“MY LIFE”

Otago Daily Times, Issue 23515, 1 June 1938, Page 3

“MY LIFE”

JEAN BATTEN'S AUTO BIOGRAPHY (Published by the Otago Daily Times under special arrangement) CHAPTER 111 (continued) At dawn the following morning I left Athens and flew over the .ffigean Sea to the island of Rhodes, where I altered course for Cyprus. Athens had looked very lovely in the pale light of dawn, which softened the brilliant whiteness of the city and threw into relief the sombre green of the many Cyprus trees and deepened the purple shadows of the surrounding mountains. Looking back at the sleeping city I remembered a previous visit when I had driven around Athens at night md seen the ancient and beautiful city at its best, when the great colonnades and majestic architecture had been bathed in the magic light of the full moon. The sun rose in a blaze of gold as I flew over the many little islands of the ASgean Sea. My thoughts of ancient Greece and the mighty Colossus of Rhodes, wonder of the Old World, were dispelled as I flew over Rhodes itself and looked down on the very modern seaplane base. There was a large French flyingboat moored on the sheltered waters. A little later I passed over the island 'of Castelorizo, just off the Turkish coast, another possession of Italy with an equally good seaplane base. To the north the great snowcovered mountains of the Anatolian coast of Turkey towered into the sky. Seven-hours out from Athens a faint smudge on the horizon resolved itself into the Island of Cyprus,, and. as I drew nearer I experienced that sense of elation that I always feel when flying to a place new to me. The island of Cyprus is about 140 miles from east to west, and the greatest breadth from north to south is only 60 miles. Because of its geographical position, Cyprus is undoubtedly destined to become an air base of strategic importance to Britain.

Crossing the limestone hills of Kyrenia I flew inland over the large plain of Mesaoria, which looked dry and parched for want of rain. It was extremely hot, and strong upward currents made the flight to Nicosia unpleasantly bumpy. On one occasion the Moth gained over a thousand feet in less than a minute, only to bump down hundreds of feet the next.

The aerodrome at Nicosia is really a natural landing ground, and the red earth surface, blending with that of the surrounding country, would make it very difficult to distinguish were it not for the white corner markings and circle. The surface was sparsely covered with scrub, but there were no trees or buildings to hamper the approach; therefore it seemed much larger than 600 square yards, which were the dimensions given on my diagram. As I circled to land I noticed that a windindicator had been erected, and there was a - little crowd awaiting my arrival. On taxi-ing over the ground I noticed large, flat rocks here and there, but fortunately protruding only an inch or two above the surface.

Every one was most helpful, and soon refuelling was being carried out, ( while I busied myself with the engine work, although I felt very hot and dusty and tempted to retire to some cool, shady spot with an iced drink. Eventually all work was completed and the Moth securely moored for the night. When I had notified the Cypriote authorities of my intended flight to Nicosia, in addition to arranging for the windindicator, for which I had incidentally to pay an extra ten shillings, I stipulated for a police guard over the aeroplane at night as there was no hangar. While we had been working on the engine a number of soldiers had arrived, and were soon busily engaged pegging down tents, while another group arrived with ' chairs, tables, cases of food, and general camping equipment. “They must think I intend staying for a month or so,” I had remarked laughingly to the petrol agent. It had not been possible to drive the screw pickets into the hard ground, so we had tied the ropes to petrol cans filled with rocks, and thus secured the Moth for the night. Everyone was very pleased when the work was finished, especially Mr Ridgeway, the fuel agent, who had completed the back-breaking task of refuelling the machine with 60 gallons of fuel from four-gallon tins, which were handed up to him as he perched precariously on the wing, As night fell I drove into Nicosia with Mr and Mrs Ridgeway, who proved good friends on this and subsequent flights to Cyprus, and at whose charming home I stayed the night. Cyprus, I learned, numbers among its 350,000 inhabitants many Mahommedans, Armenians, and Orthodox Greek Christians, and the languages spoken include English, Turkish, French, Arabic, Italian and modern Greek. Tobacco, cigarettes, wines, cottons, silk, oranges, raisins, flax, and cereals are the main products of this rich island, and the fact that Cyprus has changed hands so often probably accounts for the many and varied peoples living there. Richard Coeur de Lion, the Crusader, first took possession of Cyprus for England in 1191, and it was here that he married Berengaria, Princess of Navarre, thus making her Queen of England. Within a year Richard had sold the Island, and it was not until 700 years later that Cyprus was occupied by British forces, Even then, although a British High Commissioner took over government by a convention between Britain and Turkey, the island was still really a Turkish possession. Only after the entry of Turkey into the Great War in 1914 was Cyprus annexed to the British Crown. In 1925 the island was formally recognised as a British colony. All too soon I left Cyprus. Dawn next morning found me bidding farewell to Nicosia and setting off for Damascus. Passing over the port of Famagusta, with its palms and Byzantine churches, I saw the ancient citadel known as Othello’s Tower, for it was there that the Moor was supposed to have murdered his Desdemona.

Although Cyprus is only approximately 60 miles from the Syrian coast, the direct route to Beirut took n\e over a hundred miles of the Blue Levant. Away on the distant horizon I could see what looked like a great bank of cumulus cloud, but as I flew on I realised it was the great snow-covered rajnge of the Lebanon Mountains. My altitude was 2000 feet, and approaching Beirut I tried to gain more height. The down-draughts from the mountains were so violent, however, that any height that the Moth gained was lost in the succession of terrific bumps which shook the machine.

Circling around Beirut for some time, I tried to gain sufficient height to cross the mountains, but it was not possible, so I flew along the coast, passing over ancient Sidon and Tyre, where the great range gradually slopes away toward Nazareth. Eventually I came to a valley between hills festooned with terraces which looked so ancient that they might have been there even before Solomon took the cedars for his temple from the forests of Lebanon. On the hundreds of terraces I could see the most beautiful gardens and orderly-looking fruit trees and vineyards. Following the valley, I came to the Sea of Galilee. To the south I could see the river Jordan, and soon approached the edge of the Syrian Desert, which stretched before me like an endless sea of sand. In the distance Damascus, on the fringe of the desert, looked like a lovely city in the centre of a vast lake. Such was the illusion created by the river Barada, on the banks of which Damascus stands, and its many tributaries and irrigation canals, which reflect the intense blue of the sky.

The French Air Force officers at Mezze Aerodrame, where I landed, were very helpful, and I lunched with the commander of the base, while my aeroplane was refuelled. We discussed the next part of my flight across the Syrian Desert from Damascus to Bagdad. “ Sivez la piste,” advised the commandant as he spoke of the dangers of this lonely 530-mile desert stretch where sudden dust storms and wandering Arab tribes add to the hazards of a lone flight. The track, however, was not marked on my map, nor was Fort Rutbah; in fact, nothing relieved the smooth, even yellow of several sections of the map save a few Arabic names and wadis or dried-up watercourses. “You can use my map,” he said, “ and post it back to me from Bagdad.” It was with gratitude that I took the map, for it was already past mid-day, and by the time I was once again in the air there might not be sufficient daylight left to make Bagdad before dark, in which case I could stop at Rutbah.

It was very hot, and my heavily laden aeroplane, after covering a considerable part of the sandy surface of the aerodrome, rose reluctantly above the date palms at the far end. Skimming the tops of the palms, I flew for miles trying to coax the aeroplane to a reasonable height. The machine had risen very well considering the weight of 61 gallons of petrol and all the equipment aboard and the rarefied atmosphere of the aerodrome, situated as it is at 2000 feel above sea level.

Amid the profusion of date-palms surrounding Damascus, which is reputed to be the oldest city in the world still occupied, T glimpsed white domes and turrets, and here and there a lovely garden half hidden by the leafy shade of the trees. There was a dust haze over the desert, and it grew increasingly difficult to follow the track after I had located it at Adhra. The glare from the desert was very strong, and my throat became parched With the heat and dust. There was nothing to relieve the barrenness of the wilderness over which I was flying save an occasional clump of thorn-bushes or a stray herd of camels, A little over three hours out from Damascus, Fort Rutbah appeared through the haze, A solitary white building and a compound, a wireless mast and rows of black Arab tents comprised this tiny French outpost. It did not look very inviting, so I continued on toward Bagdad, Flying lower and lower as the sun became merely a black disc through the sand haze. I tried to keep sight of the track. A great yellow cloud swept across my path, and the air was filled with stinging particles of sand, completely blotting out everything, so that I was unable to see even the wing-tips of the Moth. Turning back I flew on a reciprocal course, and was overjoyed when at last I once again picked up the white tower of Fort Rutbah. Just 10 minutes before a sandstorm swept over Rutbah I landed on the barbed-wire-enclosed square of the desert that was the aerodrome. The aeroplane was quickly wheeled up to the shelter of the compound, and there was only time to peg it down and tie the canvas covers on the engine and cockpit before the storm whirled like a great wave of sand over the outpost. On learning that petrol was 6s per gallon at Rutbah, I felt very pleased that the Moth had sufficient fuel to fly through to Bagdad. The rest-house was quite comfortable, and when I sat down to dinner it was difficult to believe that I was in the middle of the Syrian Desert, for the cuisine would not have disgraced any London West End hotel. My companions at the meal were the pilots and passengers of a Dutch air liner which had also been forced back to Rutbah by the sand-storm. None of my fellow guests appeared to speak English, and I felt too tired to attempt a conversation in French, so we just exchanged friendly nods and smiles at intervals during the meal. It was with great relief, however, that I took off into the fresh, clear air next morning, for I found the close proximity of the camels and the Arab encampment distinctly unpleasant in spite of their picturespue appearance. Good weather favoured me on the flight to Bagdad. The line of demarcation between the arid and the cultivated land was very distinct as I approached the river Euphrates and flew on toward Bagdad, on the palm-fringed Tigris. Bagdad, city of the Caliphs, is a very different place now from when Haroun al Raschid ruled there, but from the air it still seems to retain a certain magic of its own When I had first sighted it in the distance I thought I had seen a mirage. From the air it appears a city of white with minarets of blue and alabaster, mosques and temples of exquisite architecture, the gleaming whiteness relieved only by the intense green of thousands of date palms clustered thickly along the banks of the swift river Tigris, which, seemingly indifferent to the beauty of its surroundings, flows swiftly on its- way to the Persian Gulf. On approaching the city 1 could see many camel cai'avans wending their way across the desert, and wondered where they were bound for and how long they would take to reach their destination. Months probably! Some were going in the direction of Aleppo, and I thought of the time when Aleppo was the principal trading town in Syria. Hun-

dreds of years ago camel caravans used to journey from Bagdad to Aleppo and Damascus along the same tracks that are used to-day. Their cargoes were rich, for Bagdad was once the capital of Babylon and the principal seat of learning in the East Long lines of camels with trappings of red and purple, edged with tinkling bells and laden with fabulous wealth would arrive at Bagdad, where gold, frankincense, myrrh, ivory and jewels used to be bartered in the market-place for exquisite fabrics from Kashmir and diaphanous silks from China, tea from Ceylon and opium from Turkey. Bagdad at the height of its glory must have been even more wonderful than the descriptions we read of it. To the north of the city I could see the great golden-domed mosque of Khadimain glittering in the sunlight. I stayed only long enough to refuel at he large aerodrome, with its modern spacious control building and hotel. Within an hour of landing I was swinging my way over Iraq toward Basra.