Hubert Who?

PREFACE

WE WERE ALL taught in school about Australia’s great heroes and adventurers.

We know that Charles Kingsford Smith was the pilot of the first aircraft to fly across the Pacific. Douglas Mawson explored Antarctica. Charles Sturt befriended the local Aboriginal people as he traced the waterways of inland Australia. Frank Hurley made a name for himself photographing the Antarctic and the bloody battlefields of France in World War I. James Cook made voyages no one else would have considered attempting, even in their wildest dreams. And Nancy Wake worked as a journalist for the newspaper magnate William Randolph Hearst before living on her wits as a member of the French Resistance — a spy behind enemy lines.

Wrap all these great Australian heroes into one, add a few more adventures — such as pioneering movie coverage of news events that grabbed the world’s attention and trying to be the first to manoeuvre a submarine under the Arctic icecap — and you have Sir Hubert Wilkins. Yet few Australians have even heard of the man, let alone his exploits.

‘Hubert who?’ they wonder.

Australia’s commanding officer in World War I, General Sir John Monash, called Wilkins ‘the bravest man I have ever seen — Australia’s answer to Lawrence of Arabia’. That’s some compliment indeed considering that among Monash’s forces were no less than sixty-four servicemen who were awarded the Victoria Cross.

Away from the battlefield, legendary Hollywood director Cecil B. deMille reckoned Wilkins was an inspiration to all the world’s filmmakers that followed him. And Wilkins is the hero of modern-day Australian adventurer Dick Smith.

But still: Hubert … who?

I first became aware of this incredible Aussie hero in 2000 while writing The Ultimate True Blue Trivia Book — wherein I compiled thousands of facts about Australia and Australians. Scattered throughout the book were what I called ‘True Blue Icons’ — identities, real or otherwise, from the likes of cricketer Don Bradman, our most famous nude, Chloe, and rock ’n’ roll star Johnny O’Keefe, to Harry’s Café de Wheels pie stall, the Chiko Roll and Chesty Bond. It was then that I discovered a brief biography of a South Australian named George Hubert Wilkins and listed him under a logo that read He deserves to be a True Blue Icon, adding: ‘Here are some facts that ninety-nine out of one hundred Australians don’t know (but should).’

Then I started my search, the results of which left me shaking my head in amazement. Where most people would say, ‘Why doesn’t someone do such-and-such?’, Wilkins didn’t ask — he went out and did it. He stowed away on a ship that took him halfway around the world, took the first movie footage from an aircraft while strapped to its primitive fuselage, trekked more than 100 kilometres across frozen Arctic wastelands, undertook pioneering aircraft flights over the icy roof and base of the globe, became the only member of the media to win medals for gallantry in conflicts he was covering as a war correspondent, spied for the British in Russia and for the Americans in the Far East, lived with the local Aboriginal people in outback Australia … The list just went on and on.

Suitably astounded by the combination of this man’s courage and achievements and his status as perhaps the world’s greatest unsung hero, this book, Hubert Who?, gradually took shape. It seemed inconceivable to me that Hubert Wilkins was not a household name like Kingsford Smith, Sturt, Cook and the others — and it was important to right that wrong.

In most instances the amazing facts speak for themselves, but in telling Wilkins’ story, I have occasionally taken a touch of poetic licence by turning what was a mere description of events into dialogue between those involved. In every case, however, there has been absolutely no deviation from the facts unearthed by my investigations and the research of others.

While Wilkins has been honoured by both Britain and the United States, he has basically been ignored in the land of his birth. Thankfully, though, historians are gradually recognising the great contribution to science and exploration that was made by Sir Hubert Wilkins. Maybe soon our educators will begin explaining his great legacy to young Australians, who are so in need of true blue role models.

And what a great role model he was!

Malcolm Andrews

Port Macquarie

July 2011

PROLOGUE

THURSDAY, 31 OCTOBER 1912. The First Balkan War is in full cry. A battle is joined between the invading troops of Bulgaria and those of Turkey near the tiny town of Lule Burgas, west of the Bosphorus. Young Australian adventurer Hubert Wilkins rides out from nearby Chorlu on a magnificent Arab stallion. It is his twenty-fourth birthday.

He is a little under 6 foot tall, with a prominent chin and eyebrows, and an expression that reminded friends back in London of Lord Kitchener, of Boer War fame. Wilkins is dressed like a Turk: a short jacket, sleeveless, over a loose woven shirt; ballooning Moorish trousers tucked into his riding boots; a fez on his head, holding down a rough, overlarge cravat that’s wound around his chin and neck, Arab style. Well tanned from his years growing up in the Australian bush, Wilkins has the swarthy looks of the Turkish soldiers he passes on the road. The dust and grime of a week living rough since he left the luxury of Constantinople’s Pera Palas Hotel adds to the authenticity. A halter, one end wound around his left wrist, is attached to a bulky movie camera. Spare film is stuffed under his shirt. Wilkins is here to record history as it happens for London’s Gaumont Graphic newsreel company, looking for an eyewitness scoop as the Bulgarians sweep eastwards through the countryside towards the Turkish capital.

The Turks are in disarray. The panorama that stretches out before him is a maelstrom of confused retreat. Angry Turkish cavalry officers, overcome with rage, are charging at their own men, trying to turn the terrified rabble back against the advancing Bulgarians.

Camera balanced delicately on his lap, Wilkins cranks away, catching — for the first time in history — action from a major world battle. The glint from the waving swords of the cavalry officers … The puffs of smoke as Bulgarian guns discharge their complement of shells … Maimed men crawling in no particular direction to their inevitable death, pain contorting their faces into grotesque masks of fear … Wilkins’ film and despatches from the front, the latter typed out on his battered Blickensderfer portable typewriter, will make a name for the young antipodean back in the English capital.

Wilkins rides on towards the action, with his mount, as if by second nature, avoiding the dead and dying that litter the battlefield. A couple of other reporters are following in his wake as he crosses the lone bridge that spans a river outside Lule Burgas. There is Bernard Grant from the London Daily Mail and Francis McCullagh, the veteran war correspondent for London’s Daily News and the New York World, whose reputation was sealed five years earlier thanks to his dramatic coverage of the Russo–Japanese War in Manchuria.

The conflict is hotting up. Shells begin exploding around them. One lands directly in front of Wilkins, but by some miracle it fails to blow up. Suddenly, a detachment of Bulgarian cavalry officers gallop past the advancing foot soldiers and head straight for the trio.

‘Oh, damn!’ shouts Wilkins. ‘They think we’re bloody Turks! They didn’t tell me about this back in London. Strewth, I’m outta here …’

He digs his spurs hard into the flanks of his trusty Arab mount and charges away from the Bulgarians. Across the battlefield. Through the panicking Turks. Around a low hill and back to the river. No time to find the bridge now — it’s a case of straight into the water and a desperate swim across the fast-flowing stream. Bullets pepper the river bank as he and his horse clamber out the other side.

‘Thank Christ they’re dud shots,’ Wilkins calls out as he turns and notes the successful escape of his companions. ‘They wouldn’t last long in the outback,’ he adds with a chuckle, before galloping on to safety.

The other two men nod in agreement, even though they have no idea of the so-called outback to which Wilkins refers.

Later on, back in Chorlu, the full impact of what has happened finally strikes home and Wilkins visibly shivers in spite of the warmth of the evening. To be a successful war correspondent, one has to take risks, as Wilkins has done this day — and he will gamble with his life time and time again in the years to come, with almost monotonous regularity. On the killing fields of Flanders. In the untamed Australian bush. On, under and over the icefloes of the Arctic. In the skies above Antarctica. With the R-34, Hindenburg and Graf Zeppelin airships. And as a spy in Russia and South-East Asia.

He will shrug off any thought of the perils that confront him. To Hubert Wilkins, taking risks will just be part of everyday living.

Chapter 1

Enquiring Minds

IT HAS BECOME a popular pastime in Australia to chase one’s family history, to chart out a family tree. Naturally enough, the majority of the forebears of Australian families stretch back to Britain. So it was with George Hubert Wilkins. According to those who have checked out the family tree, he could trace his lineage back to one of the most influential thinkers of the seventeenth century, Bishop John Wilkins.

At the very least, John Wilkins (1614–1672) showed many of the traits that drove the adventurous Hubert Wilkins three centuries later. The good bishop was well connected, having married Robina, the youngest sister of Oliver Cromwell, in 1656. She was said to have been the most eligible widow in England. Yet it was not for his personal life but his enquiring mind that Bishop Wilkins is best remembered. He chaired the first meeting of that august scientific body, the Royal Society, and became its first secretary. He developed a glass beehive from which honey could be removed without disturbing the bees, and a machine that could throw up an artificial water spray in gardens. He worked on an instrument that helped people with hearing problems. And he argued the theory of possible life on the moon and the ideas of submarines and heavier-than-air flying machines. All this was some 200 years before Jules Verne wrote about such things as mere fiction. The good bishop also tried to perfect a world language in which scientists could converse. He would have been proud had he known that a descendant would be part of the reality of many of his dreams.

Hubert Wilkins’ immediate ancestors played a major role in the settling of Australia, even if they never experienced the privilege and position that the bishop enjoyed. Hubert Wilkins’ grandparents, William and Mary Ann, were among the scores of Britons living close to the poverty line in the mid 1830s and looking for a new life. They were entranced by stories of success in the colonies and thus lured to an office in John Street, London, not too far from Gray’s Inn. The South Australian Company owned the building and had already set in place its plans for a large township to be laid out for the would-be settlers quite remote from other settlements in the Great South Land.

The enlightened seventeenth-century British scientist Bishop John Wilkins, an ancestor of the Australian adventurer.

One of the first emigrant ships to head for the new colony was the twelve-year-old, two-masted brig Emma of 167 tonnes, which sailed from London on 21 April 1836. On board were twenty-three passengers, including the Wilkinses and their two eldest sons, Frank and Albert. Mary fell pregnant on the voyage, which went via Madeira, the island of Martin Vaz in the South Atlantic, the Cape of Good Hope and St Paul, halfway across the Indian Ocean. The Emma finally arrived at Nepean Bay on Kangaroo Island on 5 October, after a journey of 166 days. There the South Australian Company had hoped to establish a whaling station. Later the planned township about which the Wilkinses had been told back in London would be set up on the mainland at Holdfast Bay. History would see it spread inland and eventually grow into the city of Adelaide, while the original site is today referred to as the suburb of Glenelg.

British Government officials arrived from Port Jackson (now Sydney) on 30 December and proclaimed the new colony of South Australia. Two days later, on 1 January 1837, Mary gave birth to another son, Henry — to be known in the family as Harry. Officially he was the first white child born in the colony, although there had been others before it was gazetted.

Despite the fact that the Wilkinses were later quite strict Methodists, the family’s early life in the colony revolved around pubs. William was publican at several taverns around the fledgling city. But his life in South Australia was not a long one. He passed away on 23 January 1845, a little over eight years after he arrived. Mary remarried; her new husband was also a publican and mine host at the New Market Hotel in Adelaide.

It seems that young Harry and his stepfather may not have got along too well. Or was it just the lust for adventure manifesting itself in the Wilkins psyche that caused him to forsake the family fold? For when, in late 1851, news of the discovery of gold at Ballarat in Victoria reached Adelaide, Harry Wilkins was off like a shot to try his luck at the diggings. He was not yet fifteen years old — still wet behind the ears. More than £12 million worth of gold was uncovered in the first fifteen months of the Ballarat boom, but little if any of it seemed to find its way into young Wilkins’ pockets. Within a couple of years, with a degree in learning from the school of hard knocks, he was back in South Australia, working as a drover.

Harry met his wife-to-be, Louisa Smith, at the Gallia Tassia Hotel in the town of Port Augusta, on the northernmost reaches of Spencer Gulf. Maybe he had dropped into the pub for a thirst-quencher while moving cattle. Or maybe it was a meeting arranged by the family, for Louisa, too, had a father who was a publican. Whatever the reason, they were married at the hotel in Port Augusta on 24 March 1863. The publican gave away the bride. A couple of years later, Harry and Louisa moved to Victor Harbor, on Encounter Bay, south of Adelaide, where her father ran a popular pub, the Port Victor Hotel.

Harry took over the pub’s licence from his father-in-law and the couple’s first four children were born there in Victor Harbor. Eventually they would have thirteen children. The eldest was stillborn; the second, Henry, and another son, Albert, died as infants, but eight of the others all lived to over seventy years of age.

It was at this stage that the government passed the Waste Lands Amendment Act of 1869, better known as the Strangways Act, after the South Australian premier Henry Strangways. He had been upset about the continual grab for land by the big pastoralists and believed that small farmers should be encouraged to become part of the expanding rural scene. The Strangways Act allowed would-be farmers to buy pastoral land from the Crown on time payment at £1 an acre. They would be required to make a 20 per cent deposit, with the remainder paid off over a period of four years. To prevent a new breed of pastoralists from getting a slice of the action, a farmer could only buy a maximum of 64 acres (260 hectares).

Much of it was poor-quality land, and Harry Wilkins got more than his fair share on his ‘selection’ at Mount Bryan East, around 200 kilometres north of Adelaide, near Burra, when he decided to change his life’s direction. Most of the property, Netfield, was on dry barren land, where Harry tried to grow sheep, cattle and various grain crops. Several times he was almost sent bankrupt by drought. The memory of these harsh times would leave an indelible mark on the memory of his youngest son, George Hubert, leading him as an adult to search for ways of accurately forecasting the weather.

Harry Wilkins learned from his setbacks and when South Australia suffered one of the worst droughts in history, in 1902, he was prepared. He had put aside a large quantity of dry feed and was able not only to save all his animals, but also to buy even more from desperate neighbours. As a result, when the drought eventually broke, he was in a position to retire to Adelaide with a modest income.

George Hubert Wilkins — later to be known by his second name — was born at Netfield on 31 October 1888. He attended the one-teacher Mount Bryan East Public School, about 5 kilometres away from the Wilkinses’ property. He had an advantage over the other pupils, in that the teacher lived with the Wilkins family and was able to give him extra tuition. But George Hubert was also a very bright child, with a thirst for learning. He was able to read and write by the age of four and at nine had passed the state exam, which qualified him to go to high school. He was hardly a nerd, however. He led an active outdoor life on the farm. He learned to ride at about the same time as he learned to walk. Before he was in his teens he had his own couple of horses, his own area of the farm to look after, and 200 head of sheep. In his early teens he was good enough to shear seventy-five head of sheep in a day — and that was at a time when there were no electric clippers. Almost every evening he and his brothers would ride out to hunt kangaroos.

As a boy he also came into contact with nomad Aboriginal tribes, forging a respect and admiration for Australia’s indigenous people. In his teenage years he would often go hunting with them and stay overnight in their camps. He was struck by their system of laws, passed on by word of mouth and covering everything from principles of conduct to marriage and property ownership. Years later he explained: ‘I always found them chaste, law-abiding and kind. I still think their behaviour was superior to much of ours in our supposedly high state of civilisation.’

When Harry and Louisa retired in 1905 and moved to a house in the Adelaide suburb of Parkside, George Hubert went with them. Simultaneously, he studied at the University of Adelaide (mechanical engineering), the South Australian School of Mines and Industry (electrical engineering) and the Elder Conservatorium of Music (singing, violin, cello, flute and organ).

One day during that first year at Parkside, a course of events changed his life. Wilkins was helping put the electric wiring into a new theatre in Adelaide when one of his colleagues mentioned that there was a travelling motion-picture tent show nearby and the entrepreneurs were having trouble with the diesel-powered generator. ‘You might be able to lend a bit of your expertise to help them out,’ the man suggested.

Wilkins wandered over to the tent and watched as two men tried to get the generator going. But every time they tried, it just spluttered and stopped.

‘What’s the trouble?’ he asked.

‘We’ve got to get this generator working. It’s okay here in Adelaide — we can hook into the local power grid to run our movie projectors. But we’re off on a country tour in a few weeks’ time, and there’s no power out in the bush. So we need this bloody generator to work.’

‘Let me take a look at it.’

Within an hour, Wilkins had the generator running as smoothly as it did when it was new.

‘What do we owe you?’ the grateful entrepreneurs asked.

‘I don’t want any money,’ the teenager replied. ‘Just show me how your movie projector works.’

When he saw the movies for the first time, Wilkins was instantly hooked. From then on he was back at the tent at every opportunity, learning how to operate and repair the projector. The entrepreneurs even taught him how to make movies himself. And soon enough his musical talent also came into play. As there weren’t enough movies to keep the punters entertained, the owners of the tent show included an hour or so of vaudeville acts, during which Wilkins, drawing on his expertise as a trained singer, was one of the stars. His signature tune was ‘In the Valley Where the Bluebirds Sing’, a popular song on Edison cylinder phonographs of that period.

As part of his apprenticeship, Wilkins was required to either work at Adelaide’s main power station or take charge of a small power plant for six months. Showbiz was now in his blood, so he signed up with a travelling carnival of singers, dancers and acrobats as the foreman of its electricity workers. For the next eighteen months he toured South Australia and Victoria.

He would never return to his studies. Instead, sometime in 1907, he headed for Sydney and a job as a tent-cinema operator.

ONE OF THE pioneers of the film industry was Frenchman Léon Gaumont. His name remains part of movie history to this day as that of a chain of cinemas in Britain. The Gaumont company can be traced back to the late nineteenth century when a London surgeon, John Le Couteur, began importing the primitive Gaumont cameras and projectors into Britain. Eventually, under the enthusiastic control of brothers Alfred Claude and Reg Broomhead, the British company became bigger than the parent in France. The elder brother, known to everyone as ‘AC’, was the better known of the pair and was instrumental in setting up Gaumont Graphic, one of the world’s first newsreel companies, in 1910. It immediately began a fierce competition with the established Pathé organisation for film coverage of the major events of each week for showing in theatres around Britain. In those early months, they captured the pomp and ceremony of the visit of US president Theodore Roosevelt to London, the funeral of King Edward VII, floods in Europe that killed thousands, protests by suffragettes, the launch of the SS Olympic (at that time the largest ship ever built), and the knighting of Antarctic explorer Ernest Shackleton.

The following year, 1911, AC toured the world, setting up branches in the far-flung outposts of the British Empire. And he was always on the lookout for eager young men willing to become Gaumont cameramen. In Sydney he met Wilkins and set in train the journey that was to take the Australian into a lifetime of adventure.

AC was impressed with the short features that Wilkins had filmed. They were a mixture of shots of real life, woven into a brief storyline acted out by friends and colleagues. Often that storyline was no more than the ‘actors’ adlibbing their gestures as the camera rolled. The fact that Wilkins operated out of a small office-cum-studio in North Sydney also meant that many of these mini-movies used the nearby Sydney Harbour as a spectacular backdrop.

Broomhead asked Wilkins to come and work for him in London. But he would have to make his own way to Britain; AC was not about to hand over an expensive ticket on a ship to an Australian who might go his own way once he reached his destination. The absence of a ticket wasn’t going to deter Wilkins — but it would have dire consequences.

Wilkins immediately returned to Adelaide to bid farewell to his parents, not realising that it was to be the last time he would see his father, then aged seventy-four. The youngest Wilkins then planned to stow away on a coastal steamer back to Sydney and write about the adventure in an effort to help raise the fare for his trip to England. But he picked the wrong ship at Port Adelaide. It was only when the vessel was well out to sea and he was discovered that the truth dawned.

The captain was furious to find a stowaway aboard his ship. ‘Wasn’t the ship searched before we sailed, bosun?’ he thundered.

‘Yes, sir. I don’t know how he managed to avoid us,’ the hapless officer replied. ‘It’s never happened before, and I assure you it won’t happen again.’

‘Well, it’s too late to put him ashore. Clean him up, bosun, and send him to my cabin.’ He then stared straight at Wilkins: ‘You had better think about what you plan to do when we throw you off the ship in Africa.’

Africa? Wilkins shivered. Where in Africa? Would it be Cape Town in South Africa, where at least they spoke English? Maybe Kenya, on the east coast, or Port Said, Tunis or Algiers …

He had around a month at sea before he found out. During that time he helped the ship’s engineer rewind the dynamo needed to run the ship’s motor and learned a lot about the practical aspects of running a ship. It would come in handy in many of his future ventures. As they sailed through the Suez Canal, he at last discovered where he was to be