“MY LIFE”

Otago Daily Times, Issue 23516, 2 June 1938, Page 7

“MY LIFE”

JEAN BATTEN’S AUTOBIOGRAPHY (Published by the Otago Daily Tintes under special arrangement.) CHAPTER IV. OVER ASIA About 60 miles south-west of Bagdad I flew over the ancient city of Babylon. As one looks down on the rather pathetic ruins, none of them more than 30 feet in height, it is still possible to visualise from the foundations the immense scale on which the city must have been built. Being interested in archaeology and having read a great deal about these excavations, I longed to land and investigate at close quarters the gates, with their beautiful ceramic work, and the foundations of the Tower of Babel of Nebuchadnezzar’s city. The winds of the desert lay wreaths on the ruins of dead Babylon, and the saying that “ there is no dust cloud in all Iraq but has in it substances that were once combined in the living person of some man or woman ” must be true, for this part of the world is supposed to have been the cradle of the human race.

After a hot, dusty flight, with more sand storms, I arrived at Basra, and landed at the Royal Air Force aerodrome at Shaibah. Gliding down from the comparatively cool atmosphere to land on the sandy aerodrome was like entering a furnace, the heat was so intense. Both the personnel of the Royal Air Force and the staff of Imperial Airways were most helpful. I felt content to leave the refuelling and engine schedule to the mechanics, confident that all my directions would be carried out satisfactorily.

Flying on toward Bushire, on the Persian Gulf, next morning, I passed just south of the city of Basra. Before leaving the wide Shattal Arab River, I flew over the huge oil tanks on Abbadan Island. I had read that these great tanks have a cubic capacity of 2,500,000 gallons and that the diameter of each is 116 feet. The story of Abbadan is an interesting one. Every day approximately 500,000 gallons of crude oil are pumped along the pipe line from Fields, a town about 150 miles away, in the Khuzistan Hills, where the oil wells are situated; There is always great activity at the big oil refineries on Abbadan, for they never close, and shifts work day and night.

Landing on the aerodrome at Bushire I had a sample of Persian officialdom. As I wished to arrive at Jask before sunset it was necessary to refuel and fly on again without any undue delay. After, however, I had paid the Persian aerodrome officer the 10 rials (equivalent to 255) landing fee, produced my bill of health from Basra, my passport and permit to fly over, Persia, he declared that I could not leave before the customs officer arrived to stamp my logbook. “Where is the customs officer?” I asked after the aeroplane had been refuelled. “He is in Bushire,” the official replied. Taking the thermos' flash and a packet of, sandwiches from the cockpit I sat down- under the shade of the wing and had my lunch, while waiting patiently as the precious time slipped by. After a rather heated conversation the official, who wore a red ,fez and, a long striped tunic, departed, eventually returning with his friend. The customs officer made no excuse for his late arrival, but stamped my journey log-book, and we all parted good friends. To regain the time I had lost at Bushire I decided to fly a direct course from Lingeh to Jask, which would take me across the Gulf of Oman and over the northern tip of Oman. The sun beat down relentlessly, and I was glad that I had discarded my heavy flying-suit at Damascus for my white tropical suit. A little shelter was afforded by the , cork helmet which had been specially made for mejn London, so that I could wear it in the open cockpit without fear of its blowing off. Hours slipped by as I continued my flight along the barren coast of Persia with its peculiar rock formations, and far inland rocky mountains rose to great heights. There was scarcely any vegetation to be, seen except for a few date-palms and shrubs at an occasional tiny village tucked away in a valley. Just as the sun set in a red glow Jask came into view, and I * landed on the long, narrow promontory where the aerodrome is located. There was a big Fokker aeroplane on the ground, and I learned from the picturesequely clad fuel agent, whose name was Mahommed Ali, that it belonged to the K.L.M. Royal Dutch Air Line. Years ago the Imperial Airways liners used to call at Jask, and there were then proper facilities, but nowadays they fly along the southern part of the Persian Gulf, although K.L.M. and Air France still use this route.

Mahommed Ali helped me to refuel and to picket the aeroplane down for the night; then we drove in his ancient car to the rest-house kept by a Dutchman and his wife. All accommodation in the tiny resthouse was taken, but the wife of the proprietor arranged for me to share her room. The Dutch lady was, I thought, very plucky to live in such a hot, lonely place as Jask. She spoke a little English, and told me that every one in Jask, including her husband, had been ill v/ith malaria, and that she was the only one who had fortunately escaped. That evening at dinner I met the two pilots and the passengers of the airliner, who told me that they had heard my aeroplane and wondered who could be arriving at Jask.

I slept so soundly that night that I failed to hear the roar of the Fokker as it took off before dawn, bound for Amsterdam. Continuing my flight to Karachi, 1 was again filled with wonder at the amazing rock formations along the coast. Near Gwadar there is a great mass of rock, which, because of its resemblance to a cathedral, is called the Cathedral Rock. Towering up to an immense height the huge rock stands like a sentinel I flew inland a short distance, and, on looking dov.yi into the centre of a groun which formed a circle, I saw the most delicately shaped white rocks decorating the inner walls and ap-

pearing like exquisite lace in contrast with the sombre grey of the outer walls.

The ordinary fuel system of mv Gipsy I engine was by gravity feed from the main centre-section petrol tank above my head, and as the level in this tank became lower more petrol had to be pumped up from the auxiliary tanks situated in the front cockpit and the rear luggage locker. All this pumping had to be done by means of a lever-type hand pump on the right side of my cockpit. The engine used five gallons of petrol per hour, so I had to work very hard pumping the petrol through at intervals. My time was fully occupied steering a compass course, checking my position on the map, making up the log, pumping the petrol, and endeavouring to have an occasional sandwich or a cup of coffee.

Karachi was a welcome sight after the monotony of flying hour after hour along the barren Persian coast, and I landed there to stay the night. At sunrise next morning I was on my way again, crossing the Sind Desert to Jodhpur. It was beautifully cool flying in the early morning, but as the sun rose higher and shone down with increasing fierceness, the heat became almost unbearable. I crossed the big river Indus shortly after leaving Karachi, and until I neared Jodhpur there was nothing to relieve the parched and barren-looking Sind Desert except an occasional Indian village.

Flying over Jodhpur, reputed to be the home of polo, I soon located the large aerodrome near the beautiful palace of the Maharaja, who is a keen airman. The aerodrome, circular in shape, had a good surface and a runway of approximately 1000 yards. The instructor of the local flying club met me when I taxied up to the tarmac, and after a refreshing iced drink in the cool clubhouse I felt inclined to stay awhile in this interesting town instead of flying on to Allahabad in the mid-day heat. I was scheduled to arrive at Allahabad, 932 miles from Karachi, that evening, however, so I did not delay.

The sun burned fiercely from a cloudless sky as I flew on across Rajputana that afternoon. Altering course at Jhansi, with its British fort standing high up on the isolated rocky crag, I flew on over India. The country took on a greener look as I neared Allahabad, where the rivei Jumna joins the mighty Ganges. There was a thick dust haze in the air s , and the banks of the Ganges were only jusi; visible when I flew low toward the aerodrome of Bamraoli at Allahabad. There was the usual procedure after landing, and once again the Moth was pegged down in the open, for at that time the aerodrome boasted no hangar. I drove into Allahabad with Mr Steel, the fuel agent, who told me that the country was badly in need of rain and every one would be thankful when the monsoon broke. “ I only hope it doesn’t .commence before I cross India,” 1 replied, blissfully unaware of the terrible weather I was later to encounter, along the lonely Burmese coast.

On our drive to the aerodrome at dawn next morning I saw many natives padding along the road to the market.. Some carried unbelievably heavy loads on their backs, and others were driving small carts filled with produce. We passed a cart heavily laden with bricks which a wretched wafer-bullock was striving to pull, and further on a few blind and maimed mendicants crying for alms, I saw a sacred cow .wandering unmolested along the roadway by itself. It was very hot and dusty even as such an early hour, and I was glad when I took off to feel the crisp fresh air from the slip-stream against my face. Passing over the sacred city of Benares, with its burning ghats, I could see hundreds of pilgrims bathing in the holy water of the Ganges. Altering course at Buddh Gaya with its beautiful Indian* temples I flew on toward Calcutta. The country became noticeably greener and more densely covered with vegetation the further I flew eastward. It was when passing over hilly country thickly covered with timber, where a forced landing would have been almost impossible, that I discovered an oil leak. Watchirig the gauge for the inevitable drop in pressure, for I had no idea how much oil had leaked away, I flew on, hoping that the engine would not fail me before I reached the aerodrome. At last I sighted the wide Hooghly River, and six hours out from Allahabad landed at Calcutta. On climbing from the cockpit I discovered one side of the Moth 'covered with oil and less than two pints left in the engine sump.