A Lasting Record

CHAPTER ONE

A Wrong Turn

‘I, for one, am sick and tired of going along in any way with the public taste. Many artists do not realise that by doing so they are slowly dying creatively. And when artists die, so does art.’

William Kapell, three days before turning thirty-one, during his 1953 Australian concert tour

‘Death cancels everything but truth; and strips a man of everything but genius and virtue.’

William Hazlitt

‘This is the day I lost my protector and loving brother and the world lost a treasure.’

Bob Kapell, Willy’s brother

RESOLUTION’S FOUR PRATT and Whitney engines droned a soothing contralto note. The flight had been routine, thought Captain Bruce Dickson. He peered at the blanket of clouds below him. There was that small problem with a prop climbing out of Honolulu. Easily fixed. And now – after nine hours – San Francisco was down there somewhere. When wasn’t Frisco overcast? he asked himself. He’d flown in here so many times. Over a hundred? Must be. Many on instruments, too. But gee, it was a long haul from the islands. And you had to keep your wits about you coming into Frisco. Any airport, really. But at Frisco, there were mountains. Not very high mountains, but mountains nonetheless; bristling with redwoods, the world’s tallest tree. The shortcut quickened your descent, of course. Just a break in the clouds. That’s all he’d need. A bit of visual.

The air – piped and conditioned – smelled crisp and lush. He was flying the queen of the skies. There was no better passenger aircraft. You could have your Constellations. He was from Sydney, a DC-6 man, uncomplicated, just like the scrappers of Cronulla, the suburb in which he grew up. Just nicer planes, they were, the DC-6s. Less fancy. More Australian, in a way. Even though they were Yank. He remembered he’d once said that to Frank, beside him in the first officer’s seat. He smiled at Frank Campbell. The copilot grinned, wondering what Bruce was thinking.

With the help of navigator George Murtagh, flight engineer Charlie Cattanach and radio officer Vern Walker, he and Frank had cruised VH-BPE well within its 270-knot top speed for hours on end. Without the slightest hitch. Just like the textbooks say. Around 300 miles an hour, hour after hour. She really was a piece of machinery. Dickson hoped the eleven passengers behind him had slept well. With a bit of luck, BCPA flight 304/44 would soon be nudging the chocks. Bit of luck … Long haul into San Fran. Always the shortcut.

William Kapell sat up in his bunk, thumbed the flint-wheel of his Zippo and lit up a Craven ‘A’ cork-tipped. He inhaled and grimaced. British cigarettes. He’d run out of Luckys and Camels. Proper American brands. Wished he could run out of all cigarettes of any sort, altogether, forever, one day. But not now. He was beat. He needed a smoke despite the coughing. Thirty-seven concerts in fourteen weeks. Less than fourteen, actually. Gruelling. That was the word for it. Brutal schedule, as he’d put it to the Australian Broadcasting Commission and its useless managers. He’d seen every corner of Australia but none of it. When he hadn’t been on the road or playing concerts he’d been practising. The halls! The pianos! Honky tonks, some of them.

The cool air in the cabin and the nuttiness of the tobacco blended nicely, he thought. Great to have Anna Lou with him for a couple of months. At least that was great about the tour.

And he’d never played better. That was the best thing.

He listened to the engines. Murmuring, they were. A nice word for it. All sang the same note. Hey, in unison. An engine quartet. Close to middle C. Yeah, middle C. He’d never played better. Comforting to know that. He’d showed ’em.

He took a coffee from the hostess and told her he’d slept okay. Her name was Kay, she’d said last night. Thirty-two, and he’d just turned thirty-one and had two little kids, David and Rebecca, the cubs, back home in New York. They were waiting for their daddy to return from playing in the country of kangaroos. Where they jump about in the streets? Kay had said. I hope you didn’t tell them that, she’d added with a cute smile. They’d laughed.

You’re the famous pianist? she’d asked. He’d nodded and grinned.

Kay wasn’t the only person Kapell had spoken to en route from Australia. He’d chatted with fellow passengers, at least one of them at length. They would have noticed his dark good looks, smart deep eyes and enormous blow-wave of Brilliantined chestnut hair that swept back from a book-thin forehead. He was shortish, and looked the brooding type. And you could tell he was a pianist from those perfect strong hands. Clean. Short fingernails. Manicured. And didn’t he look like John Garfield, the Hollywood glamour-boy tough-guy? some would have said to themselves. Even that new bloke, Brando. Sexy.

Willy looked out the porthole alongside his bunk. Clouds of rolled lead stretched unbroken to the horizon. When were they due in? Around a quarter of nine, wasn’t it? It’d be foggy in the city by the bay. Whenever wasn’t Frisco foggy?

He lay back and let his mind pinball among the letdowns and triumphs of the tour. His Steinway, broken before it landed. The sum the ABC was going to demand from him for their expenses if he abandoned the tour. His playing! Gee, that was something. The rats of critics. Sydney critics! Never better, he’d played. Never better.

Douglas DC-6s were the aircraft every kid drew postwar. Powered by four piston engines, the DC-6 was easy – plain – on the eye and even easier for small hands to draft. Big silver cigar, sharply rising windshield, nicely rounded ends to the wings and stabilisers, and a lovely curving rudder rising at the tail. A big silver bird that was originally designed for military transportation, it first flew in 1946. Over the next dozen years, 704 of them were built. After World War II, DC-6s competed with Lockheed’s Constellation, of the famous triple tail and dolphin-shaped fuselage, for what smart money saw as a potentially huge and growing market – long-distance air travel. While both aircraft were successful, the Constellation was sleeker and slightly faster than its rival. It pierced a corridor through rare air, sucking cheaper travel and more passengers into its slipstream.

British Commonwealth Pacific Airlines was half-owned by the Australian government. New Zealand and Britain owned thirty per cent and twenty per cent. Set up to provide a cross-Pacific service, the airline was incorporated in New South Wales the year DC-6s first flew. Its first passenger service – provided by a DC-4 – left Sydney on 15 September of the same year. With an eye on the lucrative American market, one of its early brochures featured a drawing of a jaunty koala hanging off a eucalyptus limb, its front right paw extended in greeting. Below the image, a slogan reads, ‘Australia will welcome you … New Zealand thrill you’.

Two years later, the airline acquired the first of four modified DC-6s and was advertising ‘slumber seat comfort’. ‘Sleeper’ DC-6s were easy to spot; a line of small portholes ran along the fuselage above the usual windows. The seats were lazy wide compared with even most modern business-class counterparts. Upholstered in tartan fabric, they amounted to armchairs in the sky. Above them were fold-down Pullman-type bunks with sheets, blankets and pillows. Enjoying BCPA’s ‘sleeper service’ across the blue vastness was, in short, a luxury for elite travellers.

The airline’s four DC-6s were named after ships either commanded by James Cook or that sailed with him on his three Pacific explorations.¹ Equipped with the latest in navigational aids, the propeller-driven version of Resolution could carry forty-eight to eighty-six passengers. It or its sister DC-6s would leave Sydney at 11 a.m. on Saturdays and Wednesdays and were in San Francisco in less than two days after stops in Auckland, Fiji, Kanton Island (one of the Phoenix group belonging these days to Kiribati) and Honolulu. But you needed to be a person of means to buy a ticket. The one-way fare was £285 15s and a return journey cost £514 6s. In 1953, the recently increased Australian basic wage was £11 16s a week and a new Holden motor car was priced at £1023.

Despite its romance, air travel was still comparatively dangerous half a century after the Wright brothers’ first flight. You might be rich, but you ran a mortal risk among the clouds. Since records began, 1950 was the 30th deadliest year – 1834 deaths; 1951 came in 42nd (1616); 1952, 39th (1681) and 1953, 50th (1562). Bearing in mind the relatively few passenger miles flown in the 1950s, the numbers terrify. Elite athletes, artists and musicians were always well-represented among the dead. In 1958, film producer Mike Todd, eight members of the Manchester United football team and six members of Egypt’s national fencing squad died. In 1953, the sublime French violinist Jacques Thibaud was killed. (His compatriot, the equally magnificent fiddler Ginette Neveu, had died in an air crash four years previously.) The following year two gospel singers in the Blackwood Brothers Quartet died, and two years later the young and brilliant Italian conductor Guido Cantelli was killed. And in February 1959, the music died altogether – according to Don McLean – when Ritchie Valens, Buddy Holly and the Big Bopper were killed in the best-known air crash in which musicians were victims.

If there was a single constant in Australia it’d been the quality of his playing, Willy thought. Especially the Chopin Funeral March sonata in Geelong, the last concert. He’d demonstrated the maturity the critics were always at him about. Just hadn’t he! There must be recordings, too. Even if they couldn’t give me one. An organisation like the grand little ABC would keep recordings of all its concerts. If only to have them. Drip-feed them out.

He lit another cigarette, engulfed the nicotine. All young artists are accused of immaturity. My God! They’ve been punting for years on the moment when I was going to mature fully as an artist. That’s all they can talk about, the critics. The kid’s got talent, but will he mature as an artist? Well, I have. Simply and plainly. I have. And this tour proved it. Absolutely. The Sydney rats! I meant it on the tarmac. I’d never come back. Absolutely.

He’d been fifteen minutes on the phone to Anna Lou when the plane was refuelling in Honolulu, he remembered. Golly, it was nice to hear her voice. He couldn’t wait to see her and the kids. And she thought he was strung out. Wanted him to rest for a few days in Hawaii. Even had the hotel booked. He needed to relax, she said. Ha! Can’t wait to get home, I said. Couldn’t wait in Hawaii. Can’t wait now. I wasn’t going to sit on any beaches. Sand up my ass. And Heifetz wanted me in LA for a day to record. Very exciting. The world’s greatest violinist wants a second dose of me accompanying him. Heifetz and Kapell. What a doozie of a duet! Straight home after that, me. Gee, I can taste a Katz dog right now. On the tip of my tongue.

He looked out the window. A dirty-white quilt was about to envelop the plane. Can’t be long.

San Francisco International Airport was then – and is now – on San Francisco Bay, not quite ten miles south of the city. Coming from Hawaii, aircraft cross the Californian coast over the town of Half Moon Bay and continue north-east, hurdling a hump of peaks that can be well over 2000 feet above sea level before lining up the runway. The highest redwoods can add another 300 feet to the obstacle. About ten miles after crossing the coast, pilots begin a clockwise loop at the outer fan marker south-west of Coyote Point, complete it over the bay and drop down in a north-westerly direction to land.

Bruce Dickson squeezed the control wheel of Resolution a little more firmly. For all the modernity in the cabin, the piped air and pressurisation, he was guiding the DC-6 with a thin black wheel. It looked like a Morris Minor’s. He contacted San Francisco traffic control, which cleared him to descend according to ‘visual flight rules’. He should stay at least ‘500 feet’ above the clouds, the controller dictated. Dickson got Vern to acknowledge. He looked at his watch. It was 8.15. He eased Resolution’s nose into a shallow dive and headed for the clouds. The weather wasn’t all that bad, he thought – broken ceiling, visibility nine. There might be a break.

George Murtagh turned the lucite rings of his Dalton wheel. He and Frank checked while George did the numbers, crunching ground speed, airspeed, altitude and air temperature to get Resolution’s where and when. They peered at the finely etched lines and digits and scribbled calculations. In a little while, they would listen for a continuous series of dashes in their headphones, watch for the blue light’s flashing and see the needle reverse direction to say they’d passed over the outer marker – if they bothered to wait. He knew where they were. Confident he knew exactly where they were. Exactly. So many times he’d come in here. And the shortcut was tempting. The back way. Or front way, as it might be called. Straight in. Saved time. He ordered landing gear down and flaps to fifteen. All he needed was a break in the clouds.

At 8.39, Dickson asked Vern Walker to tell San Francisco they were over Half Moon Bay and 500 above the soup. Vern relayed the message. What’d you call us? the skipper asked. ‘Air Pacific Echo’, said Vern. San Francisco cleared Resolution for an instrument landing on runway 28, wind west 15, ‘cross the outer marker initially at least 500 on top, report when inbound, ceiling 1200, visibility nine, altimeter 30.14’. Three minutes later, Vern called again. The air-traffic controller acknowledged: ‘Air Pacific Easy, roger, south-east, turning inbound. Check passing the ILS outer marker inbound’. Easy?

About two minutes later, a call to flight BCPA 304/44 went unanswered. San Francisco tried several times to reach the plane without success. Search and rescue agencies were called. Flight 304/44 was overdue.

Resolution ripped through forest on a mountain ridge about seven-and-a-half miles south-east of Half Moon Bay, badly off course. Its left wing hit the first tree at over 2000 feet, losing about 13 feet. The fuselage hurtled on for several hundred yards, crossing a ravine and eventually crashing through branches and undergrowth. It came to rest at an elevation of 1950 feet. Below the crash site was Corte Madera, a canyon that might be translated as wild. The sheared wing and left stabiliser, which was also lost in the crash, were found more than 300 feet from the main wreckage. The DC-6’s four engines were widely scattered. An inferno broke out, and VH-BPE was destroyed. Much of its aluminium melted into bright-grey misshapes. All nineteen passengers and crew were killed.

The official Civil Aeronautics Board accident report says that the landing gear was down and locked. Wing flaps had been extended properly to between 15 and 20 degrees. The plane’s props had been set at the right pitch. The engines had been turning at the correct speed. As far as could be determined, ‘there was no indication that a malfunction or failure had occurred prior to impact’. Ground instruments guiding VH-BPE had been working properly.

Many Californians heard Resolution just before it hit the mountain. Seven provided written statements. They generally agreed that the crash site and surrounding terrain had been shrouded in fog on the morning of the accident, 29 October 1953. Resolution could be heard but not seen. It appeared to have been flying ‘very low with the engines sounding normal’. One witness who heard the impact thought VH-BPE was heading east rather than north-east. He or she thought that about one to two minutes elapsed between its passing overhead and the tragedy. Other witnesses near the crash site ‘substantiated that the course of the aircraft immediately prior to impact was north-east’, which might suggest a change of course or even the turn the radio messages implied.

In its analysis of the catastrophe, the board said it was ‘obvious the flight did not maintain at least 500 on top and descended in weather conditions which precluded visual reference to the ground’. It continued: ‘Thus it is likely that when the pilot reported Southeast, turning inbound, his actual position was southwest of the airport’. It was probable, it continued, that after reporting over Half Moon Bay, Dickson or his crew either saw the terrain momentarily through an ‘unreported break in the overcast’ or, because of a radio navigational error, became convinced that their position was farther north-east. They ‘started to let down over what [Dickson] believed was the proper area for … descent’.

The report ends with a ‘probable’ cause – ‘the failure of the crew to follow prescribed procedures for an instrument approach’.

Just why Resolution was significantly off course remains open to debate. The report also throws up ambiguities. How was Dickson to descend through fog and make an instrument landing according to ‘visual flight rules’? The report states that when VH-BPE radioed to say it was turning to land, it simply hadn’t the time – with flaps and wheels slowing its speed – to cross the mountain range between it and the airport and be in the correct position to alter course by 90 degrees for descent. And if that was the case, why hadn’t San Francisco air-traffic control queried the early turn? Moreover, what can be made of the confusion in call-signs ‘Echo’ and ‘Easy’? (A new phonetic alphabet was being introduced, ‘Easy’ the old and ‘Echo’ the new for ‘E’. It might have distracted some pilots.) And perhaps there was just a touch of easy-go-lucky Cronulla-boy bravado to Bruce Dickson. He knew where he was. And if you knew where you were, and you’d landed at Frisco over a hundred times, you could bend the rules and fly in quicker.

From a private plane, a San Mateo Times photographer Ray Zirkel was first to spot the wreckage. He reported ‘absolute devastation’. Nothing moved, and great chunks of ‘unrecognisable debris’ were strewn across the mountainside. Check-Six is a website devoted to aviation history. It says a doctor and airmen were first on the scene. An air force helicopter had landed them in a clearing about a quarter-mile from the wreckage and they beat their way through undergrowth to discover no survivors. Small but extremely fierce fires had broken out, and it wasn’t until the afternoon that a bulldozer forged a path to the disaster and firefighters and rescuers reached the scene.

Splashing news of the disaster on its front page, the San Francisco Examiner said that Resolution had needed only another 50 feet of altitude to clear the mountain range. Fires caused by the accident burned over a half-mile radius. More than two hundred people worked on a 60-degree slope to retrieve the bodies by cable and winch. Ten of the victims were found, burned beyond recognition, in the crushed fuselage. Dickson and Campbell were ‘still at the melted controls, their headsets intact on their ears’. Bodies were taken to a temporary morgue in the National Guard Armory in Redwood City ten miles to the north-east. Donald Allen, a dentist from San Carlos, and three doctors identified them. For the first time, dental records were used to determine who was among the victims of an air crash.

Like the Examiner, the San Francisco Chronicle splashed its story on pages one and two. Both papers called Resolution a ‘British’ aircraft. The Chronicle reported that, nine hours after the accident, examiners had found one of the DC-6’s wheels at the bottom of a ravine and another more than 200 yards up a ‘precipitous slope’. Chronicle reporter Bruce Benedict hiked to the accident through a tangle of brush, ‘sometimes on hands and knees’. He came to a clearing ‘ripped through the trees and boulders for about 400 yards, straight up the mountainside’. He saw airmail fluttering free of the wreckage, shreds of clothing, body parts, and ‘puddles’ of molten aluminium.

Several victims had survived the wreckage only to die in the infernos. One report said that Willy Kapell was identified by his sports jacket. He was found lying face-down, the tweed beneath him burned incompletely. Most victims were cremated, and the ashes sent to relatives. One source says that Kapell’s body was hurried from the site and returned to New York. Rabbi Edward Klein delivered the eulogy at a funeral service on 2 November at the Stephen Wise Free Synagogue on West 68th Street, Manhattan. Martha Lipton of the Metropolitan Opera sang Bach. Burial followed at Mount Ararat Cemetery near the village of Farmingdale, Long Island.

On 30 October, fewer than twelve hours after the accident, the Herald in Melbourne also splashed the disaster. Fourteen of the nineteen on board were Australians, including the Victorian Railways’ superintendent of locomotive maintenance and its assistant chief electrical engineer. Beneath their names in the list of the dead is the mention, ‘World famous concert pianist, William Kapell’. The Herald said Resolution had ‘failed to clear the top of a mountain by 300ft., bounced off a ridge full tilt into the side of a ravine, blasting out a bomb-like crater and disintegrating as its petrol tanks exploded.’ (The Herald, it might be said, was farther from the action.) On page two, its music critic John Sinclair began a tribute with, ‘It is very hard for me to write today about William Kapell’. Sinclair had spent the pianist’s final hours in Melbourne with him the weekend before. The Herald called the crash the worst on a ‘direct Australia air route outside Australia’.

Those interested can walk today to the site of the disaster. Beginning at El Corte de Madera Creek Open Space Preserve, you take a series of poorly indicated, winding tracks through redwoods and dense brush west of Skyline Boulevard for about a mile. Though the mountains here are relatively low, their sides are steep – more than escalator-steep in places. Fairly quickly, the route narrows and roughens from pavement suitable for firefighting vehicles to less than a pace wide. A valid preconception is that you’re being funnelled into the essence of something sinister, the site of a tragedy that should never have happened. Mid-brown sandstone gibbers and rocks punctuate the track, which is a favourite of mountain-bike riders. In places it’s very rough, and it ascends and descends felicitously. Its last few hundred feet were hewn by the rescuers of 1953. While you weave among some stands of awesomely large redwoods, tortuous madrone trees dominate, corduroy bark sloughing to reveal silken khaki boughs. And there is also scrubby manzanita, which burns hot and fast. This is regrowth – since the accident.

You turn a blind corner, and without warning, sign or cairn the hillside indents, as if a giant finger has pressed it in. It’s where the nose and the cockpit of Resolution came to rest, perhaps three to four hundred feet below the clearing where rescuers based themselves. Up above, helicopters landed. Looking from the indent in the direction from which the dismembered Resolution approached, you appear to be at the bottom of a snare, as if the nineteen on board and their chattels – and the aircraft itself – were being acquired by fate. Compulsorily. No escape.

Beneath the track, sliding down the steepness, is wreckage – bits of fuselage, coils of wires, strands of plaited fabric, tubes and pipes and springs and big steel gear that might have once been struts that supported Resolution’s wheels. Dig about in the soft brown soil above the track and you’ll find small pieces of thin glass, perhaps from cockpit instruments, ruptured rings of alloys in all sizes and shapes, press fasteners that might once have attached twill to a seat or a bunk. On several of the nearby boulders, fossickers have exhibited collections of wreckage, remnants of the disaster. Off a bough of madrone three metres above the track, a wreath of twigs woven many years ago has lost its flowers.

Looking again to the south-west, Resolution’s approach, redwood tops on a ridge appear to be about half a mile away. One of them – or perhaps several – took the airliner’s left wing and rear stabiliser. Christopher O’Donnell, a retired photography teacher and a kind of warden of the crash site, says you can see where one of the trees has been truncated. Some sources claim, he says, that Resolution turned on its side after losing its wings and flew belly-up for seven seconds before the fatal collision. O’Donnell has established a website about the accident, and in 2009, largely because of his work, a sandstone memorial cairn closer to Skyline Boulevard was unveiled. On polished black marble, it lists the dead in alphabetical order. Just ‘William Kapell’.

And then there is the silence. Standing at the crash site, it is so profound, so complete, that it sets you listening to the noise inside your head, the soft white noise of absence. Every now and then, passing jet engines sigh overhead.

CHAPTER TWO

Prodigious Prodigy

‘He took to the piano. He was like Mozart.’

William Kapell’s brother, Bob

‘I made a mistake, and it’s never going to happen again.’

William Kapell

I WAS ASTONISHED that no one had written a complete Kapell biography. During his short life – and long after it – several musicians and critics had called him America’s greatest homegrown pianist. There was also the tragedy of his demise at thirty-one, and the eeriness of his scheduling Chopin’s brilliant, profound and melancholic Funeral March sonata at what was to be his last concert. The story itched in several other ways, too, and once I’d read about it – in a brief newspaper article – the writer in me just had to scratch.

I discovered first that Willy Kapell was called Willy at a time when the word probably had no other connotation. Occasionally he went by Bill, even signing it on publicity photographs. A little cyber-searching revealed that he had only one sibling, a younger brother called Bernard, who was