Asked for reminiscences of the Round-Britain Seaplane Flight, Harry replied: “I don’t think there is much left to be said about it. Every inch of the way has been discussed and every experience told. We were in danger several times; out of sight of land, and at times out of sight of the sea beneath as well, owing to thick fog. The strongest impression I have retained is of an old Scotsman. Having landed somewhere on the Scotch coast to repair an oil-tube, we were met by this gentleman sauntering down with his dog. Was he astonished? Not at all. One would have thought he had seen thousands of aeroplanes. His conversation was limited. He sat on a stone while we worked, and asked us where we were going and why, and whether ‘Yon thing all goes up together,’ a question which has since become almost a classic among the humorous anecdotes of aviators. We assured him it did. He did not seem in the least surprised when we came or when we departed.”
On his return home to St. Kilda, Harry was welcomed by the Mayor, at the Town Hall. It was mid-day, and there was a distinguished assembly. The presence of the Postmaster-General was significant, for postal authorities had then, and even now still have, to be educated as to the value of aircraft for mail-carrying. The Mayor said they had all followed with the greatest interest their fellow-townsman’s advancement in the Old World, and it was hoped when he returned to England he would put up further records in the world of flight. Mr. Agar Wynne spoke of Australians having all wished Hawker every success in his attempted flight round Great Britain. There, in Australia, they were far away from the big centres, and it was only by the push and energy of their young citizens at the other end of the world that Australia had become known among all the nations. He expressed regret that Hawker had again to leave Australia, but hoped that when he came back again they would be able to congratulate him on still greater achievements. After others had said their say, Harry in reply expressed his pleasure in knowing that as an Australian he had gained successes in England, where, on his return, he would do his best on behalf of Australia. Harry’s father said that amidst all the successes and applause his son had not forgotten his home. He had brought a machine with him, partly of his own design, which had not been publicly demonstrated in England to any extent. Victoria was to have the first opportunity of seeing that machine fly.
The welcomes over, Harry lost no time in assembling the Tabloid, on which the necessary work was almost complete by January 22nd. On Monday, the 26th, the machine was on view, assembled, at the C.L.C. Motor and Engineering Works, Melbourne. The highest-powered aeroplane ever seen in Australia, it was regarded as a most serviceable type. A trial flight, which Harry provisionally arranged to make on the 26th, had to be postponed owing to the fact that the special castor oil, necessary for lubricating the Gnome engine, had not passed the Customs. There was talk of Harry taking part in the Sydney Aerial Derby, timed to be flown in February, and it was generally supposed that, if it did compete, the Tabloid would win easily. Harry certainly was considering the question of making a non-stop flight from Melbourne to Sydney on behalf of a well-known rubber tyre firm. The Australian Defence Department had recently acquired a number of aeroplanes, and it was hoped that some at least of these could take part in a race to Sydney.
Harry made his first flight in Australia on Tuesday, January 27th, 1914, a fortnight after his arrival. Several flying-men had visited Australia before, and one or two had left the ground, but Harry was fairly acclaimed the first to show Australians the immense possibilities of mechanical flight. One who stood by while he carefully went over every nut with a spanner, tested each wire and each moving part, recalled to mind previous flights that failed, and bethought himself care is not the whole of an airman’s equipment. But the tightening of a nut might prevent a broken neck, and it was little wonder that an airman should not overlook anything that might mean the saving of his own neck.
There was nothing theatrical about the preparations. The hero of the day did not gaze anxiously up aloft, frown, and shake his head. He did not have long and heated arguments with his mechanic, nor did he attire himself in large yellow clothes or look unduly nonchalant with a cigarette hanging from the lower lip. The onlookers, contrary, perhaps, to expectations, saw only the man whose interest was centred in carefully tightening the nuts and adjusting the bracing-wires. As one said, each airman who came to Melbourne had a different expression just prior to the appointed hour for flight. Cugnet, he said, looked stern and perhaps a little sad; Hammond bore the impassive countenance of an Indian chief; but Hawker smiled as if it were an enjoyable game.
His decision to make his maiden Australian flight was, apparently, sudden. In the morning it was announced there would be no flying, but by 4 o’clock in the afternoon the news had gone round in some mysterious manner to the effect that he was about to make a trial flight. One wing was put on the machine in the garage in which it was stationed, the other being put on and adjusted when the machine had been wheeled out into the street. When everything had been trued up, and there only remained the engine to be tested, Harry got into his seat, the propeller was swung, and several people lost their hats in the draught caused by the rotating mass. Much dust was raised too. The engine having cracked and spluttered and roared, and Harry being assured of its good tune, he waved his arm, and the four begrimed individuals who had been holding the machine back let go. Down New Street, lined by crowds on both pavements, the machine raced for thirty yards or so before rising into the air. Harry climbed steeply, at once turning westward over the golf-course, while a maddened horse, drawing a van, rose on its hind legs, seemingly pointing out the aeroplane to the crowd, who watched a beautiful demonstration of the aviator’s art.
At a height of about 600 feet Harry described right-and left-hand circles, banking at 45 degrees and more. Then he dived at what appeared to be an unprecedented speed to within a few feet of the ground, afterwards steeplechasing above fences and trees. He climbed and climbed again, alternately switching off his engine and diving, as it were, to the attack. Finally he mounted higher than previously and set off in the direction of Toorak. After following the valley of the Yarra at a height of about 5,000 feet, he glided down above the grounds of Government House and switched on again at about 2,000 feet. He then crossed above the lake in Albert Park, returning by the seashore to the Elsternwick golf-links, to which he descended in a fine spiral glide, ending in a sharp vertical dive and a beautiful landing at only 34 miles per hour. The flight occupied about 20 minutes. He was received with vociferous cheering. As the good horseman after finishing a journey sees that his horse is fed, watered, and bedded before he seeks his own dinner and repose, so did Harry carefully stow away his machine out of reach of the crowd before yielding to any calls for speeches and interviews.
It appears that airmen who had previously made unsuccessful attempts at flight in Australia sought to justify their failure by declaring the Australian air to be unsafe and mysteriously different from the air of Britain or France. This fallacy was clearly dispelled by Harry. “There is not the slightest difference,” he said. “It is the same sort of air, except that it is clearer than the English. When I crossed the Albert Park lake I could see Geelong very plainly.”
Speaking of his machine, Harry said: “The engine worked splendidly. The highest barograph record shows 5,000 feet. The engine developed its full revolutions, and I was doing 90 miles per hour.” He explained that there was one point upon which the Australian needed education. That was—that it is unsafe to get in the way of an aeroplane when it is rising from or coming to ground. “The whirling propeller,” he said, “has played a part in not a few tragedies at European aviation meetings, and crowding in on it is a very good method of suicide.”