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HISTORY
Big wheels & little wheels – the story of UK-born Australian Sir Laurence John Hartnett (1898 – 1986) Australia’s “Father of the Holden” and much more
PART 45
“I WOULDN’T LIKE TO BE IN YOUR SHOES”
WW2, May 1942: Laurence agrees to Gen. MacArthur’s secret, radio-silent and “hazardous” mission which involved flying from Australia to the US during the perilous days of WW2, along an unestablished route in a plane described as a “crate”. The plane was beset with mechanical problems and to top things off, was nearly the victim of friendly fire by the Americans after a forced detour. The mission’s objective was to change America’s negative perception about Australia’s ability to make war equipment.
I
was summoned to see Gen. MacArthur who was visiting Australia. He had an office directly across Collins Street from mine. Coming from behind his big desk, he said: "I have a feeling that the Australian point of view, particularly on machinetools, is not getting the right hearing. I have also had reports that you have been extremely helpful to the American Forces in equipment-modifications. I believe you know what you are doing. I think it might be wise if you were to state your case personally in Washington. We have a Liberator bomber going back very soon. It’s the first bomber to get through from Honolulu to Australia and it brought a couple of high-ranking officers. I want to be fair to you, Hartnett, the trip will be fairly hazardous”. This was because there were no established routes and the plane was not in a good condition. I said I'd do anything that was required. "Thanks a lot, Mr. Hartnett" MacArthur replied. On the next day Essington Lewis (MD of BHP & DG of Munitions) noted: "This trip will give us the opportunity to have someone over there to put our story. You know these Americans, and I'm sure you could do it where perhaps others have not been so successful. But we don't want any publicity." It came to zero hour: We received word that the bomber would be at Laverton the following morning, ready to take off at the crack of dawn. Five o'clock on a dark, cold morning at Laverton, Melbourne was blacked out, and we almost got lost driving there. “What you're doing is a bit foolish” said the Officer in charge at Laverton. ”We've been looking this aircraft over. It's not what we'd call in A1 condition. Frankly I wouldn't like to be in your shoes." This didn't do much to cheer us up. We soon found he was right. We plugged our ears while the engines revved up with a roar and scream. Suddenly, the engines stopped. An oil-pipe had broken. Then a battery had packed up; then there was electrical trouble. The Liberator wouldn't be flying that day. Next morning, however, we took off at about 8.30. But could we get those props into low pitch? No. They screamed like
The American P-40 Warhawk (painted with shark’s teeth) checking out the Liberator bomber, during what Laurence describes as a “scissoring” – manoeuvre an aerial dogfighting tactic, performed by the P-40.
something in pain - a phenomenon known as ''howling dog''. Round and round we flew over Laverton, with no altitude, and the pilot couldn't adjust the pitch. He decided to land again, but just then the props picked up into low pitch and away we flew - three passengers: myself, Bill Wasserman and Arthur Wilson, an American General. After a while, Noumea came up under our wing, and we put down on the rather small airfield. Next morning we took off - just made it, too, because our big aircraft ate up every inch of the runway, and we barely cleared the trees at the end of it. We flew on without incident to Nandi in Fiji. As we were coming down, there was a tropical deluge. How we landed none of us will ever know. Next stop: Canton Island in the Coral Sea. After a quick tour, our Liberator was ready for take-off. We wrapped ourselves in blankets and overcoats to keep warm, found a perch among the crates and equipment, plugged our ears against the scream of the engines, and held our breath as the bomber gathered speed along the strip. Flying as a passenger in one of those bombers was no picnic. There was no heating, sound insulation, seats or pressurization. After forty hours of travel in those conditions, you 're a non-compus heap. Then we got the biggest fright of the trip: Because of a faulty drift-meter plus headwinds, we didn't have enough fuel to make it to Honolulu. The Pacific looked grey, endless and empty. Then Gen. Wilson said:
"To hell with it. Let's go somewhere else!" Good idea. But where? Petrol was running out fast. "Well," said the pilot, "there's only one place. That's Palmyra”. Palmyra was a naval establishment and was bound to be jumpy after Pearl Harbour. “It's either that, or the drink, General!”. The Liberator's starboard wing dipped, and we took a right-angle turn for Palmyra. The next thing we knew was that we had company: Three American P-40 Warhawk fighters were scissoring around us. With our co-pilot and the boys up front waving violently and rocking the aircraft, we weren't sure we had been recognized, because ironically, there was a Japanese aircraft almost identical with the Liberator. We couldn't blame the US fighter boys for being suspicious - we were not heralded; nobody knew who we were, and we couldn't break radio silence to identify ourselves. Anyway, we came in with the P-40s right behind us. We had a day with the Navy while the crew refuelled, checked over the Liberator, got a new drift-meter, and away we went on our last, and uneventful hop to Honolulu. "Fancy her holding together that long!" exclaimed a Sergeant who waited for as we taxied in at Hickham Field, Honolulu. I said: "Why, what's the matter with her?" He replied: "Look, she's so long over her hours she ought to be falling to bits. Sir, you're lucky! ... 'Gahddam crazy crate’” he pronounced, as we jumped down from the open bomb-bay doors.
To be continued… This is an extract from ‘Big Wheels & Little Wheels’, by Sir Laurence Hartnett as told to John Veitch, 1964. © Deirdre Barnett.
AMT OCT/NOV 2021
