“MY LIFE”

Otago Daily Times, Issue 23528, 17 June 1938, Page 4

“MY LIFE”

JEAN BATTEN’S AUTOBIOGRAPHY (Published by the Otago Daily Times under special arrangement) CHAPTER XIII. BUENOS AIRES AND MONTEVIDEO When the last machine had gone I felt again an overwhelming sense of loneliness. How bitter-sweet it all was, I reflected —flying about the world, visiting these great cities, meeting many people, making many friends, then having to fly off again. I consoled myself with the thought that I always saw the very best side of everything, and seldom stayed long enough in one place to have any illusions or ideals shattered. Therefore when I do fly away I take with me an exquisite cameo of impressions and recollections which will remain with me for ever.

Deep in reflection I suddenly saw something flash past my aeroplane. It was the fast fighting machine which the colonel had sent to accompany me as far as Santos. My spirits rose and the loneliness left me as I waved to the Smiling pilot in the other machine. It was great fun flying along together and holding conversation from time to time by gesticulations. There were many islands dotted about and we soon neared a large one, the Ilha Grande, which towered thousands of feet up from the blue sea. The country near Rio had been mountainous, but this was even more so. and for the next two hundred miles there was scarcely a level stretch. The mountains on the coast rose sheer from the sea, and range upon range stretched inland, the jungle-covered peaks seeming to vie with each other for supremacy. The coastline was very broken, and I experienced many terrific bumps when crossing some of the rocky promontories jutting out from the land. A very strong south-west-erly wind was blowing, which greatly impeded progress, and I calculated my ground sped at approximately 120 miles per hour. “If this head wind persists, I shall have to land for petrol before reaching Buenos Aires,” I thought. The wind increased as we flew on, and over San Sebastian, an island just off the mainland and towering to immense heights, the ground speed dropped to 100 miles an hour. I could see the other machine rising and falling in the vertical currents and battling against the head wind, which was over 50 miles per hour. There was no aerodrome or landing ground between Rio and Santos, and we had not expected to meet quite such a strong head wind. With all my auxiliary tanks I had a good margin of petrol, and it would not delay me very much to land at one of the aerodromes farther along the route and refuel before flying on to Buenos Aires. The escort machine was not, to my knowledge, equipped with extra tranks, and I wondered if it could reach Santos on the petrol in its main tank. The military machine was a single-seater fighting aeroplane with a powerful engine, which would consume much more petrol than my own. Flying alongside, I asked the pilot in sign language if he had plenty of petrol. Yes, he reassured me with a wave, he could make Santos all right.

So strong was the wind that at times the machine seemed to stand still, and it was with a sigh of relief that almost two hours after leaving Rio de Janeiro I sighted Santos. Having been delayed nearly an hour by the strong head wind I could not spare the time to circle Santos. The leading coffee port of the world, it is built on a flat island, and is about three and a-half miles from the sea. I wondered how the large ships managed to negotiate the winding channel leading from the open sea to the port. “Perhaps the current is not very strong.” I thought, looking down on the muddy channel and the occasional stretches of palmdotted sandy beach. We had passed the town and were approaching the aerodrome when the escort machine flew up close to my wing. “ Good-bye! ” waved the pilot. “ Good luck! Hasta la vista! ’’ he seemed to say. I waved an answering farewell, and he flashed back to land.

It had been good company having another machine flying alongside, and I felt very grateful to the colonel for sending the escort so far. There was still nearly another 1200 miles to fly to Buenos Aires, and as I flew on alone I missed the company of the other machine.

The wind dropped a little about 50 miles south of Santos, and I climbed above the heavy mist hanging low over a huge swamp area. The mist gave way to low clouds, and for the next hundred miles I flew above a billowy white carpet punctured here and there by a green-clad peak rising above the cloud layers. My approximate position was 350 miles south-west of Rio, and as I had to change course for Florianopolis at the 400-mile mark, it was most important to descend below the clouds before doing so. Not knowing the exact height of the cloud layer above the ground, and considering the mountainous country beneath, I decided to fly out to sea for a few miles before gliding down. Altering course dug east I flew for five minutes, until I caught a glimpse of the sea through a hole in the clouds, and gliding down through the gap, flew back to the land. Before me there stretched a great blue lagoon-like bay, which I recognised on the map, and turning the machine! continued southward toward the island of San Francisco. The country near the coast became flatter -and the head wind dropped a little, and I was now averaging about 120 miles per hour. As I was cross a promontory something prompted me to look back, and to my surprise I saw a large seaplane skimming low over the water. The machine, which I recognised as being of German design, was evidently bound for Florianopolis. It was good to see another aeroplane, and I glided down to allow the big scalane to draw level. “ No, you can’t pass me,” I smiled, waving to the pilot as I shot ahead. Passing over Florianopolis I looked back again, and saw the seaplane alighting on the harbour.

Situated on the western side of Santa Catharina Island, Florianopolis looked a prosperous town. Linking the port with the mainland was a big steel bridge. The island was large and fairly narrow, with a blue lagoon, sheltered on one side by a range of irregular hills, the highest of which was almost 1000 feet. On the eastern side, about 13 kilometres from the city, was the sandy aerodrome. T felt tempted to land and explore this lovely island,

and see for myself if the city lived up to its name—“ City of Flowers.” The wind increased in strength, and when flying across to the mainland I could see myriads of waves being whipped into a white, foamy mass by the wind, which swept up the narrow channel between Santa Catharina and the mainland. The country over which my course now lay was comparatively flat and intersected by innumerable streams and rivers. Inland the mountains rose to great heights, and 120 miles beyond Florianopolis I left the State of Santa Catharina and crossed into the rich Rio Grande do Sul State Although the head wind had dropped a little, its velocity was still about 30 miles per hour. As my progress had been considerably impeded by the wind, I decided to gain time by taking a direct course to the deep-sea port of Rio Grande, instead " > f flying over the big modem city of Porto Alegre, as had been my original intention. Lakes of various sizes studded the land I looked down upon, and very soon I approached the swampy area adjoining Lagoa dos Patos. This large fresh-water lake, although less than 40 miles across at its widest point, was very long, and I skirted its shores for well over 100 miles. It was pleasant flying along the strip of land separating the huge lake from the sea, and I counted many lighthouses, dotted at intervals. The presence of these lighthouses was explained by the channel at the southern end of the lake enabling ships of limited draught to sail up to the wide Rio Guahyba. which flows into the lake, and thence to Porto Alegre, a journey of 190 miles or so.

Flying on, I soon approached another lake, shown on my map as Lago Mirim, and as the time was nearly 2 p.m. I decided to have lunch.

I was now crossing into Uruguay, one of the smallest but most modern and progressive republics of South America. The country had gradually become less mountainous, until at this stage, with the exception of an occasional line of hills, it was comparatively flat. The wind was still south-west, and I wondered if the dreaded pampero, a dustladen wind from the plains, was blowing in Argentina. The constant head wind had seriously impeded my progress, although I had travelled nearly a thousand miles since leaving Rio and had been 10 hours in the air. Taking stock of the petrol in each tank, I decided to land and refuel at Pando, an aerodrome nearly a hundred miles farther on, and used by the Air France Company. Innumerable little lakes showed along the route as I skirted the hills of Minas and steered for Pando. Ten hours 20 minutes after leaving Rio I arrived oyer the aerodrome. As I glided in to land a swarm of insects like a great dark veil rose from the long grass and enveloped the aeroplane. The machine touched down and, applying the brakes, I brought it to a standstill. The dark insects outside were beating against the windscreen, and some of the heavy, cumbersome objects flopped into the cockpit through the open window. Locusts . , ugh! I shuddered, hoping that they would not fly into the airintake. The propeller was cutting through the swarm as I taxied up to the hangar, and the locusts were whirled back and fell heavily against the windscreen and on to the wings. The kind Air Force mechanics soon refuelled my aeroplane and helped clean the locusts off the silver wings. "I do hope the swarm has gone now,” I thought, taxi-ing out to take off for Buenos Aires. The air was quite clear, and I flew on toward Montevideo without encountering any more locusts. As I particularly wished to make the flight from Rio de Janeiro to Buenos Aires in one day, it had been arranged that I should visit Uruguay after staying a few days in Argentina.