Translated from H.Cukurs' Report to Jaunakas Zinas dated Nov.24, 1936
What Caused the Disaster?
My Flight to Japan
Special for “Jaunakas Zinas”
I pushed open the cockpit door and jumped out. At first, I could not grasp what had happened. How come?
Everything had seemed in order.
I looked back up the airfield, and became enraged. In the middle of the aerodrome I could see about fifteen mounds
of sand, some as much as a metre high. They had not been leveled out, nor were they designated with a red warning lantern
as is the practice everywhere – Baghdad, Basra, Calcutta, Hanoi… where the airfields were undergoing repair. There wasn’t
even a simple flag or marker. And last night when I landed in this very spot there was no sign of any repair work at all.
I thought I would go mad with rage.
None of the aerodrome administrators appeared. I was left alone in my crazed state – running around my damaged bird
and, when my initial anger had subsided, sitting in despair on the airplane’s wing. After some time the military Red Cross
vehicle appeared. It circled around the aircraft and, apparently reassured that medical assistance was not required, it drove
off again. I set off towards the hangars in search of a local official. But all the doors were locked. They had all vanished as
if they had never existed. Even with the help of some Chinese workers we could find nobody in charge. Finally, I returned
to my airplane to make a calmer inspection of what had happened.
Soon a large number of Chinese workers appeared and, without speaking a word, they hurriedly set about leveling the mounds
and filling in the low spots. A tractor also arrived and, in ten minutes, there was no evidence of the sand piles remaining.
Only a broken Latvian airplane, lying on the ground, and a man caught in the heavy grip of fate.
I examined the Gypsy engine. When the propeller began striking the ground it bent the prop shaft. The engine mounts were
also damaged, but otherwise the engine appeared unharmed. The plane had been designed with enough structural strength
to withstand a belly landing, and the centre of gravity is very low. The wings and fuselage also appeared to be undamaged.
The expensive hydraulic undercarriage was destroyed. Navigation lights were broken. The wheel covers, or “boots”, were
torn to pieces. By some miracle, not a single airplane rib was broken. Another aircraft, crashing in that manner and at such
a speed with the wind at its back would have been shattered to rubble.
Fate, though giving me a heavy shaking, had spared me injury. I did not have to experience Andre Japy’s sad end. This
capable flier, who came so close to achieving his goals, was suddenly killed on Tokyo’s doorstep.
I went to the French consul, seeking his help and support. He came to the aerodrome, but immediately said: “There is
nothing here to do. The legal system cannot help you here. What’s more, I can take no official part in this matter.”
I went to see a lawyer. After listening to the details of the events, he said: “Leave it alone! The aerodrome belongs to
the British. Nobody saw anything, and sand mounds are no longer there.”
“But I photographed the mounds. They are on the film in my camera” I said.
“That will not help. Nobody will even be able to prove that those sand mounds were photographed here at the Hong Kong
aerodrome.”
I felt as if I would be unable to even request satisfaction. With a heavy heart I returned to my broken airplane. Nobody
took any notice, and my damaged airplane sat in the middle of the field. I began to busy myself around the airplane, for
the most part to simply distract myself from my woes.
Soon, I met two Chinese student pilots from the flight school who proved to be true friends. They helped me to move the
damaged airplane to a nearby hangar. For hangar priviledges I would have to pay five dollars per day.
Than, along came one of the British administrators and admonished the Chinese students for providing their assistance for free.
They replied that they were well-off, did not need to be paid, and wished to help out an airman who had come to grief through
the negligence of others.
With the help of my new Chinese friends I found a small, but clean, Chinese hotel where I could stay for ten dollars a week.
I even ate at local Chinese restaurants, learning to cope with chop sticks, and tried not to dwell on my problems.
In this manner the days went by. I was still feeling sick and unfocussed, and my Hong Kong experience seemed like a
bad dream.
If the airplane had been damaged in a storm, or perhaps in a forced landing, then that would have been a natural event for a
flying machine. But here, it was different. The plane came to grief while on the aerodrome, a place which should be a safe
harbour, where no harm should be possible. And why? Because of simple carelessness. And nobody seems to consider
that this act of carelessness could easily have claimed the life of an aviator. Nobody thought to warn me, but rather they
watched with disinterest as I directed my airplane towards a crash which could have taken my life. It was just my good
fortune that the aircraft’s sturdy design prevented a catastrophic collapse or tragic fire.
And so it continued. For many days I worked in the hangar with my two young friends, removing the engine to determine
what repairs would be necessary. Occasionally, an aerodrome engineer would drop by to see what we were doing. I must
admit that occasionally I had to ask them to borrow some tools when the task demanded it.
It was clear that the engine had taken a hard impact. The propeller shaft was bent and the bearings were broken. The engine
mounts were broken, but the cylinders were undamaged.
The winds would blow sand into the hangar and every part, when removed from the engine, would become covered with a
sandy dust. There was nothing with which to cover them, and it probably would not have made a difference in any case.
I asked if there was any place where I could work on the engine, free of the dust and wind. I was told that no such
accommodation was possible. Furthermore, I was told that on my own I would not succeed, but that I should sign a contract
with them to rebuild the engine for me. Without such a contract, they would not even look at the airplane. They also advised
me that I had an outstanding account of $62 which must be settled immediately.
When I examined the account I had to laugh out loud. There, in black and white, were the following charges:
For transporting the aircraft to the hangars - $ 20
For disassembly and removing the engine - $ 25
For Inspecting the engine - $ 17
Total balance:$ 62
When my laughing spell subsided, I asked them when I would be receiving my pay, and how much were they paying me per day?
Politely, the British administrators appeared surprised, pointing out that the two Chinese students had worked for me.
“But they did this in their own free time, voluntarily”
“That makes no difference”
In addition, repairing the engine would cost 30 pounds, replacement parts approximately 50 pounds. I would have to sign over
to them the full authority to proceed as they wish, otherwise they would not take on the job. Finally, they gave me a friendly
bit of advice – if I wish to keep the airplane in the hangar while they work on the engine I should disassemble it and set it aside.
Otherwise, I would be charged an additional ten pounds for use of the hangar space.
The British also offered to simply buy the entire airplane if I was unwilling or unable to get it repaired. I rejected this offer
immediately.
“I would rather burn my airplane than turn it over to a bunch of storekeepers”:
The British administrator just shrugged and told me to be less rash – the airplane could bring me some travelling money.
I did not know how long it would take to receive replacement parts. At the very earliest, it would be a couple of months.
What should I do during that time? Sometimes I thought it would be best to simply destroy my bird – getting it back to Latvia
was beginning to appear very expensive. It might be better to simply build a new one.
I ordered ten small flags, which I delivered to the editors of the largest newspapers, asking them to present these to the
aerodrome administration so that, in the future, they could designate the repair activities properly. All of Hong Kong society
and the press were indignant over the carelessness which had led to my misfortune.
After a few days, the entire airfield was dotted with these flags, and at night lanterns were lit over those places where the sand
and repairs were fresh. But this certainly didn’t help me.
I felt completely shattered, without strength or motivation. I had lost something dear and valuable to me, something I could
never get back. When I look at my broken airplane which carried me through so many close calls, over deserts, massive
forests, mountains and swamps – about 15,000 kilometres – I feel such despair that I want to drop everything and run to the
hills to heal my sadness and anger in solitude.