Clouded judgement
Two years into service with the Air Force, Eric Read crashed in the Brisbane Range during a flight to test the weather for the Meteorological Bureau in Melbourne. WGCDR Read, who died in May, recalled the ordeal in his yet to be published memoirs,
The Sky’s the Limit.

This is an edited extract.

The Mt Wallace crash site: Eric Read’s last recollection was noting 120mp/h on the air speed indicator before ploughing into trees.

Wing Commander Eric Vernon Read.

THE AIRCRAFT was a pugnacious- looking single seater Bristol “Bulldog” Fighter. Take-off was scheduled for 0800 hours on December 14, 1936, and my watch had packed it in. I put the hard word on fellow officer Dick Cohen for a loan of his.

I arrived at the hangar. The A12- 7 had been wheeled out. I entered the low overcast at about 1000 feet and broke out at 2000 feet, levelled off and recorded the first readings. I was between layers of cloud, with the upper level base of about 4000 feet. From then on it was solid cloud up to 16,000 feet, intermittent rain and turbulence.

With my very limited knowledge of weather, I had worked out a flight pattern whereby I flew consecutive tracks on west, north, east and south, each leg five minutes, and then finally west, usually on the descent, for about eight minutes. This was on my assumption the prevailing upper winds were westerly and would bring me to an area I should be able to identify.

This added to my undoing, as unbeknown to me, the winds were prevailing south-east and took me out of the Laverton area. At 2000 feet I carried out figure “S” turns at full power to restore temperature to the engine, lost due to cooling on descent. Closing the throttle, I began descending on a westerly heading. I glanced at Dick’s watch: 0855 hours.

Concentrating on the instruments and an occasional furtive glance ahead, I finally broke out of the clouds and to my horror was in a ravine with large trees on each side and ahead. I immediately applied full power and began to climb, but not before the lower port wing hit a tree and tore open the rear trailing edge.

I continued to climb but saw the turn indicator go hard right and the altimeter unwinding – ingredients for an involuntary spin. I must have instinctively closed the throttle, and when I again broke cloud I applied full opposite left rudder. The response was immediate, but too late. My last recollection was noting 120mp/h on the air speed indicator, then I ploughed into trees.

I gradually regained consciousness. I realised I was seeing real objects – trees, my battered and broken “Bulldog” that would never fly again – and I was really alive. It was 0905 hours. I was helplessly trapped in the cockpit with the aircraft lying on its starboard side. No sign of blood coming from my ears, but plenty out of my mouth.

I spat out the teeth floating around in it. No visible signs of blood around my legs, arms or body. My left foot was twisted at nearly a right angle. I had fractured the bone above the knee and the unbroken part was responding to the reaction of foot movement, but there was no connection, a most eerie sensation. When I blew into my closed mouth from the throat, blood came out of my nose.

List of injuries

Fractured right femur

Double fractured left ankle

Double fractured left wrist

Tendon severed on left index finger

Roof of mouth split to the throat

Five front teeth broken

The first joint of my left index finger had been lacerated and I could see the white bone. Two pieces of twig and some cord from the coaming panel provided a makeshift splint. Hours later became conscious of a restriction to the left wrist, swollen badly. The watch strap was causing the pain. I settled as comfortably as possible on my right side. I was kept busy swatting mosquitoes.

There was a plentiful supply of rainwater collected where the wing fabric had been depressed, but just out of my reach. Selecting a stick from the debris, I unscrewed the cap of the magneto switch, plugged the hole and secured it to the stick. Voila – a long-handled ladle. Never was a son so pleased to see dawn.

I began a diary, scratched on the cockpit coaming: Towards midday, the cloud had lifted and a “Demon” was winding its way back to Laverton when it altered course, came back towards me and circled. I waved frantically. On arrival at Laverton they reported the wreckage, but added there was no sign of life.

Within half an hour, another “Demon” arrived, flown by Pilot Officer Ralph Wiley. He lined up and dived into the ravine, this time wildly returning my wave. That was the last I saw of him until some hours later when he arrived with bolt cutters and hacksaws. Search parties had been organised by civilians from Bacchus Marsh.

Mid-afternoon, I heard the welcome sound of a real bush cooee and answered likewise. Included in the ground party was a Mrs Kerr, who had a dream I was alive and on Mt Wallace. She was so confident she carried milk and sandwiches. The latter I could not chew, but the milk made champagne taste like dishwater.

The party got me down to the bottom of the Range and I did not feel one twinge of pain. I was delighted to see my elder brother Arthur. With my mother and sister, he had flown from Hobart.

I was transferred to a regulation stretcher, but it was not as comfortable as the one that brought me out of the bush. Before they put me in, I spied Dick and called out, “Hey Dick. Here is your watch”. MY FLYING log book shows that on September 17, 1937, I took off solo in a “Demon” A1-25 at 0900.

The flight lasted 50 minutes, just three days over the nine months when I came to grief. It was an exhilarating experience to be back in the air again. To show my contempt, I flew to Mt Wallace and had a good look.

I can’t remember whether I elevated two fingers accompanied by a resounding ‘raspberry’, or reflected upon the fact the elements had not claimed me. On September 20 I was posted to No. 21 (City of Melbourne) Squadron, thus ending my service baptism with No.1 Fighter Squadron. What a terrific and lasting impression it had made on me.

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