my burning face. The rain was refreshing, and my weariness left me as I once more donned my sun-helmet and estimated the time when I should pass over the town of St. Louis, at the mouth of the Senegal river. The country was becoming greener. I for the sandhills were sparsely covered with vegetation, and occasional clumps of trees dotted the landscape. As I flew over a vast swamp in the centre of which was a lake hundreds of wild birds, evidently disturbed by the noise of the engine, rose like a cloud from the green reeds. Quite suddenly I came upon the river Senegal wending its way southward through the thick dark green vegetation. My course lay parallel to the river, and it was not until nearing St. Louis that I actually crossed it and was able to see the many palm trees and the. Jungle debris floating down the muddy waters to the sea. St Louis, with its shady trees and white houses, looked a prosperous and busy town. In the centre was a railway station, for a line connected Hues and Dakar with St Louis, and I guessed that the arrival of a train was quite an event The sea for some considerable distance from the shore was discoloured by the muddy waters of the great river as it flowed into the blue Atlantic. The sun was low on the horizon, and’l expected to arrive

at Tbies just before sundown, for I knew from experience how little twilight there is in the tropics. The wind had dropped completely, and the treetops of the dark green jungle which covered the flat country were thrown into relief by the golden rays of the setting sun. ' . A Jungle Aerodrome

lit the fast-fading light I saw the railway fork at Tfaies, and immediately sighted a large clearing in the jungle, which was the aerodrome. Circling the hangar I pulled back the throttle and glided down to land. As I crossed the boundary it seemed impossible to lose speed, and the aeroplane, flying just above the ground, was rapidly approaching the high trees at the end of the aerodrome. Quickly I opened up the throttle; the machine roared over the trees. Whatever had happened. 1 wondered, circling to attempt another landing. Exactly the same thug occurred again, and I found that the throttle lever had jammed, and it was quite impossible to pull it right back. The light was fading fast; I must get down somehow. There was only one thing to do, and that was to switch off completely. Leaning forward I knocked the two little switches on the dashboard down, and as the roar of the engine- ceased glided silently toward the aerodrome. The aeroplane seemed to sink heavily through the still air, and the now lifeless metal propeller caught the last rays of light. It was imperative that I make no error now, for there was no engine to help me if I undershot the aerodrome. Mm- ' oeuvring the machine so that I should land well inside the boundary,! gilded silently over the trees and landed near the hangar. A group of mechanics who had gathered outside the hangar while I had been circling were now running across to the machine. Opening the door, I climbed out feeling decidedly stiff after the 1600-mile flight from Casablanca. The aeroplane was poshed into the hangar and soon surrounded by an admiring group of mechanics. Several French officers congratulated me on my first flight from England, and I now realised for the first time that it was only 36 hours since I had left England, 3000 miles away.

CHAPTER X

Shocks at Thies

My original plan' before leaving Lympne had been to fly to West Africa, rest for a day or two and await favourable weather, then at* tempt to lower all records for the fastest fligut across the South Atlantic Ocean. If I were to fly straight on across the Atlantic to Brazil there was every possibility of my lowering by almost a day the record for the only other solo flight from England to South America. “You will rest in Thies for a few days before continuing your flight? - asked one of the officers.

“No, I have decided to fly straight on, and if the weather is not too bad will take off before dawn to-morrow morning,” I told the astonished officer. “We have no night-flying equipment here,” they told me, in answer to my request for a flare path. “You should have gone to Dakar; they have all facilities there; and good all-weather runways.” Before leaving England I had made exhaustive inquiries as to the best aerodromes along the route, and bad been, told that the runways at Dakar were not ye; completed, and it seemed that the military aerodrome at Thies. 45 miles inland, was the most suitable. On good authority I had been told that Hues was exceptionally large, and as the aeroplane would be heavily laden with petrol for the Atlantic flight of almost two thousand miles, it nad seemed the better of the two for my purpose. I looked across the aerodrome, which was sparsely covered with long grass. It had been large at one time, but it appeared that since the Air Prance Company had .moved their headquarters to Dakar only a square in the centre of the big aerodrome had been kept cleared, and the rest was now overgrown with scrub and hillocks. Yes. it was only too plain now that I should have gone to Dakar, for it was also on the coast, and would have shortened the flight to Brazil by 45 miles. The fact that Thies was so much farther inland meant that by leaving from there I was really handicapped by approximately 15 minutes for the record, which I hoped to establish for the Atlantic crossing . It was too late now to fly on to Dakar, for the sun had long since set. and if I were to lower the England-Braxd record I should have to take off in the dark hours before dawn to arrive at my destination before nightfall. Special permits had been granted for me to land at Thies, and I had arranged for fuel supplies to be sent there for me. Great was my surprise and disappointment on being told that no supplies had arrived. (To be Continued^