Airport Journals


Serendipity cont.	Oct '07

By Cliff Robertson

Editor's Remarks: Last month in Cliff Robertson's column, he recounted how small decisions often result in major movements in our harried lives. Cliff told us of his teenage adventure "shipping out on an old trans-steamer," bound for the Philippines. This journey led to his subsequent bomb dodging off the Island of llo llo on Dec. 7, 1944, and his escape to Australia from Japanese forces. After jumping ship in Wellington, he attempted to join New Zealand's air force. Finally, he emerged on the campus of Antioch College in Ohio and then "matriculated" into World War II, only to encounter further hairbreadth experiences. Here is the "the rest of the story."

I was too young, headstrong, willful and adventuresome to doubt for one millisecond the success of my plan. I would jump ship in Wellington, telephone the U.S. Embassy and tell them that we had a very eager would-be Spitfire pilot who would like to join the New Zealand air force. Then, I would tell them, "It's all right with the captain, if it's all right with the New Zealand authorities, with one provision: Mr. Robertson will have to give up his American citizenship if he wants to fly for the 'Kiwis.'"

I lied convincingly, and was told to report to the authorities in a few days. I assured them that 'Mr. Robertson' was "looking forward to joining the brave New Zealand corps." Part of my plan was finished; all I had to do at this juncture was wait for the Admiral Cole to build up steam and leave Wellington.

I purchased a large bag of carrots and raisins (somewhere in my adolescent memory, I had read this to be simple sustenance for anyone choosing to escape for a few days). Overlooking Wellington Harbor is a series of small hills. I picked one with headstones, as it seemed unlikely that the police would be looking for me in a Wellington cemetery. I made a small hut in the nearby bushes and set up encampment. My plan was to observe the Admiral Cole daily for signs of its departure. In those days, old steamers took several hours to build up steam before heading out to sea. I felt not unlike Robinson Crusoe, but I was not anxious to meet my "Man Friday" or anyone else until I saw smoke bellowing from the smokestack of the Admiral Cole.

Five days later (which seemed like weeks), I saw the ship's stack bellowing. Now was my chance. Early on this cold evening in January, I started out for the one lonely road that meandered down toward the center of Wellington. As I neared the bottom of the hill, I spotted a movie house two blocks away. Sanctuary! I decided to go into the theater and wait; I planned to emerge an hour or two later and head for the American Consulate. Alas, serendipity raised its faithful head as I crossed the busy thoroughfare bustling with soldiers, sailors and New Zealand airmen. I spotted a lone black English Austin parked nearby. Two gentlemen in dark suits and black derbies stepped smartly out of the Austin and headed directly toward me. I continued toward the movie house and they continued toward me. Soon, they were right alongside and addressed me in polite, but stern tones.

"Excuse us, young man," one officer said. "Would your name, by any chance, be Robertson?"

"No sir," I lied hesitantly—forgetting to affect a New Zealand accent. "No, it's not."

"I see," said the second officer icily, adding, "You sound distinctly American," in unwavering even tones.

"I do?" I responded weakly.

"Hmmm," said the first officer. "Interesting." (Note to reader: there is something intimidating about the authoritative use of a British "hmmm." It makes one feel like a truant schoolboy.)

"Now Mr. ... Aaa...What did you say your name was?"

"Hamilton," I sputtered.

"Hamilton?" asked the second officer. "As in Alexander Hamilton?"

"No," I stuttered. "As in Clifford."

"Hmmm." (That damnable hmmm.) "Clifford Hamilton." "Now Mr. Hamilton, are you quite sure your name isn't Robertson?"

By that time, I had lost any effort at cool composure.

"No.Sir."

"No what?" asked officer no. 1.

A long pause, and then a weak reply from my teenage lips: "I'm not sure."

The two officers shoved me quickly into the Austin, turned on the siren and raced down the main thoroughfare toward the docks of Wellington Harbor and the SS Admiral Cole. Not stopping for the security guards, the Austin screeched to a halt as a Jacob's ladder was thrown over the gunwale and I was instructed by microphone, "Get aboard immediately young man. IMMEDIATELY!"

It was a long, long climb, at the end of which stood the towering captain. In a severe tone, he said, "I'm surprised at you, Robertson."

"So am I," I ventured meekly.

"All right. Get your ass forward and tend to the spring lines."

Thus began the long voyage. The old "bucket" began its zigzagging, torturously slow 8-knot course for home. Eight days later, we finally pulled into San Pedro Harbor. The rest of the crew yelled for joy as our offshore lines pulled the "old girl" dockside.

I did not join my shipmates' celebration, for I had spied something in the adjoining dock that caught my Melvillean eye: a true, honest-to-goodness, four-masted schooner named the "Star of Scotland." I was told she would soon head for South Africa with a load of much needed lumber.

Another opportunity. Another chance. Another rare moment of potential adventure. I was soon trotting over to the neighboring dock to gain information about this remarkable relic. To my surprise, I was greeted at the top of the gangway. I inquired if they needed an able-bodied seaman.

"We sure as hell do," was the unexpected, cheerful response. "Come aboard, son."

I hesitated a moment before asking, "First, can I go ashore and make a phone call home?"

"Go ahead. Be our guest," said one of the sailors.

I called home to my grandmother in La Jolla. She was overjoyed, for she had heard an erroneous report that the Admiral Cole had been sunk, with all hands. The War Department had proffered to my grandmother a Gold Star Banner signifying that the family had lost a son in the war hostilities. My grandmother, ever the loyal, religious Calvinist, had refused the banner. She knew that sooner or later, someway, somehow, Cliff would turn up. He always did. And in her mind, she knew he always would.

Academy Award and Emmy Award winning screen star Cliff Robertson has owned and flown a wide array of aircraft, including a Spitfire MK IX, a Messerschmitt ME-108, a French aerobatic Stampe SV4 biplane, a Grob Astir glider (in which he still holds a distance record) and a Beech Baron 58. A holder of single, multi, instrument and commercial licenses, as well as balloon, the pilot of many thousands of hours has accumulated many aviation awards, including EAA's highest Eagle award and the AOPA Sharples award. He's enshrined in the National Aviation Hall of Fame, and the American Veteran Association has honored him as Veteran of the Year. His columns will appear in his soon-to-be-published book. For more information, visit [http://www.cliffrobertson.info].