The forgotten story of Britain’s perilous bid to fly around the world

Amanda Stuart-MacLaren had reason to be relieved. Over the previous six months, her husband had embarked on a round-the-world voyage reminiscent of a Jules Verne novel. His team was battered by monsoons, crashed in Burma, encountered herds of elephants in Thailand, swerved flocks of birds, and got stranded in a scorching desert for 17 days. And all while racing against a team of American pilots, who were also attempting to become the first to fly around the world.

This is the story of three British men’s brave attempt to circumnavigate the globe, and how it came to a dramatic end in the freezing waters of the Bering Strait.

There was a greater sense of anticipation at Calshot seaplane station on March 25, 1924. A crowd of 200 or so had gathered, a number that would have been far greater were it not such a remote location, on a spit of land poking into Southampton Water. In attendance were RAF officials, politicians, journalists from the British and foreign press, and the families of the three pilots who were hoping to make history.

This wasn’t the first attempt to fly around the world. Two decades after the Wright Brothers first took flight, pilots from several countries were competing for that honour. A British team led by Major Wilfred Blake made an unsuccessful bid in 1922. In 1923, a team from France tried and failed. Portuguese, Italian, Greek and Argentinian aviators also hoped to become the first. Perhaps the best organised effort was that of an American group, made up of four planes, who would set off from Seattle on April 6, 1924. The British team offered to make things interesting by creating an official race, but the Americans politely declined the offer.

Still, there was little bravado on this chilly March morning. The three British pilots “all appeared to be quiet, reserved, shy men,” according to a Telegraph reporter in attendance. By today’s standards, they seem remarkably young. Squadron Leader Archibald Stuart-MacLaren, aged 32, would navigate the route. The pilot was Flying Officer William Noble Plenderleith, aged 25. And the engineer, Sergeant William Herbert Andrews, was the youngest of the crew at 24 years old.

The sky was blue with patchy clouds. There was little wind to report and the sea was clear, which, counterintuitively, were not the ideal conditions. Their aircraft, a Vickers Vulture, was a seaplane, and the smoothness of the water and the absence of wind weren’t favourable for take-off. A rolling sea would have helped the hull to clear the water and a headwind would have reduced the run-up before take-off. No wonder the pilots appeared a bit reserved.

Months of planning went into the voyage. Stuart-MacLaren had mapped out the route down to the mile. Petrol stocks awaited them at every stop-off along the way. Every gram on the aircraft was accounted for, including just 10lb of luggage for each member of the crew, plus a fishing rod, a shotgun and tinned beef rations. And also their mascot, Marmeduke, a brass figure of an airman that Stuart-MacLaren’s wife fixed to the aircraft before takeoff.

Prior to their departure, the three travellers received a briefing from the Secretary of State for Air, Lord Thomson, who was in attendance despite the project not being backed by the government (although the RAF did agree to pay the airmen a half-wage during the trip). He proclaimed to the hushed crowd: “We know that only superhuman obstacles will prevent them from succeeding in their efforts. We trust that their energy and skill will triumph in the end.”

Then a telegram of support from King George V, addressed to Stuart-MacLaren, was read aloud.

“The King desires me to convey to you, Flying Officer Plenderleith, and Sergeant Andrews his best wishes for the success of the great enterprise on which you are embarking today. His Majesty will follow with deep interest the progress of your flight. (Signed) Private Secretary.”

The three men climbed into their little flying boat, Stuart-MacLaren and Plenderleith in the front, Andrews in the back, and the engine croaked into life. The aircraft thundered along the slipway and, despite the conditions, Plenderleith made a good ascent. As a final farewell, he looped the plane over the heads of those in attendance before gliding off above the English Channel to the soundtrack of several Transatlantic liners which blasted their sirens.

The American journalist from Time Magazine reported that there was a chorus of “Beat the Yanks” as the plane drifted into the distance, while The Telegraph painted a more civilised picture: “Hats were lifted, hands clapped and cheers shouted.” The voyage was underway.

Just hours into the expedition, the Vulture encountered the first of many hurdles. Wiring from Le Havre, Stuart-MacLaren reported that they came a matter of feet away from crashing into the white cliffs on France’s north coast.

Stuart-MacLaren’s team faced further difficulties while crossing the Apennines range in Italy. It was pouring with rain and the mountains were cloaked with low clouds, forcing Plenderleith to rely entirely on a barely functioning Reid Turn Indicator (a guidance system) for navigation. While flying in the almost total darkness, they spotted a tiny break in the clouds below them and dipped through it to discover a valley.

“To our joy, we saw a railway line,” Stuart-MacLaren later recounted. “This gave a clue to our position, and I hesitate to think what we should have done if we had come to a tunnel. We should either have gone through, leaving our wings behind, or have gone aloft to don other and better ones.”

The next patch of trouble came in Corfu. They had crossed the sea from Italy when the engine came to an unexpected halt, mid-air, with a vibration that juddered through the bones of the men on board. Plenderleith was forced to make a sudden landing, and by a stroke of fortune (which may have saved their lives) there was a large turquoise lake just below, the only possible landing place for miles around.

Not for the last time, Stuart-MacLaren set out to send a signal for help. The crew camped by the lake (the nearest village was 10 miles away) and the Greek navy, followed by the British Navy, came to haul the Vulture out of the lake to take it to Corfu Town (via the sea) where a new engine, shipped overland from England, was installed. A fortnight later they departed Corfu, and Europe, for Cairo with a sense that – with their new engine – their tribulations would be over. In truth, they had only just begun.

Stuart-MacLaren, Plenderleith and Andrews arrived in Cairo by moonlight on April 18, 1924. The following day, they deep-cleaned the aircraft and took a civilised lunch with Viscount Allenby – a military leader nicknamed “the Bull” owing to his short temper, but who was said to be very impressed with the amphibious machine. At 6am the following morning, a sizeable crowd had gathered at Heliopolis Aerodrome and the Vulture took off once more. From here they crossed the Suez Canal towards Baghdad, on what Stuart-MacLaren described as a “bumpy” and “uninteresting” flight, with the desert route proving tricky to follow.

For hundreds of miles all appeared to be going well, but between Baghdad and Karachi the engine made that familiar clattering sound once again. The reduction gear had gone. Plenderleith was forced to execute an emergency descent in the Sindh Desert in Rajasthan, near the village of Parlu, on April 26.

The Times correspondent covering the voyage wrote: “In a few minutes the machine was surrounded by thousands of countryfolk. The Headman of the village appeared on a pony, and by signs indicated that he would give every assistance.”

He was true to his word. The village elder offered Stuart-MacLaren a pony to ride to the nearest town, where he could wire for help while the village folk covered the aircraft in cloths to protect it from the scorching sun. The people of Parlu went above and beyond in their hospitality, providing a feast of meat and rice which the airmen enjoyed alongside their hosts, eating with their hands in a large circle.

While Stuart-MacLaren travelled to Karachi, his crewmates were stuck for 17 long days as they waited for their Squadron Leader to return with a new engine, which would have to be shipped over from Baghdad. All the while, the aircraft (and Plenderleith and Andrews) baked in temperatures pushing 40C. After Stuart-MacLaren’s return, Andrews fitted the engine and they were airbound once more, but Stuart-MacLaren soon filed another telegram, reporting on their turbulent flight after departing from Calcutta. They had a new foe: rain.

In Akyab (today’s Sittwe) in Myanmar, Stuart-MacLaren decided they would wait for torrential rains to pass. He would have been well aware that it was on this stretch that the last British bid to fly around the world, led by Blake, ended in disaster.

On Empire Day (May 24), the weather cleared. This was their moment. However, after barely clearing the treetops at the end of the runway, the aircraft lost altitude and crashed into the harbour at a velocity that badly damaged the hull. The men on board were unharmed, but the combination of being scorched in the desert and waterlogged by the monsoon rains, plus the strain of carrying more fuel than planned owing to strong contrary winds, had damaged the aircraft beyond repair.

They telegraphed their RAF colleagues back in the UK: could their spare Vickers Vulture (based in Tokyo under the care of Colonel Broome, flat-packed just in case it was needed) be sent to Akyab, as soon as possible? Before they had an answer they received a quite unexpected telegram from Japan. The American naval team overseeing the American world flight attempt had caught wind of their plight, and was already transporting the aircraft to Myanmar as fast as they could.

Stuart-MacLaren knew that something had to change. To succeed and survive this leg they would need to make adjustments to the weight of the aircraft, particularly with Colonel Broome set to join in Tokyo. This meant reducing the load of the Vulture from 7,000lb down to 6,500lb, and in doing so shed all luxuries. After Broome boarded they would have to lose their wheels and undercarriage, too.

The decision paid off. After setting off from Akyab, the crew didn’t face a single mishap with the aircraft or the engine, meaning they could focus on the other pressing obstacles: the weather, the landscape and their own health. Not to mention some other unexpected challenges.

After leaving Thailand, they once again faced a mountain range carpeted in dense clouds. Miraculously they spotted a small hole in the clouds, through which they could see the dense verdant jungle below. They cut through the gap and searched for a clearing to land the plane, so they could wait for the weather to clear up. Not far from the ground, they saw something moving. To their astonishment, it was a herd of elephants. Also buffalo and deer, scampering into the jungle. Plenderleith was well into his descent when he spotted that the grass seemed rather long. To his horror he realised that it was, in fact, a vast swamp. Just moments from crashing into the water, he lifted the nose and flew back up into the cloud.

“Somebody must have been looking after us that day,” Stuart-MacLaren recalled later, “for a patch of blue sky appeared above us. We dashed into the breach, keeping our eyes glued to that blue patch, sometimes losing it for a moment and then finding it again and using it as our horizon. We chanced our luck on a compass course, and after an hour’s flying over impenetrable cloud were rewarded with a sight of the sea in the distance. The three of us solemnly shook hands on it.”

In Hong Kong, Sergeant Andrews suffered from heat stroke while working on the seaplane and was taken to hospital in Shanghai, from where he would travel up by rail and water to meet them in Japan. He rejoined in Tokyo where children waited on the runway with Union Jacks in hand, and the crew were handed gold medals by officials. From here travelling north, the team encountered “nothing but dense fog, rain and gales”, prompting delays and more ditched landings in lakes and open bays, and some of the most unpleasant nights of the trip.

They reached Tokotan, on the east coast of Hokkaido, which looks out onto the Kuril islands that lie between Japan and Russia. They were waiting for the weather to clear when – to their surprise – a Japanese Destroyer landed nearby. Because the crew had been out of contact for some time, they had been feared missing back home. The Destroyer had been tasked with finding them and reassuring the world that they were still alive.

Their passage along the 56 Kuril islands was a nervous one, facing terrible weather and further illness – this time, Plenderleith had a severe fever. Eventually they reached Petropavlovsk, a city in the far east of Russia, where they faced their Achilles heel: the perilous flight across the Bering Strait to the tip of Alaska.

Navigating this desolate, volcanic island chain was always going to be the most challenging stretch. Even before setting off, The Telegraph reported: “This section of the trip will prove a severe ordeal for the machine as well as for navigator and pilot. Fog is usually prevalent in these regions and the navigational difficulties will consequently be great.” Colonel Broome had joined the crew in Tokyo (squeezing in the bow cockpit with Andrews) for the sole purpose of helping them to navigate this treacherous part of the journey.

But even Broome’s expertise couldn’t save the team. Plenderleith battled against dense fog that was so low he was forced to fly mere feet above the water. The Vulture soared at 100mph, with a visibility of just 100 yards. Out of nowhere, a large black object emerged in front of the aircraft – the cliffs of an islet – and he was forced to take evasive action, avoiding impact by just two feet. Stuart-MacLaren called on Plenderleith to land the aircraft, but on impact they hit a large wave that shattered the top wings and tore off the fabric of the lower part of the wings. The airmen were unscathed. The Vulture was destroyed.

After 13,100 miles and 130 days of flying, in the bitter waters of the Bering Strait, Stuart-MacLaren’s bid to circumnavigate the world was over.

On September 26, a week after the airmen arrived in London Euston to that muted fanfare, an event took place at the Hotel Cecil on the Strand. It was the first time that Stuart-MacLaren had the opportunity to retell the story of their voyage in detail, to a room filled with diplomats, politicians and sponsors. Flying Officer Plenderleith was in attendance, although Sergeant Andrews was still recovering from illness brought about by exposure during the flight.

Squadron-Leader Stuart-MacLaren began by paying tribute to the American airmen, who were two days away from completing their round-the-world flight (they would arrive in Seattle on September 28), and expressed his gratitude for their sporting help after the Vulture crashed in Myanmar.

“Their feat is not only without parallel in the history of flying,” he said, “it is a landmark in human history which will never be forgotten as long as man preserves his sporting instinct and in the true pioneer spirit goes on trying to do something which has never been done before.”

And then he recounted his story, in exceptional detail. The crashes, the saviours, the near-death scrapes – a six-month voyage distilled into an hour or so. The audience laughed along and interjected with “cheers” and “hear hear” at various junctures.

After describing the crash on August 4, Stuart-MacLaren concluded. “That is our story. We would not have missed the adventure for the world. I will say nothing of our luck; that is all in the game. But I will never say anything disrespectful of a London fog again.

“It is now established that it is possible to fly round the world. I believe it can be done in less time than Jules Verne’s 80 days, and also by one British machine and one British engine. Once more I should like to thank you for the very hearty welcome you have given us, and to say that, although we have failed, we did our best.”