Australian Aeronautical Heritage

21/07/202222/07/2022

“The best crash I ever had”

Flying on a cloudless night, with the landscape illuminated by an almost full moon, the crew of Avro Anson W1655 might well have felt some serenity. At least, until both engines suddenly stopped. It was 8.50 p.m. on a Monday, 30^th March 1942.

The Anson was written off following its crash landing in Joseph Toft’s paddock. A hand-written inscription on the reverse side of this image – presumably written by Lasscock reads “The best crash I ever had.” (Lyn Mergard)

Flying the Anson was twenty-one year old Robert Bennett Lasscock of Perth (West Australia). Formerly a bank officer, he had joined the RAAF exactly one year earlier. Posted from Sydney to No.8 Service Flying Training School at Bundaberg in south-east Queensland, Lasscock was completing a circuit of the aerodrome at the time – after returning from a night training flight. Although he had rehearsed many times for such a predicament, no amount of training could have replicated the fear and apprehension he must have surely felt then.

Pilot Robert Bennett Lasscock of Perth suffered a second forced (daylight) landing in late April 1943, when the Anson he was flying also suffered an “alleged engine failure” 10 miles north-west of Bundaberg (NAA (Canberra): A9845, 63, ID 7127535).

Having only arrived in Bundaberg five days earlier, he would have been aware at least that the sugar cane fields surrounding the aerodrome were relatively flat – increasing his chances of surviving the inevitable crash landing.¹

Meanwhile, sugar cane farmer Colin Toft had been lying in bed at Avoca, two-and-a-half miles west of Bundaberg, when he noticed two planes flying some distance from the house, one of which “suddenly appeared to lose altitude” crashing nearby in his father’s paddock.² As Colin later recounted in his Police Statement, the plane’s engines “did not appear to be functioning properly.” He immediately raced by car for the ambulance and the police.

The dismantled Anson leaving Joseph Toft’s paddock at Avoca, west of Bundaberg. The Toft family played a lead role after the war in helping to mechanize the sugar cane industry. By the early 1970s, Bundaberg’s Toft Bros. held a large share of the world market in mechanized cane machinery. Subsequently renamed Austoft, their company continued to play a major role in the development of technology in the Australian sugar cane industry. (Lyn Mergard).

In a separate police statement, Colin’s father Joseph also reported having seen “the plane flying low and …heading in the direction of his house” when it “suddenly swerved and struck the ground.” While awaiting the ambulance’s arrival one of the plane’s crew had remarked to Joseph that “one of the controls [had] failed but we did the best we could.”³

Half an hour after the crash, Sub-Inspector James Osborne at the local Police Station answered a call from Bundaberg resident Frank Christensen, informing him that an Air Force aeroplane had just crashed in Toft’s paddock at Avoca—about three miles west of Bundaberg. Colin Toft also arrived at the same time, adding that he had already notified the Bundaberg Ambulance Brigade while on his way to the Police Station.

At twenty-three, Eric Baldock was the oldest of the three on board the Avoca Anson. An “unauthorised passenger” at the time of the crash, he appears to have escaped any disciplinary action (NAA: (Canberra): A9301, 43811, ID 4595541).

By the time the party of four policemen reached the crash scene, 100 yards from the Toft’s residence, the three crew were already being treated by ambulance personnel. All onboard the plane (viz. pilot, co-pilot and passenger) survived the crash, sustaining shock and laceration injuries.

In the Preliminary Report prepared the following day Lasscock (pilot) was charged with “Carelessness and disobedience of orders,” due to his “failure to change to full inner tanks when outer tanks became exhausted.”⁴ Also injured was the co-pilot nineteen year old LAC Frank Alexander (Alec) Badgery (412565), formerly a station manager from Cumnock in New South Wales.⁵ The Flying School’s daily log however, which would have been written up around the same time, makes no such adverse findings against the pilot, noting only that “the pilot lost control.”⁶ What this log does reveal however, is that Lasscock was carrying an “unauthorised” passenger at the time of the accident. Twenty-three year-old AC1 Eric Keith Baldock (43811), a Brisbane shoemaker, had discharged from the Army in mid-October 1941 before re-enlisting with the Air Force the following day. Although forbidden by Air Force regulations it was commonplace then, especially on training bases, for crews to occasionally risk the carriage non-flying personnel. Doing so at night, further diminished the chances of being caught out. There is nothing in Baldock’s Conduct Record to indicate however that he, or the pilot (Lasscock) were ever disciplined following this incident.⁷

Co-pilot Alec Badgery went on to served with a Canadian bomber squadron, being awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross in September 1944 (NAA (Canberra): A9300, Badgery F A, ID 5380128).

This in fact was the first of several lucky escapes for Lasscock who, a year later, survived another forced (daylight) landing when in late April 1943 the Anson he was flying also suffered an “alleged engine failure,” 10 miles north-west of Bundaberg.⁸ Lasscock later served operationally with 31 Squadron based at Morotai, Indonesia, and it was while he was taxying a Beaufighter (A19-181) there in late August 1944 that his brakes failed, causing the aircraft to collide with a pole and sustain major damage.⁹

Alec Badgery’s flying career, on the other hand, couldn’t have been more different. He served operationally in Europe, flying Halifax bombers for much of 1944 with the Canadian Air Force’s No, 431 Squadron. In September 1944 he was awarded a Distinguished Flying Cross, the citation mentioning that he’d flown numerous sorties to Berlin and the Ruhr, while displaying “coolness, courage and determination.”¹⁰ Having survived their crash landing at Avoca, all three on board the Anson that night went on to survive the war.

Thanks to Lyn Mergard who generously shared her recollections and photographs, first published to the Facebook Group, Bundaberg: Remember When, on 28 January 2022: 10.22.

The Toft farm was at Avoca Road, near the end of what is now Aloha Drive. It backed onto the Burnett River. The Avoca Garden Centre at 171 Avoca Road is part of the original Toft property (the office) and the family home was moved further along Avoca Road towards town in the 1960’s (Lyn Mergard).

04/07/202219/01/2023

Next time

For almost forty years now I have driven past the Calliope River Historical Village (CRHV) on the Bruce Highway, south-west of Gladstone, always promising that I would one day find the time to stop. Eventually, I did.

Long experience has taught me that the best of our cultural heritage can be found not in publicly-funded metropolitan museums and galleries but rather, in the thousands of voluntary-run regional historical museums – just like the sprawling Central Queensland village I had finally decided to visit.

Predictably the village featured collections of bottles, irons, stationary engines, tractors, agricultural implements, railabilia [not sure that is a word] and pioneer dwellings, similar to those to be found in any other historical village in any other part of the continent.

The airport was only officially opened after the terminal’s completion in 1956.

And while I didn’t recognise anything that might qualify as being nationally significant, I was captivated by one comparatively modern weatherboard building.

Architecturally uninspiring, an interpretative sign identified this as the first airport terminal from the nearby coastal port of Gladstone. This had been built at a cost of £2,262 in 1956, just two years after the opening of the town’s airport.

By 1966 however it was struggling to cope with the airport’s 16,658 annual passenger arrivals. It is thought to have continued in that role until 1972, eventually transferring to the Historical Village in 1984 (by which time annual airport arrivals were in excess of 84,000).

Gladstone’s terminal – bottom left – was one of only two airport structures when this photograph was taken from 12,000 feet on 1 July 1959 ( QImagery QAP0926, Frame 082)

While several metropolitan airport terminal buildings have been preserved in Australia in situ (think Archerfield and Parafield), this is thought to be the only instance of an airport terminal being relocated for preservation. Granted there are many other post-war regional terminals still in use, but it remains to be seen if any of these survive.

By accepting responsibility for preserving its first airport terminal building, CRHV volunteers have shown remarkable courage, historical prescience, and an uncommon appreciation of their region’s aerial transport heritage.

19/12/202129/06/2023

Serial No. 1381, Bowen

The Australian Government had little expertise or interest in radar technology at the start of the Second World War. By 1942 however the continent’s coastline was dotted with scores of radar stations operated by locally-trained technicians using, in many instances, Australian-designed and built radar equipment. This is the story of one such unit – Bowen’s No.55 Radar Station (RAAF).

Built in anticipation of a possible Japanese aerial attack against Australian mainland targets, approval for development of the Bowen radar station (costing £9,700) was granted in early November 1942.¹ Land and buildings necessary for the development were then requisitioned via the National Security (General) Regulations). The site selected for the installation was an elevated sandstone plateau at Cape Edgecumbe, two miles north-east of the port. Continue reading “Serial No. 1381, Bowen”

23/10/202120/12/2021

9 September 1942

Bundaberg in south-eastern Queensland was a center for flying training during the Second World War. As a consequence, the surrounding Burnett Region is peppered with wartime crash sites.

Drury’s Anson being dismantled in Lutz’s cane field. Official records indicate it was never repaired, being struck off charge the following year. Military activities at that time were commonly photographed by civilian and military personnel (Bundaberg Library bun06577, Clifford Potter Collection).

A brick maker prior to enlisting, Flight Sergeant Thomas Peel Drury was one of many pilots who came to grief while undergoing advanced training at the RAAF’s No.8 Secondary Flying Training School (SFTS) in Bundaberg. Continue reading “9 September 1942”

04/03/202020/12/2021

‘never…except by aeroplane’

Like other eminent organisations, Qantas too has its own foundation narrative – concerning two recently demobbed Australian airmen (Hudson Fysh and Paul McGinness) who, in an epic 2,180 km overland journey in a Model T Ford, successfully surveyed the continent’s northern aerial route from Longreach (Qld.) to the Katherine River (N.T. ) railhead in preparation for the first England to Australia Air Race arrivals. Continue reading “‘never…except by aeroplane’”

06/03/201820/12/2021

Same as it ever was

For some years now I have been trying to locate the surviving Skippy (1960s Australian television series) helicopter VH-AHI with a view towards having it repatriated and preserved in Australia.

After serving in PNG it later appeared on the U.S. civil register as N1164T. In 2012 it was permanently deleted from that register however in 2014 I was eventually able to track down its current owner – a helicopter spares dealer in Florida – who was happy to sell the unairworthy but mostly complete airframe for $US5,000.

VA-AHI on location ourside the Waratah Park Ranger headquarters.

Continue reading “Same as it ever was”

01/01/201720/12/2021

Unexpected

The demand for war memorial furniture here in Australia has been so great, for so long, that it’s now difficult to obtain the military-grade anchors, propellers and guns that were once the entitlement of every R.S.L. club. Next-best-things, such as diminutive Cessna propellers which began appearing on memorials some decades ago, have now become acceptable substitutes for the once commonplace P&W giants. Continue reading “Unexpected”

18/09/201520/12/2021

Going, going….gone.

This unusual piece of early Australian [aeronautical] silverware realized $4,700 at auction in Sydney earlier this week, selling for more than three times its estimated reserve.

Aviation heritage has never attracted broad investor interest, the inclusion of such items in high-end auction catalogues being more the exception, than the norm. Indeed, there is no such thing here as a established aeronautica market, as there is say for antiques or fine art. Continue reading

25/05/201520/12/2021

High above the Dardanelles

Queenslander Alfred Warner served in the Dardanelles for more than two-and-a-half years, far longer than any of his compatriots, and yet you won’t find his name mentioned in any Australian military history. As Australia’s only airship pilot (and airship station commander), his war experience was singularly remarkable, much of it spent floating high above the sea lanes and battlefield of the North Aegean in what was [then] a state-of-the-art war machine.

Alfred Warner (right) in the gondola of his Sea Scout airship, which was essentially a modified RAF B.E.2 aircraft fuselage (Simon Warner Collection)

Continue reading “High above the Dardanelles”

17/05/201520/12/2021

Opportunity Lost

Back in 1979 the Queensland Museum was offered the nose section of a Douglas A20G Boston. Continue reading “Opportunity Lost”

01/08/202405/11/2024

Bob’s Creek: What might have been

But for an administrative oversight the City of Rockhampton might have had a future and flood-proofed airport, sixty-five years ago.

Bob’s Creek, twenty-two kilometers south of Rockhampton, is one of many unremarkable, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it Bruce Highway crossings. Hills and gullies punctuate the landscape to the west, which then rises steeply to the Razorback Range (and Mount Morgan). East of the highway, however, lies a vast uninterrupted plain. In 1939 these eastern grazing lands became the focus of intense municipal and federal government interest as defence and civil aviation officials investigated alternate city airport sites. This was barely a few weeks before the commencement of the Second World War, and already “The provision of an advanced operational base at Rockhampton to meet full requirements of the air force” had become “an urgent matter.”¹

“East from where the railway line crosses the Bob’s Creek … was found to be eminently suited for development into a first class airport, K.N.E. Bradfield, 11.10.1939.” (QImagery, QAP5233005l, Frame 5, 19 May 1994, 4,900 m).

This last pronouncement by the Defence Department Secretary, Frederick Sheehan, marked a significant reversal in Commonwealth policy regarding the regional development of aviation infrastructure. Several factors influenced this turnaround, not least being the looming prospect of war with Germany, and Japan.² A recent constitutional crisis had also revealed serious Commonwealth limitations (vis-a-vis civil aviation). While Canberra controlled the purse-strings, there was little it could do in this realm without the cooperation of the States. This bizarre situation followed a 1936 High Court ruling “that the Commonwealth could not under its trade and commerce power exercise general control over the subject-matter of civil aviation in the Commonwealth, including intrastate civil aviation.”³ Paradoxically, even as war clouds were gathering in the late 1930s, Canberra had to secure the support of State Premiers before it could begin developing the nation’s aerial defences.

Many regional aerodromes had been established, and others improved during the early 1930s when unprecedented levels of Commonwealth funding were released via the Unemployment Relief Act, 1934. Some of the Queensland towns that benefited from this federal funding included Camooweal, Cloncurry, Longreach, Blackall, Charleville, Cooktown, and Roma.⁴ Federal policy in 1938 was to prioritize those towns associated with important mail services, or essential for defence requirements.⁵ State Premiers were led by the Commonwealth to believe that “the greater the number of first class aerodromes throughout the country districts, the greater the inducement for the country people to become air-minded and this in itself is an important development very necessary to the future defence of this country.”⁶

The Graziers’ Federal Council and the Associated Chamber of Commerce of the Commonwealth of Australia (ACCCA) had also been lobbying the Federal Government “to set aside portion of the Petrol Tax money for the establishment and upkeep of [regional] aerodromes.”⁷ By late 1938 however Rockhampton had received just £56 from the Commonwealth for aerodrome improvements, whereas Mackay had received £400 and Mundubbera £200.⁸ The Commonwealth at that time was already maintaining about 220 landing grounds throughout the several states.⁹ Rockhampton however had been omitted altogether from discussions when the Prime Minister met with State Premiers in mid-1939 to discuss urgent public works of Defence value. Instead, fifteen other regional centers deemed to be of greater strategic importance were earmarked for works totalling £133,500.¹⁰ It was against this backdrop of constitutional uncertainty and international anxiety that there suddenly emerged a renewed interest in expanding Rochmapton’s capacity for military air operations.

Leading these Commonwealth investigations was a young, recently graduated engineer and Rhodes Scholar, Keith ‘Bill’ Bradfield.¹¹ Bradfield visited Rockhampton on 16 September 1939, just two weeks after Britain declared war on Germany. In the following weeks he made detailed assessments of the existing Connor Park airfield, and several alternative sites in and around the city. In his fourteen page report, dated 11 October 1939, he notes that the existing Connor Park site was flood prone, and likely to become unserviceable on average once every seven years.¹² He also added that only one of its four existing runways was long enough to meet the 1,100 yard minimum length then required for a 2nd Class aerodrome. The site’s loamy soils and tufty grass covering, moreover, were also deemed unsuitable for sustained air operations. The former caused aircraft to slip when wet, and the latter produced excessive dust when dry. The proximity of the Athestane Range (a.k.a. The Range) to the east was also identified as a major obstruction and disadvantage, being higher than the minimum 1:20 clearway prescribed by aviation regulators. The Boy’s Grammar School, the Wandal Church, the hospital, the reservoir, the convent and the AWA mast were thus all singled out as air navigation obstructions.¹³

Contour survey plan of the proposed Bob’s Creek airfield, prepared for Bradfield in October 1939 (National Archives of Ausralia, ID 162847).

These disadvantages provided sufficient cause for Bradfield to investigate three alternate sites all within a twenty-one kilometer radius of the city. Altona Downs, sixteen kilometers to the west, was discounted because of its heavy black soil, and its undulating flood-prone surface (divided by a stream). Similar problems were encountered south-west of Gracemere. A site twenty-one kilometers south of the city (viz. Bob’s Creek) was found however to be “almost perfect” for modern aerodrome operations, being more suitable (than Connor Park) for military operations and more likely (due to the absence of obstructions) to attract future airline investment.¹⁴

Bradfield singled out the vast flat expanse immediately east of where the railway line (and Bruce Highway) cross Bob’s Creek, noting that it was “naturally drained” by watercourses in the north-west and south-east.¹⁵ He concluded that it would be cheaper to construct a new airport there, having four 1,500 yard runways, than to develop one at Connor Park having just two 1,500 yard runways.¹⁶ The site’s only significant drawback was its distance from the city, which was then a thirty minute drive from the GPO (as compared with 5 minutes, in the case of Connor Park). Bradfield recommended the immediate development of Bob’s Creek, and the possible retention of Connor Park for private flying and training purposes.¹⁷ The Commonwealth committed £1,000 pounds for the immediate development of Bob’s Creek, subject only to the City Council acquiring the site.

Council acted quickly on these recommendations, a formal agreement to purchase 640 acres at Bob’s Creek having been received the following month from the landowner – Archer Bros. Pty. Ltd. Only then, was it discovered that the recommended site fell outside of the city’s boundary. As such, Council’s resumptive powers (and those of the Queensland Main Roads Commission) also had no effect.¹⁸ Gladstone in the adjoining Local Government Area was still years away then from building its first aerodrome, and would have been unmoved by the prospect of maintaining a large and modern airport, eighty-five kilometers away. The planned development of a purpose-built, future-proofed modern Rockhampton airport appeared thwarted by a technicality, even before it had taken off. The Civil Aviation Department promptly urged the Department of Air to acquire the site for the Commonwealth (at a cost of £4,420) however this also proved a bridge too far, unhelped by annual electricity (£11,800) and water supply (£3,830) cost estimates.¹⁹ It was just a few weeks later that the northbound airliner Riama, unable to reach either Gladstone or Rockhampton in adverse weather, made a successful emergency landing at the undeveloped Bob’s Creek site.²⁰

Looking north towards the Berserker Range, from the Archer rail siding, with the propsed airport site (east of the line) in the middle distance (Mark Clayton).

Instead, the Commonwealth continued pouring money into upgrading the Connor Park site, where operations remained problematic throughout the war years.²¹ Used mostly for transiting military aircraft (and personnel), Connor Park’s significance increased as the allied war effort shifted focus from Europe, to the Pacific. Being half-way between the State’s two largest air bases (viz. Brisbane and Townsville), Rockhampton’s pre-war airport came to perform a vital wartime function. During October 1944 alone, for example, the RAAF’s 21 Operational Base Unit, stationed at Connor Park, refuelled 736 transiting aircraft with 120,616 gallons of fuel.²² Accidents were an inevitable consequence of these increased wartime operations. At Connor Park though, they were averaging at least one accident every two months throughout the war years, with almost as many aircraft coming to grief in the adjoining regions. Several American multi-engine aircraft were destroyed because they were unable to stop within the confines of the Connor Park runway(s), much as Bradfield had forewarned.²³ Evidence indicates that Connor Park had also acquired an unenviable reputation, one RAAF unit commander (based at the airfield) reporting in early September 1944 that military pilots were having to “conquer [their] earlier prejudices about landing at this aerodrome.”²⁴

Ever since then, flood waters from the nearby Fitzroy River have repeatedly caused the closure of airport operations at Connor Park. And predictably, these events are invariably followed by calls for the city’s airport to be relocated.²⁵ Perhaps, one day, someone might remember that Rhodes Scholar’s report describing an “almost perfect” flood-proof site, just twenty minutes from the CBD.

26/12/202327/12/2023

An ex libris anecdote

It was early July 1930, and eleven-year-old Brisbane schoolboy, Jack Bell, had just been awarded a sixth edition copy of The Wonder Book of Aircraft for his entry in the City Hall Prize Essay competition.¹ Encountering this same bruised book, ninety years later, left me wondering what course Jack Bell’s life might have taken, and what influence—if any—this prize book might have had?

When officially opened in early April 1930 Brisbane’s newly completed City Hall became the state’s tallest building. Thousands visited the capital in the months following to see this imposing structure, the Lord Mayor also inviting schoolchildren to submit their written impressions to a council-funded prize essay competition.

The son of a Scottish carter, young Jack Hunter Bell was living with his parents and two younger siblings at 39 Gallway Street, Windsor when he received his essay prize. Like many other titles in the Wonder Book series, the cover of Jack’s book was consumed with a dramatic illustration calculated to reinforce the notion of British aerial leadership. The cover of Jack’s sixth edition featured a state-of-the-art airliner, an Armstrong Whitworth Argosy. Guided by a navigational light beam it is depicted hurtling through the night sky with its cargo of passengers, silhouetted by internal cabin lights, seemingly oblivious to the noise, the darkness, or the drama that surrounds them. What primary-school child would not have been captivated by such imagery, or the book’s 256 pages of ranging narrative (supplemented by 12 additional colour plates)?

This was aviation’s golden age, a time when the aerial exploits of Australians, and Queenslanders, were being routinely lauded both nationally, and internationally. Charles Kingsford Smith’s famous Southern Cross had flown the Atlantic in late June that same year, and a month earlier Amy Johnson had landed at Brisbane’s Eagle Farm airport—becoming the first woman to fly solo from England to Australia. For many however, the hardships wrought by the economic depression of the early 1930s would postpone, if not diminish their sanguine hopes of also taking to the skies.

(BELL JACK HUNTER : Service Number – 404390, NAA: A9300, BELL J H, ID 5380745).

While Jack Bell did eventually get to fly, it was probably not the career his younger self had imagined. After leaving school he began working in Brisbane as a despatch clerk and surgical instrument salesman with the Taylors Elliott Veterinary Company. In mid-August 1940 however, just seven months after Britain had declared war with Germany, he voluntarily enlisted for military service. Whereas his younger brother and father had both donned khaki (i.e., Army) uniforms, Jack elected instead to wear Air Force blues. Re-mustering as a Wireless Air Gunner, he was granted a commission in May 1941 at the same time he was posted overseas. Following seven months of initial training in Canada, flying in Fairey Battle (No.3 BAGS, Manitoba) and Noorduyn Norseman (No.2 WAGS, Calgary) aircraft, he received his first operational posting. This involved flying 9 Squadron (RAF) Wellington bombers from RAF Honington in Suffolk. Scarcely two months later, he received another posting, this time to No. 37 Squadron at RAF Shallufa in Egypt, just a short distance from the famous Suez Canal.

Jack’s war was fought mostly here, in the Middle East. During the following year he completed almost two operational tours, “consistently show[ing] the greatest devotion to duty and enthusiasm for his work,” during “many long distance operational sorties including attacks on targets in France, Germany, Italy, Cyrenaica, Create, Tripolitania, Sicily and the Dodecanese.”² His war was typical of that experienced by others flying combat missions then, not least because of the abruptness with which it ended. Paradoxically, it was a non-operational landing accident on 13 July 1942 which ended his shooting war, and also earned him a Distinguished Flying Medal.³ Although injured along with several other crew members, he managed to escape after the aircraft he was aboard collided at Adir (Palestine) with another stationary Wellington. Both his pilot and co-pilot were killed in the ensuring conflagration.

Reference: AIR 81/16592, U.K. National Archives (Kew).

Ordered to return to Australia he spent the next two years instructing in both Queensland and South Australia. For a brief time though, in September 1943, he was attached to No. 71 Squadron (RAAF) flying coastal patrols along the east Australian seaboard in Avro Ansons.

Flying Officer Jack Bell left the RAAF in early September 1945 with 633 flying hours in his logbook, almost half that time accumulated during combat operations. He joined more than 160,000 Air Force personnel who also discharged in the months immediately following the war’s end. He left with “an impeccable” conduct record, his commanding officer having also described him then as “somewhat of a humourist.”⁴ Aside from these few insights, little else has been learned of the personality that was Jack Hunter Bell. This outline has revealed only the sketchy outline of a man’s life, leaving us to speculate still if The Wonders of Aircraft might have had any influence. Perhaps it did help shape Jack’s decision to join the Air Force and perhaps too, like many of that generation, that experience proved more than enough. The war had caused a fundamental shift in how many regarded the aircraft:

People began to view the aeroplane not as a Messiah but rather as an ambivalent agent in human affairs, even as a menace … new tones of ambivalence, anxiety, and above all realism obtruded into the nation’s consciousness, replacing the tremendous optimism and hope [previously] invested in flight during the inter-war years.⁵

We have yet to discover what post-war involvement he had with aviation, if any. Electoral roles reveal only that he worked as a commercial traveller after the war, he and his wife, Gwenyth, living for a short time in Townsville (1954), along with their three children. The family eventually returned to live in Brisbane but tragically Jack died on 11 November 1979, aged sixty. He was buried at Tuncurry (NSW). Remarkably though, his 1930 prize book somehow survived as a cherished family possession, long enough for it to eventually find its way back into the Museum of Brisbane (MoB) collection co-located within the Brisbane City Hall.

Within the next few years MoB staff will likely begin their initial planning for a major exhibition to mark the City Hall centenary in 2030. We should expect such an exhibition to highlight, amongst other things, the important contributions of sculptor Daphne Mayo, architect Emil Sodersten, and long-serving Lord Mayor Clem Jones. As this story reveals however, City Hall has also profoundly influenced the lives of its many rate-paying citizens, often in ways that are not always news-worthy or self-evident. Maybe, between now and 2030, a MoB curator will stumble across Jack’s dog-eared copy of The Wonder Book. And, just maybe, he or she will recognize the significance of its long and circuitous journey, enough to want to ensure that Jack’s story, and his prize essay book, are also guaranteed a place in that centenary exhibition.

15/04/202316/04/2023

Rediscovering Fisherman’s Island

Archival research is never more revealing than when it causes you to reconsider your own knowledge, beliefs and memories. And so I left the State Library of Queensland yesterday trying to recall fragments of a childhood spent growing up in Port Moresby in the early 1970s, my interest piqued by an earlier resident’s astonishingly comprehensive album of black and white snapshots.

Bad weather forced “The Windy City II” to divert to Fisherman’s Island in June 1944 with eighteen patients and three female medical attendants on board (Hugh G. Peachey collection, State Library of Queensland Accession 33547 O/S).

A keen amateur photographer, twenty-two year old Hugh Geves Peachey had no sooner graduated as a civil engineer in 1946 when he found himself posted to Port Moresby, employed by the Commonwealth Department of Works. Then, as in the 1970s, expatriates like Peachey (and myself) spent much of our spare time on or near the ocean—either fishing or swimming. Trips to one or more of the nearby islands were routine with the largest of these, the imaginatively-named Fisherman’s Island (known locally as Daugo), being a favoured destination for expats (i.e. colonial residents) keen to escape the town’s dry and dusty streets.

It was a long haul (twelve kilometres) from Ela Beach to Fishermans, circa 1971 (Mark Clayton)

It was here that I spent many weekends with my family, much of that time water skiing in the Island’s turquoise waters. In those days the Island appeared flat, featureless and uninhabited, its highest point being just 10 metres above sea level. Although I had a healthy adolescent interest then in the region’s wartime history I could see no possible reason for ever wanting to venture inland, beyond the Island’s brilliantly-white north-western beach. Had I done so, and wandered just 150 metres beyond the shoreline I might have come across the Island’s wartime airstrip. And had I ventured further, I might have also found the remains of several American aircraft that had crashed there during the Second World War.¹

Decades would pass before I eventually learned about this airfield and its several wartime dramas. It was only yesterday however, after chancing upon Hugh Peachey’s monochrome memories of Port Moresby in the late 1940s that my interest in these distant events was rekindled. I have seen many wartime images of Moresby and the allied aircraft that had defended the town, so many it seemed that they had begun to appear predictably familiar. Far less common however were images that revealed both the town’s appearance in the war’s immediate aftermath, and how its residents were able to integrate the war’s abundant detritus into their daily lives.

Thankfully the young Comworks civil engineer shared my peculiar interest in such things, his albums peppered with images of un-dismantled hilltop radar stations and gun emplacements; of streets lined with surplus military vehicles; and a harbour occupied by former army landing barges and air force Catalinas (and an overturned Machduhi). By documenting sights he had previously never seen, he had also unwittingly revealed—for me at least—a Port Moresby that was strikingly unfamiliar. While the geography, vegetation and infrastructure had changed little in the three decades that separated us, it was evident from his images that many of the war’s vestiges must have disappeared in the intervening years. The war zone that I could still distinguish three decades later was in fact a mere shadow of what remained, even after the war.

Damaged by friendly ground fire and Japanese fighters during the 9th May 1942 attack on the seven mile airfield, this Airacobra was forced to land on Fisherman’s Island before the airstrip had been built (Hugh G. Peachey collection, State Library of Queensland Accession 33547 O/S).

Peachey also visited Fisherman’s Island in the late 1940s, his record of that trip revealing a landscape far removed that I had known. Gone by the 1970s was the large stand of coconut trees, the fallen [wartime] radio tower, and the wrecks of several substantially complete U.S. military aircraft. I can comprehend how grass fires, locals and souvenir hunters might reduce a small fighter to remnants in that time, but struggle to see how a large twin-engine transport could have altogether disappeared from a sparsely populated island some twelve kilometres offshore. Even if it had wanted, the Commonwealth Government had to await the Lend-Lease Settlement of June 1946 before it could have begun cleaning up (i.e., scrapping) the many abandoned U.S. military aircraft scattered throughout what would later be renamed the Territory of Papua New Guinea. Another five years would pass before the Territory Administration finally invited tenders (in December 1951) for the removal of wrecked aircraft in and around Port Moresby, the Fisherman’s Island wrecks having possibly been disposed of then.

Post-war Moresby I now realize was a foreign land, as unrecognizeable to me as Moresby in the 1970s would have seemed to Hugh Peachey.

Hugh Geves Peachey collection, State Library of Queensland Accession 33547 O/S.
Hugh Geves Peachey collection, State Library of Queensland Accession 33547 O/S.

21/11/202221/11/2022

Flights of fancy

Hopes dashed. From a set of four aviation-themes stamps issued on 8 July 1970, Ansett’s Fokker Friendship was depicted with the Manam Island volcano as its back drop.

Undistracted by television, expatriate children living in Papua New Guinea were more receptive and vulnerable perhaps to urban mythologizing. One instance I well recall concerned the issue of a new five cent postage stamp which, because of a glaring imperfection, was rumoured to hold the promise of certain fortune for any kid with patience, and spare pocket money.

The stamp’s designer, it transpired, had unwittingly reversed the airline’s three-pointed tail logo. A matter of little consequence for most post office customers, this trifling error had nonetheless assumed great importance in the capital’s playgrounds by August 1970. The story had spread quickly around the Port Moresby High School, gaining significance with each retelling. While I may have been one of the last to hear I was certainly quick to react, zealously acquiring as many used and unused specimens of the 5¢ Ansett Fokker Friendship as I possibly could. All I had to do then was wait for an opportune time to cash in.

Fast forward half a century, and I have come to terms with the realization my pocket money might have been better spent … on salty plums. The warning signs were there at the time, local media reports of the stamp issue attaching no importance to the error ¹.

Although the design flaw has since been widely acknowledged by philatelists the stamp’s value, even amongst collectors, has scarcely appreciated (beyond its original 5 cent face value) during the past fifty years.² Only last month a complete unused set comprising all four stamps from this July 1970 issue sold on eBay with the $AUD2.00 postal charge exceeding the $AUD0.99 winning bid.³

My interest in stamps subsequently waned.

21/12/202107/11/2023

“daddy come out and have a look at this funny plane”

Fourteen year old Thomas Honor had been playing outside his house at Maroondan in Queensland’s Burnett region when he urgently beckoned his father. Walking to the back door David Honor, a widower, described seeing “a large aeroplane flying at a very low altitude Continue reading ““daddy come out and have a look at this funny plane””

Flying on a cloudless night, with the landscape illuminated by an almost full moon, the crew of Avro Anson W1655 might well have felt some serenity. At least, until both engines suddenly stopped. It was 8.50 p.m. on a Monday, 30th March 1942.

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Flying on a cloudless night, with the landscape illuminated by an almost full moon, the crew of Avro Anson W1655 might well have felt some serenity. At least, until both engines suddenly stopped. It was 8.50 p.m. on a Monday, 30^th March 1942.