To Pisa by Air

[Miss Spooner is one of the latest and youngest of our air pilots. She only took her certificate at the end of August ; hardly a month later she started on the long journey alone here described.—ED. Spectator.]

TUESDAY, September 20th, proved a typical 1927 summer's day, with a dull, cloudy sky and an unfavourable weather report. On account of the weather an early start was advised in order to cross the Channel whilst the going was still good. My machine, Gebot,' is a DH. 60 Moth biplane, fitted with a Cirrus Mark I. engine of 27/60 h.p. with four air-cooled cylinders in line. She consumes about four gallons of petrol and one quart of oil per hour, and her cruising speed is about 70 m.p.h. The only preparation made for the flight, other than studying a map even more thoroughly than usual, was the fitting of an extra tank, thus increasing my petrol supply to four and a half hours. This would not have been necessary with the new model Moth, but my machine is one of the first kind made, and in the ordinary course of events has a little under three hours' petrol supply.

After collecting my wits and my maps, I started at 10.30 a.m., and after an uneventful flight of one hour, landed at Lympne for Customs. This was soon over, and at 12.15 p.m. I was circling round to gain height before crossing the Channel. It might be imagined that crossing the 25 miles of water one might possibly be inclined to feel slightly nervous, but dotted along the route are innumerable fishing smacks and steamers, so that should one, by some unfortunate chance, be forced to try the temperature of the sea, it would be possible to do so in the close vicinity of a boat. This fact, and complete confidence in one's engine, banishes all qualms. Contrary to expectations, the weather was improving and the colour of the sea was marvellous. I flew at 3,000 feet ; far away underneath were little puffy clouds, looking for all the world like small balls of cotton wool tossed in the wind. Arriving at Grisnez, I circled round what I thought to be St. Inglevert, in order to advise the wireless station of my safe arrival ; unfortunately I failed to choose the right spot, and in consequence have been most severely reprimanded by the authorities for causing tugs to be sent out to my rescue under false pretences.

Apart from a bad spell of low mist and cloud, stretching along the cost to Etaples, the weather continued to improve, and from Abbeville onwards was ideal, with marvellous visibility. At Etaples I spied an Imperial Airways liner heading for Paris ; it rapidly disappeared in the distance, but not before, with its aid, I had been able to map my course for Paris. The country between Abbeville and Paris is extraordinarily flat, no hedges divide the grass, plough, or different crops, thus suitable landing grounds in case of emergency are innumerable.

Close to Abbeville, as the sun struggled to pierce the clouds in the distance, an extraordinary searchlight effect was caused, as if a line of searchlights were turned upon the countryside. Another experience new to me was that of being directly under a heavy rain cloud, with brilliant sunshine behind and in front, making the contrast in light and shade most remarkable.

Le Bourget proved to be a huge aerodrome where nobody takes any notice of anybody else. Two hours elapsed before I once more took the air. Owing to this delay, there was not sufficient daylight left for me to reach Dijon that evening, as originally planned. I was, therefore, compelled to alter my course slightly and to make for Chatillons, which I reached after an uneventful and easy flight of two hours.

Chatillons is merely a landing field, and does not support a hangar or even a petrol pump. However, with the help of many willing hands (too many for my peace of mind) Gebot ' was very soon filled up, her petrol filters cleaned, everything made ready for an early start the next morning, and she herself securely pegged down and covered up for the night.

The following day dawned glorious in the full sense of the word, and at 7.15 a.m. I left for Dijon. The country here was hilly, and cut up by deep and narrow valleys, filled at that hour by the early morning mist.

Dijon nestles at the edge of the hills where they make a sheer drop of some several hundred feet to the Saone Valley below. The greater part of the town lies on the low ground. Here, to all appearances, was the end of the world, earth and sky seemed merged in one, for below the level of the hills, and stretching far into the distance, lay bank upon bank of clouds, completely obscuring the valley beneath. I wished to find the aerodrome, and to do so endeavoured to get below the clouds, but on seeing a church spire peeping through a gap, .I took fright and abandoned the attempt. Flying slightly west of my course, I then followed the line of hills for three-quarters of an hour or so, when the clouds leared away and the river Saone guided me to Lyons.

At Lyons, where I landed for a refill of my petrol tanks, I found Captain Broad and Mrs. Carberry just preparing to start for Turin. They were taking the route over the Alps, whereas, owing to my machine being less powerful, I had decided on the other course, i.e., via Orange, Nice, and Pisa. Nice, though quite the smallest aerodrome I've ever landed on, proved to have an excellent service, and in no time at all the machine was safely stowed away in a hangar.

• Distinctly weary after seven and a half hours' flying— the longest I had done up to date—I instructed the taxi to stop at the first respectable hotel, where after a bath, supper, and a constitutional stroll I retired to bed.

The weather deteriorated during the night, and the following morning was showery and dull, with the clouds below the level of the mountain tops.

While getting the engine ready to start, I miscalculated the difference between gallons and litres and over-oiled her, so that some had to be drained off. Then the mechanic removed too much, so by the time this was remedied and I had paid a visit to the bank (necessi- tated by the extraordinarily high price of petrol abroad) it was midday before I eventually left Nice.

Weather and clouds permitting, I had intended to make a non-stop flight from Nice to Padua by way of Genoa and Placenza ; but the weather did not improve, and I was forced to continue along the coast to Pisa, where I vainly hoped it would be clear enough to cross the hills via Pistoja and Bologna. In order to avoid the clouds, I flew at a height of about 1,500 to1,800 feet, but was often forced to dive still lower down to avoid the extra low ones, for being already below the level of the mountains, I felt it would be both foolish and exceedingly unpleasant to attempt to fly through any cloud.

My arrival at Pisa caused no little stir and excitement. The fact that the 'plane was British started the excitement, and according to the rules of the International Air Convention a smoke bomb was let off bidding me descend at once and without further delay. This safely accom- plished, I taxied towards the petrol pump.

At this juncture of the proceedings, my feelings of relief and pleasure to think I was really getting near Venice changed to those of perplexity and wonderment, tempered with grave fears for the safety of my 'plane. I was apparently the first woman to land. on Italian soil alone, and flying her own 'plane. As a result, men seemed to spring from every possible crack and crevice of the aerodrome, running towards the Moth and literally hemming her in. Then followed this enlightening conver- sation : " Does anyone speak English ? " " No." " Parlez-vous francais ? " " No." " Sprechen Sie Deutsch ? " " No." At these replies I felt both hopeless and helpless. Then through a gap in the crowd I saw .what for one gleeful moment I took to be a British R.A.F. officer stranded at Pisa ; but I was soon disillusioned— he was Italian, their uniforms and ours being practically identical.

Eventually a mechanic capable of speaking French was unearthed from the crowd, and, with many gesticulations and demands for " benzina " and " olio," I refuelled " gebot." .

Then came a staggering blow. A sheet of paper was presented to me, but as I showed no gleam of intelligence or understanding, somebody laboriously explained (in French) that it was a weather report, and that the atmospheric conditions of the mountains were such as to render it impossible for me to continue my journey. So at Pisa I was forced to remain for two days, days that had it not been for the kindness and hospitality of the Italian Air Force, would have proved irksome indeed. As it was, they passed pleasantly and exceedingly humor- ously, for it was only on very rare occasions we wider- stood correctly what the other was trying to say. It was with real regret I left Pisa, still incapable of eating spaghetti with only a fork.

The weather had cleared slightly on Saturday, and full of hope I started off, escorted by the commandant of the Pisa Air Station in a fast military 'plane. Sad to say, bad weather in the shape of low clouds and mist awaited us on the hills, and after reconnoitring several miles ahead, Captain Mondine returned alongside and signalled to me to turn back. Bitterly disappointed, I bowed to superior wisdom, and that afternoon took the train to Venice, taking eight hours to accomplish a distance which even my Mk. I. Moth can accomplish in two and a half hours.

EVELYN SPOONER.