Collected Articles

by Charles Jeffrey Gray DFM, L.d’H 1st Edition Collected Articles

Collected Articles

By Charles Jeffrey Gray, D.F.M, L.d’H.

Published by Robert Gray

ISBN 978-0-473-39825-5

First published June 2017

Cover Photo - Jeff Gray, Terrell Texas, 1942

Copyright

Collected Articles by Charles Jeffrey Gray is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.

To view a copy of this license, visit: http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/ or send a letter to Creative Commons, 171 Second Street, Suite 300, San Francisco, California, 94105, USA.

Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at http://www.brockhurst.co.nz/collected-articles.

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Contents Modain ...... 8 First Mission ...... 8 Berlin - The Big City ...... 11 First Published in Fly Past - 1991 ...... 11 The Local Defence Volunteers ...... 17 To Mr. Stephen Wood, Edinburgh Castle ...... 17 Terrell Tales ...... 23 Early days ...... 24 Much later ...... 25 Later still ...... 26 Last Lap ...... 27 The Trip That Never Was! ...... 29 Wartime incident ...... 29 Where Are They Now ...... 32 Wartime Aircrew Training ...... 32 Cowley’s Unsung Heroes ...... 34 Wartime aircraft recovery ...... 34 Wellington Crash ...... 36 In The Galant Performance of Their Duties ...... 36 Amy, Wonderful Amy...... 40 Australia ...... 40 Ah, Moon of my Delight ...... 44 Recollections of the Gulf ...... 44 By the Grace of God ...... 47 A flight in Africa ...... 47 Log Book Entry: ...... 47

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Narrative...... 47 Gulf Aviation...... 49 A brief history ...... 49 In High Places ...... 52 VIP Transport ...... 52 Falling Leaves ...... 56 Flight Testing ...... 56 Leaving their Brains Behind ...... 61 Fog over Europe ...... 61 The Judges’ Story ...... 65 Comments on Erebus ...... 65 In Flight Entertainment ...... 69 Passengers ...... 69 The Twain Shall Meet ...... 73 Training aircrew in the Middle East ...... 73 That Doesn’t Count ...... 79 Returning to the UK ...... 79 1984 ...... 83 Opinion ...... 83 Mr Forbes I Presume ...... 85 Letter to sister Olive...... 85 Mailly-le-Camp ...... 87 Wartime Recollections ...... 87 The Bean 18/50 ...... 90 Importing Vintage Cars ...... 90

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A Frog In My Throat ...... 93 A Brush with the NHS ...... 93 The Rover’s Return ...... 97 Slough Arts Festival Entry January 1984 ...... 97 Out of the Wood ...... 101 The Rover 10/25 ...... 101 Transport of Delight ...... 104 The Rover 10/25 ...... 104 The Eye of the Beholder ...... 106 Discovery of Frank Baker Paintings ...... 106 The Brighton Light ...... 109 History of the Brighton Art Club ...... 109 Frank Baker ...... 112 Artist 1873 - 1911 ...... 112 The Booth Water Ram ...... 114 An Old fashioned Repair ...... 114 The Forgotten Island ...... 119 New Zealand’s Great Barrier Island ...... 119 The Rovers' Retreat ...... 122 Where Land Rovers Go to Die ...... 122 Thunderbolt ...... 124 Land speed record contender ...... 124 The Family Bibles ...... 127 Family History ...... 127 And so to Patrick Alexander ...... 128

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A Tale of the Three Cups ...... 130 Letter dated May 1984 ...... 130 The Hollow Tooth ...... 132 The futility of war ...... 132

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Publishers Note Going through my fathers papers after his death in 2016 I found a heap of papers in a box in the wardrobe. Rather than going through them at the time I packed them up to go through later.

The papers turned out to be a number of short stories and articles he had written as well as a tatty file labeled ‘It’s Pull To Go Up’ that contained several hundred typed pages, mostly ordered and several old exercise books with my fathers characteristic handwriting.

Some of the articles have been published before but I suspect that most have not been and I have collected them into this volume. They range from some of his wartime exploits in Bomber Command through his airline experiences to retirement projects restoring old cars.

I have ordered the papers as best I can and resolved some inconsistencies, otherwise the stories are entirely his own.

Robert Gray May 2017

Page 7! Collected Articles Modain First Mission

When we reported in at Syerston to join 61 Squadron we had very little idea of what lay ahead. We were, however, full of youthful exuberance and confident that we came with a good report from our trainers at Conversion Unit. Why else would they have cut short the final cross country stages and packed us off to a Squadron?

Our new Commanding Officer seemed unimpressed. Shortage of Lancaster aircraft might be nearer the mark, he thought, and, before we could commence operations, we would have to make good the shortfall. In addition, he would find us an easy target to start with. This latter requirement was not, as it turned out, a simple one in the winter of 1943 in main force Bomber Command.

Another unhappy experience awaited us. The whole station was ordered on parade there to witness some poor wretch being stripped of his rank and flying badges. It seems he had had enough and decided to go home. He made no attempt to run away, he simply went home. The Military Police brought him back to be disgraced. If we had been under any illusions as to the realities of the course on which we were now embarked, we were thus shortly disabused.

Then from Bomber Command Headquarters came the call for Maximum Effort and we found ourselves briefed with the others for Berlin. So much for the C.O's easy target. As we waited for the time to start up, I noticed with growing anxiety, the gathering fog shrouding the dispersal. On this still unfamiliar airfield, my first concern had to be finding the way out. At that, the Very lights went up from the Tower signifying recall. The trip was scrubbed. We handed back the flying rations including the much prized chocolate bar. It was then I noticed we were the only ones to do so, one small first lesson learnt.

We returned to our programme of cross country flights. There was one consolation in all this. The Syerston base was only a few miles from Nottingham, famed throughout the R.A.F. for its pretty girls, the fairest of the fair. Between the cross countries and the coming of an easy target, hopefully there would be other delights.

Geoff Ward and I were rostered separately for our supernumerary flights. It was the custom then to treat the navigator and pilot of sprog crews to a supernumerary trip with an experienced crew. The target was Dusseldorf, the date 3rd. November, 1943.

My experienced crew were about mid tour. To my surprise they spent a lot of time weaving about. This in the dark within a stream of bombers seemed particularly hazardous although I had heard there were those who favoured such a technique. As we approached the target the weaving continued. I could only guess that the defenders had resorted to a

Page !8 Collected Articles box barrage, each anti-aircraft shell bursting to leave a black smoke puff which hung suspended, the gaps between growing ever smaller. They showed up clearly in the glow of incendiary fires from below. At any moment I expected the pilot to straighten up in preparation for the bombing run but no, with the bomb aimer complaining on the inter com, the weaving continued. And then, more extraordinary still, we broke away, turning left across the bomber stream, then back the way we had come for a second approach. This time we seemed to cut out the weaving and make a steady run. I must say I was most impressed by the cool and steely behaviour of the whole crew throughout this manoeuvre although I could not quite suppress the thought that it might have been better if they had got it right the first time round.

My navigator, Geoff, being a somewhat phlegmatic Yorkshireman, found nothing remarkable to report from his trip. But one member of 61 Squadron, F/Lt. Jock Reid, most certainly did. Badly shot up by a night fighter on the way in, he persisted in bombing the target and made it home with his crew dead and dying about him, to a successful landing. For his efforts that night he was awarded the Victoria Cross and his Flight Engineer the even rarer Conspicuous Gallantry Medal.

On 61, they were much given to the British stiff upper lip school of thought. So much so that the Squadron records make no mention of Jock's V.C., only a pencil entry added years

Page 9! Collected Articles later draws attention to his exploit. Jock was shortly poached by another outfit where they set great store by such things.

But then, a week later, the C.O.’s long awaited easy trip came up. We were to block the tunnel at Modane in the French Alps. It was perfect. The weather was clear, the target undefended and easy to find. And yet, it nearly started in disaster.

Perhaps, unused to the slow acceleration of a fully loaded Lancaster, I opened up too soon, feeding in the power before I had full rudder control. Slowly, but inexorably, we began to swing to port. It was decision time. I slammed the throttles shut and we ground to a halt. We turned off left passing close to the Control Tower to pick up the taxi way and rejoin the queue for a second attempt. With McCulloch complaining about his coolant temperature going off the clock, we took another green from the caravan and this time, making no mistakes, we lumbered off into the night. Air Marshal Cochrane sent us an aiming point photograph and, amongst our peers, we forever kept quiet about Modane. However, from them on, if ever I inclined to immodesty, I was to be reminded by my crew of that row of ashen faces on the Control Tower balcony at Syerston peering out into the night and the Lancaster hurtling towards them.

A few days later we packed our few possessions, waved goodbye to Nottingham and climbed aboard our Lancaster for the short hop to Skellingthorpe. Never mind, they said, in Lincoln there are lots of pubs, and lots of beer and the girls are just as pretty. All of which was probably true, but they forgot to mention that Lincoln was surrounded by bomber stations and swamped by young men in blue.

But, by now, the moon had faded, the long dark nights of winter were upon us and Berlin awaited our coming.

Page !10 Collected Articles Berlin - The Big City First Published in Fly Past - 1991

On the second night of December, 1943, along the entire length of the east coast of England, the Squadron Commanders assembled their crews for briefing. The thousand bomber raids were now become reality. Now it was that the R.A.F. reached out in earnest to destroy the German cities and bomb the population into submission. At Hamburg, Bomber Command had demonstrated its fearful potential, creating a fire storm which destroyed the city. The long dark winter nights lay ahead, favouring the bombers, and the Air Marshals, sensing their opportunity, strove for the ultimate prize, the capital city itself, Berlin.

My crew and I huddled amongst the others under the darkened arch of the Nissen hut, every eye intent upon the lighted stage before us. In a moment the curtains would part to show the route and the target. We had made but one trip together to the French Alps, to block the tunnel at Modane. For that we had an aiming point photograph recorded by the bomb bay camera, but we felt slightly ashamed of such an easy target, surrounded as we were by our more experienced and battle hardened companions.

The ribbon stretched directly across the map of northern Europe to Berlin. The operations officer raised his hand, palm outward and silenced the barely audible gasp. This was it, the Big City. Mechanically and in orderly succession, the specialist leaders gave their spiel, the route, the defences, the bomb loads and the fuel. Sharing his time between us and our

Page 11! Collected Articles sister squadron on the far side of the airfield, the Group Captain rose to close the proceedings. We trooped out to the locker rooms.

We now began the slow deliberate progression leading to the long take-off run. Step by step we made the descent from the crowded warmth, to the darkened dispersal, the bulk of the Lancaster looming large against the fading light, each crew now thrown back upon its own resources.

The curious unmilitary style RAF discipline, so oft misunderstood and criticised, driving outsiders to despair and sometimes, our own senior officers to fury, now came into its own domain, drawing us together in resolve. Each bomber crew appeared to forge its own discipline, the very core of the fighting unit, stronger than Flight or Squadron, greater than Group or Command, transcending other loyalties to enable us to meet the challenge.

At the very centre, the Skipper. For good or ill, whatever his strengths or weaknesses, the crew turned to him for leadership and drew upon him for strength and courage. In some extraordinary way, I found the process gave back strength in return, increasing the small, individual reservoir of courage, almost as if each crew member bequeathed some part of his reserves, making the whole greater than the sum of the parts. Thus armoured, we set forth.

In position, holding against the brakes, we awaited our signal. With the green Aldis, I opened up, slipped the brake release and slowly, as the aeroplane gathered speed, fed in the power. The flight engineer's hand followed mine to full throttle. He confirmed, "Boost plus twelve, 2850 RPM." Now rapidly gathering speed, nearing the far perimeter we lumbered into the air and into the darkness.

Skellingthorpe's main runway lay directly in line with Lincoln Cathedral. Heavily laden and struggling for altitude, the bombers had to turn aside to avoid overflying. I remembered because of the Station Commander's stock joke, the one about getting the Bishop to put a red light on the spire. The clergy associated red lights with an altogether different kind of danger. I remember it to this very day.

The Lancasters of Sixty one mingled first with those of Fifty Squadron and then with all the others of Five Group, rising wraithlike out of the Fenlands of East Anglia. They circled slowly over their various rendezvous then, at the prearranged time, as if obeying some unseen signal, wheeled together on to the first outbound heading. Gradually, as the navigation lights flicked out, the noise of engines receded and, one by one, the flare paths were doused. The night-long vigil had begun.

In G for George we got away to a good start. The aeroplane was new and well up on performance, climbing steadily. We could see nothing of the others, converging on the bomber stream. Apart from the occasional sudden buffeting of a slipstream, we might have been alone out over the North Sea, closing our E.T.A. for enemy coast ahead.

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We flew on in companionable silence, confining ourselves to essentials, suppressing the tendency to chatter. Here and there surface flashes betrayed bomb bursts as the lame ducks jettisoned and turned for base. When the rate of climb slackened, we changed to the higher blower and continued on up to our operating height of twenty thousand feet.

Ahead of us, I reflected on the German defences, coming to action stations, the Luftwaffe night fighters circling to dispute our passage, the anti-aircraft batteries elevating their gun barrels. The German High Command must be guessing as to the route and the target. Shortly the sirens must give warning to the civilian population.

Across the enemy coast we came to full alert scanning for night fighters. 'Don't straggle,' they said. Straggle or not, we were no match for the fighters. Our 303 machine guns lacked the punch, our defences limited to evasion. 'Don't hosepipe,' they said. I warned the gunners, "Don't be afraid to hosepipe, let them know we're here."

'Came they early, or came they late, they found Black Agnes at the gate.' We adopted Black Agnes. Not that it mattered in the final outcome. Whatever the skill and daring of the Luftwaffe pilots, their fleeting opportunity to locate and destroy left the great mass of the bomber stream intact, pushing forward inexorably, the sound carpet of their approach searing the memory of all who heard it.

The heavy cloud banks along the route gave way to broken cloud and haze over Berlin. Ahead of the main force, and bearing the first brunt of the defences, the Pathfinders sought to identify and mark the target. Their green markers presented a scattered and ragged indication.

The first wave, committed to the attack by their very nature and weight of numbers, bombed whatever they could see. The second and third waves chose between the markers and the great glowing incandescence below. We came with the second wave making a steady run, dismayed yet undeterred by the barrage of flak around us. Taffy seemed pleased with his bomb run. We ran in on three markers but without hope of an aiming point or even any assurance that we had hit the City. With bombs gone we turned for home and the long slog against the head winds, fighting off the desire to sleep, lest the fighters made us run the gauntlet on the way back.

Over the North Sea we shed altitude and oxygen masks. Someone took the Thermos back to the gunners and a lighted cigarette for Jock in his rear turret. We had started a tradition. Then back to full alert for fear intruders had followed us and a slightly bumpy landing at Skellingthorpe. A quiet trip, uneventful, nothing to report.

Next day we made it to the Sergeants' Mess in time for lunch. My rear gunner and I listened to the BBC news. "Come on Jock," I said, "I'll buy you a beer." "Tell me, Skipper," he replied, "was that the same raid we went on last night, or is there another Berlin, d'you think?" I supped my beer, refusing to be drawn.

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Two weeks went by. We made another trip before Berlin came up again. By then I'd begun to wonder if I was right about the Air Marshal's intentions. We were not left in doubt for long. The German High Command was never in any doubt. They moved everything they had, everything they could spare, and sent it to Berlin.

In all, I believe, Bomber Command made sixteen heavy raids on Berlin that winter and we took part in nine of them. It should have been ten, but one went wrong on us. Not all were as uneventful as the first, but time after time real success eluded us. The route became 'the tramlines'. The weather, which should have neutral, seemed to favour the defenders, forcing the Pathfinders back upon their sky markers. Some said the German fireworks industry had learnt to copy, and set off their own. They laid fires in the woods around the City. All manner of tricks. They continued to exact a steady toll. Gradually, although no one told us, we realised that the Halifaxes and the Stirlings had been withdrawn, leaving the assault to the Lancasters. The boffins came up with a radar to enable us to see into the blind quadrant behind us. They called it Monica. I learnt, long afterwards, that the enemy fighters homed on to it.

The BBC faithfully reported on the raids and added the total of aircraft lost. Well, not quite all, only those that failed to return. Amongst those that did return, there were other losses, written off by damage or crashes. Some crashed on landing, flew into high ground, caught fire, ground looped, got caught up in all the errors and disasters which afflict aviation, and added to the totals. Where thirty bombers failed to return, many more failed to survive. We looked about us, at briefing, for familiar faces, and wondered how long our luck would hold.

My friend, Tommy, was having a rough tour. On the way to the target he suffered a double engine failure, both on the same side. One propeller ran away and, as they struggled to bring the RPM down and feather it, the next-door engine caught fire. The runaway refused to feather and continued to windmill, setting up an enormous drag. The neighbouring fire refused to go out, even when the engine had been shut down.

Flying just above the stalling speed and rapidly losing height, Tommy managed to keep the thing under control and continued doggedly towards Berlin. With 'bombs gone', came some alleviation of their plight and the crew rigged a rope to the rudder bar to assist their skipper on the controls. The fire died down to a red glow and eventually went out. They set a course directly for base on 275 degrees. Tommy told his crew to prepare to bail out but, meantime, continued to put distance between them and the target. Their course took them across the heavily defended Ruhr valley. The gun batteries opened up. Unable to manoeuvre and barely flying, they continued grimly on, by this time struggling to hold four thousand feet and slowly losing height.

The coastal defences had a go at them. Tommy changed his instruction to prepare for ditching. Unbeknownst, a British convoy was proceeding up the North Sea and, taking exception, opened up with all it had.

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By now, he had the bit between his teeth and, shedding some of his precious altitude, flew straight ahead till out of range. They knew themselves nearly home when the coastal batteries around Great Yarmouth announced their presence with yet another barrage of gunfire. Tommy changed his instructions back again. Prepare to bale out.

Somewhere in East Anglia a lone training unit was night flying, their flare path alight and showing up clearly in the distance. With any luck, the gear would go down on the emergency air bottle. Tommy aligned himself with the runway and, easing back on his remaining two engines, began the most difficult approach of his life, fearful that an alert controller in the watch tower would spot them and turn the lights out, even more fearful that all his skill and determination might not be enough to get them safely down.

He made a beautiful landing. Unable to stop, they ran off the far end of the runway and came to rest at last on some kind of embankment. They had ground to a halt overhanging a canal. "Just my luck," said Tommy, "to fall out now and get drowned in some rotten ditch." "Not you, Skipper," they said, "you won't drown, you could walk on that stuff tonight."

G for George landed away. We positioned next day to bring it back. There wasn't time to re-position so we were to operate as part of another squadron. It was an Australian squadron and, I confess, we joined them feeling slightly superior. This is a characteristic which has failed to endear us to our Colonial cousins. They had different ways of doing things, allotting a precise start up and taxi time, which was new to us. When the time came, I called the ground crew chief to climb into the wheel well and prime the engines. I watched as the first Lancaster thundered by. Another followed, climbing away into the night, the flames of his stub exhausts visible for a little time against the sky. The third aeroplane started his run. Suddenly, he appeared to swing off the runway centre line, veering towards us. I shouted a futile warning and ducked down behind the combing. He careered past, ripping away part of our starboard wing and disappeared behind us.

We abandoned ship, scrambled clear and threw ourselves down on the grass beyond the dispersal. Nothing happened. After a little while, I got up and set off towards the wreckage. I couldn't just leave them, even if they were Aussies. I groped my way forward through the broken fuselage. There was no one there. On the way back, I met my navigator. "Come on Jeff," he said, "this bloody thing will go up in a minute."

Before we left they had found all the crew, dazed and wandering about the airfield. The rear gunner was in tears because he had got his intercom, plug wet. Eventually, we got transport back to Skellingthorpe.

By mid-March it was over. The Battle of Berlin. I don't know how we knew, for we were never told. I took my crew to London with some idea of celebrating in the West End. It wasn't to our liking. On an impulse, I took them to the East End where my Uncle Jock was doing his bit as a London bobby. He and his family made us very welcome and showed us off to the neighbours. I expect we ate their rations for the month, we looked about the

Page 15! Collected Articles bombed and ruined streets. At last, it began to make sense to me. The Blitz had failed to break the Londoners. Some unquenchable spark inhabits the human spirit, rising above the bombing, beyond the reach of high explosives. Something of the self same spirit dwelt amongst the Berliners, indestructible amid so much destruction, sustaining them through their long ordeal. Because of this, despite the bravery of the air crews and their willingness to endure, whatever the losses, the bombers could not win.

And wisely, I kept the knowledge to myself, for the time to think such things was not yet.

Publishers Note

In 2007 Jeff joined a campaign to rescue the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church from decay. After reading about the condition of the Church, Jeff contacted Wolfgang Kuhla, the chairman of the church's advisory board with a donation of £500, urging that its tower be restored. In response, a fund was launched to help raise the costs of its repair

Page 16! Collected Articles The Local Defence Volunteers To Mr. Stephen Wood, Edinburgh Castle

Dear Stephen,

I joined the L.D.V. just as soon as Mr Churchill announced its formation, or at least as soon as the news reached Aberdeenshire.

The Laird himself was in charge of our unit, although we never saw him, but young Crawford, his son, was, quite properly, made the officer. (He became a real officer later in the war and distinguished himself at Anzio.) The Station-Master at Rothienorman, Mr. Macgillivray, who, in addition to having seen military service with the last lot, had two very attractive daughters, was made Sergeant.

The rest of us were mostly farm labourers with a sprinkling of young farmers and the Stationmaster put us through the rudiments of military drill in the school playground at Rothie. If the weather was really bad, the Innkeeper Mr. Murray, allowed us the use of the hall.

We had no defensive positions other than a caravan which was parked by the crossroads at the Drum of Wartle. This was not the sort of caravan you pull behind a motor car but rather the kind generally pulled by a horse. It was loaned by Farmer Watson, not that he was known as Watson, farmers were generally known by the name of their property but I have forgotten. (I really should remember for I gave him six weeks turnip hoeing whilst on deferred service.) However, this was our main defensive position and we manned it in pairs generally by night challenging all comers, if any 'Halt and be recognised," was the cry.

We were perhaps better armed than most L.D.V. units, most farms having at least one shotgun, although cartridges were scarce. The ball ammunition which was promised never arrived. However, I did stay long enough to see us equipped with rifles and even a terrible old Vickers machine gun which needed two men to man it and even more to carry it. That had no ammunition either. Never volunteer, they say, and that certainly applied to the Vickers.

However, I did volunteer to join the R.A.F and left to fly Lancasters later in the war.

I enclose a photograph of myself dressed in the denim uniform of the Home Guard.

Thanks to the article in the Times of April 12th 1996, I am flattered indeed to learn that the Luftwaffe took us seriously, No-one else did. Good luck with the military history.

Yours sincerely,

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Early in 1941 I decided to join up. I was 18 years of age, what they call a halflin, and second horseman at Potts of Rayne.

Throughout the long winter months, keeping station behind the foreman, I followed the plough holding the furrows straight and tidy in the time worn tradition. With my feet firmly on the ground, indeed in the wet weather carrying a lot of it around with me, my mind was in the clouds soaring ahead, dreaming an impossible dream.

The farm grieve, Jake Strachan, gave me the day off to attend the combined recruiting centre in Aberdeen. The recruiting officer was in RAF uniform and, give him his due, he didn't bat an eyelid. "Pilot, stroke, Navigator", he said, filling in the appropriate space on the application form. Then came a two day attestation in Edinburgh. At the final board interview I learnt that I was accepted but I had failed the mathematics paper. There would be an opportunity to retake it, meantime I went on the deferred list, they put me on hold.

Truth was my elementary schooling did not go far enough to cover the level of mathematics required. At the May term I quit my job and went back to school. At Rayne North Public School I sat in the back row behind the Class Three scholars ploughing my way solidly through a maths syllabus provided by the Department of Education for

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Scotland. The Dominie himself kept a fatherly eye on me and the children quickly accepted the situation as if it were entirely normal.

Dominie Grant was a man in the great tradition of Scottish educators, and it is thanks largely to his efforts, that I overcame this first early hurdle.

In September of 1941 I reported to Lords Cricket Ground.

On the ground we learnt to keep in step, marching together to eat at the Regent's Park Zoo. The monkeys looked on, no doubt wondering what strange new creatures had come amongst them.

It was the depth of winter and snowing when I got to Peterborough and my very first aeroplane. It was grading school and the Tiger Moth. I remember hanging upside down in the harness with bits of dirt and grit falling and getting in my eyes as the instructor demonstrated his aerobatic skills, no doubt checking for sickness or other signs of distress. When he handed over the controls to me, I fear it was his turn to be terrified. At the end of the course I was pleased to be told I had passed, but disappointed not to solo because of the continued bad weather. Daily the runways had to be shovelled clear of snow. That was no bother to me, I was well used to 'shelling snaw' on the farm roads of Aberdeenshire.

We sailed in convoy from Gourock on the Clyde to some unknown destination. It was soon clear we were heading out into the Atlantic bound for Canada. My friend, Alex Milne, who hailed from Dundee had brought his chanter with him at his mother's insistence. She made him promise to practise every day, and so he did. The English, for some queer reason, have never taken to the bagpipes. On a crowded ship the sight and sound of Alex tuning up guaranteed us a clear mess deck and set the heels a-tapping. Out there in the depth of the dark wild ocean, the prowling U-Boat commanders must have heard it on their hydrophones and shaken their heads in wonder and disbelief. Whatever the reason, we arrived safely in Halifax. At Monkton we were detailed to our flying schools in Canada and The USA. I could hardly believe my luck. I had drawn No.l British Flying Training School in Texas.

Basic training was on Stearmans, a bi-plane not unlike the British Tiger Moth, perhaps a little heavier and more robust. The 'G' men were put together, Gray, Gordon and Gutteridge with the same instructor. The intermediate type was a Voultee Valiant monoplane, followed by the advanced Harvard. Lord Halifax came from Washington to see us on the rather sad occasion when two student pilots collided over the airfield and were killed. Halifax was an important political figure at that time and might well have been Britain's Prime Minister had the chips fallen in a different order.

Back in England with our wings and Sergeant's stripes, further training awaited us, firstly on the twin engined Oxford followed by Operational training on the Vickers Wellington, affectionately known as the Wimpey. At this point I acquired a crew, a motley bunch of

Page 19! Collected Articles characters. There were three Englishmen, a Welsh bomb aimer, an Irish upper gunner and our 'tail end Charlie' was another Scot. His name was Jock Hay. To the rest of the world all Scotsmen are 'Jock'. With two of us in the crew, Jock Hay with his unmistakable Glaswegian accent, was the clear winner of the title.

'Jock' was what today I'd call ‘street-wise'. He knew without apparent effort, where to get a workman's bus when the last public service had gone. When pubs ran out of beer, a not infrequent occurrence, Jock would lead on to one with ample supplies. He could nose out places where hot pies were waiting when all was closed and shuttered. In a city he read signs invisible to others, as a bushman follows a trail or as a countryman reads the sky.

We learnt a whole new way of life, no longer just individuals, but as a crew. We learnt to sing together with other crews around the bar. Here is one to the tune of 'Just an old fashioned Lady':

Just an old fashioned Wimpey, With old fashioned wings, And a fuselage tattered and torn Two old fashioned engines that splutter and cut Like the waves on the rocky sea shore Though she uses much petrol and bags of good oil There's something that makes her divine She's quite safe and sound For she won't leave the ground It's that old fashioned Wimpey o' mine. After further training at a Lancaster conversion unit, we joined No. 6l Squadron, one of Bomber Command's Main Force Squadrons operating out of the fens of Lincolnshire. Here at last, after two years of training and preparation, in the grim mid-winter of 1943, we joined the head on assault against Germany.

At that time a tour of operations was thirty trips. There were precious few crews indeed that winter who survived so many. Earlier in the war, yes perhaps. Later, as the German defences weakened and fell away, certainly, but right then, at the peak of the air offensive, the Luftwaffe stood prepared and ready to smash and turn aside the bombers in defence of the Fatherland.

I opened my innings with Dusseldorf. That night a member of 61 Squadron, another Scotsman, F/Lt. Jock Reid, set upon by fighters on the way to the target, won himself the Victoria Cross. Although I've not seen him since those days, I believe he is alive and well and living somewhere in his beloved Bonnie Scotland,

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The Air Marshals were determined upon the destruction of Berlin. Some sixteen raids at maximum strength were mounted. Gradually, as the defenders took their toll, the more vulnerable Sterlings and Halifaxes were withdrawn, leaving the major effort to the Lancaster's. Of the sixteen raids, we did ten, leading a charmed life and what I have called, 'a quiet tour." I lost an engine on the way to Leipzig one night and, for pressing on, was awarded a Distinguished Flying Medal and an immediate promotion to commissioned rank.

About then I was invited to join Bennett's Pathfinder force, but the invitation extended only to myself, my navigator and my bomb aimer. With the medal and the promotion came a £25 gratuity. I laid on a party at the Leagate public house in Coningsby. All my crew and ground crew attended. It was intended that the party should end when the money ran out but somehow, it didn't as other crews came in and we roared on late into the night. The Pathfinder issue was put to the vote and, like the £25, was quickly disposed of. We were to stay together on Sixty-one.

Bomber Command suffered its worst ever casualties of the war in the raid on Nuremberg. One hundred and nine aeroplanes were brought down plus another sixty or so damaged or destroyed on return to base. Virtually, it was the end of the big bomber raids on Germany. We felt thankful we had survived. The bomber force was now required to 'soften up' the occupied countries for the coming invasion. One sensed the Air Marshals' bitter disappointment and reluctant acceptance of this decision.

For us it was a relief. The French targets were easy and it was rumoured they would only count as one third of a trip. As it turned out, not all of them were easy. Attacking the submarine pens at Brest we were damaged by shrapnel and lost two engines, returning safely however on the remaining two, flying directly back to base at low level, whilst the others headed out over the Bay for fear of fighter pursuit. We were first home and boasted a little thereafter. Then on a raid at Mailey-le-Camp in Belgium against a tank training school led by Wing Commander Leonard Cheshire, we disturbed a veritable hornet's nest of night fighters. Lancasters circling the marker flares awaiting the target indicators to be laid by Cheshire himself, were being shot out of the sky, falling easy prey to the Focke- Wulfs. Recently I met the Wing Commander again. He was setting off on a visit to one of his overseas Cheshire Homes. I asked him if he remembered a place called Mailey-le- Camp. He looked at me in silence for some time. "Shall I ever forget?" he replied.

With thirty ops. completed, we were tour expired and parted company. I returned to the Operation Training Unit where I had myself trained and became a Flying Instructor, back on dear old Wimpeys.

When the war in Europe ended, I joined RAF Transport Command flying Yorks, engaged mainly in bringing troops home from the Far East and India. For a short time I was based in Singapore acting as personal pilot to Lord Louis Mountbatten whilst his permanent crew went home on leave. Although I didn't have the privilege of flying him anywhere I did

Page !21 Collected Articles take Lady Edwina on a tour of India and met her again several times later during my subsequent flying career as an airline captain.

Once, breakfasting early at Changi and hearing what sounded like rifle fire, I asked the mess waiter what the noise was. "Oh," he said, "that is the firing squad. About this time every morning they shoot some more of those lousy guards”. Sometimes, faintly, I hear the echoes ringing still.

What then of the 'G' men and all the others met on the way? On the rare occasions when I hear a chanter I wonder if Alex Milne still plays on, practising every day as his mother said. Gordon, I hear, returned to the Glasgow police after the war and kept good order around there till recently when he retired with high rank and full of honours. Gutteridge landed up in the Falklands and went with Sir Vivian Fuchs to the Antarctic and is now living quietly in retirement.

Later this year in October, a small group of ex-pilots are meeting in Texas, guests of the Mayor and townspeople of Terrell to open a museum and rename the street that leads out of town towards the old base where the British boys came and learnt to fly. I'm not sure if I'll be there. Perhaps I prefer to see them as they were, in the mind's eye, before the years passed and took their toll.

Page !22 Collected Articles Terrell Tales

At the mid-term break for number nine course, Nobby and I thought we ought to see something more of Texas and planned a trip taking us as far as the border at El Paso.

Hitch hiking our way, we started well. Out of Fort Worth a rancher and his wife took kindly to our “see Texas from the ground up” idea and invited us home with them. Not only did we get to see the ranch and the stockyards we got tricked out with the high saddles and cow-ponies and the daughter of the house came home to help Mom with her guests. We had to drag ourselves away. Nobby specially, seemed very reluctant.

Now running behind sked. we had to refuse the next invite from a peanut farmer and I’ve always rather regretted that. To this day I have never seen peanuts growing and when you think of the efforts made after the war by the British in East Africa it could have been useful.

Border towns, romantic as they may be, can be something of a let down but not El Paso. The USO took us under their wing and we had a great time We even managed a side trip over the border into Juarez although the Customs were wary due our lack of proper

Page 23! Collected Articles documentation. Once again time was pressing and we hit a snag Nobby had his mind set on Forth Worth and the ranch there. Reluctantly I had to let him go.

Travelling solo on a more southerly route I headed for Waco. On the last stage another farmer and his wife squeezed me in alongside them in the cab, which was preferably to riding with the chickens in back and though they thought me loco I declined their kind offer of a bed for the night and I was delivered right to the heart of town.

Just opposite I spotted the saloon. It was the swing doors that did it. Although funds were low I could not resist. I ordered a beer and looked about me at the company. Suddenly there was a strange commotion. I noticed my fellow guests diving behind the bar or hitting the floor A gang of armed men burst in not just armed men but lawmen.

Some gesture was obviously called for and I slowly raised my hands towards the ceiling. They bundled me outside into the Black Maria and shortly thereafter delivered me to the town jail. Time to reflect. That chicken farmer had got it to rights. However the overnight accommodation problem was solved. From time to time, I was joined by other reluctant guests but they were not talkative. When it got to my turn I nearly succeeded in persuading them I was not an escaper from the local penitentiary but one of the cadets from Terrell only slightly off track. In the morning, ungracious to the last, they ran me out of town.

Back at the camp I saw Nobby had made it. He was wearing a fine pair of fancy cowboy boots and the look of the cat that swallowed the canary. Others were streaming in with tales of Hollywood, film stars, stage doors and tea with Gracie. Mr Parker, adjutant and chief RAF factotum at Terrell, said nothing so maybe he did not get my distress call in the night. He was always the soul of discretion. Early days My early career in aviation was not without blemish.

About half way through Number 9 course I fell sick and had my appendix removed They did a very neat job of it at the hospital in Terrell but Number 9 forged ahead without me and I was sent on sick leave until Number 10 caught up.

I think it was after this that I got a new instructor. Although I never knew the exact reason he had frequent occasion to go to Dallas and we would lobb in at Love field. There I spent my time in the coffee shop until he reappeared and we headed back to Terrell. I was booked in for two hours instrument flying on those occasions. Mind you it was not all time wasted I gained an easy familiarity with traffic patterns that lasted the rest of my life.

Then there was the strange incident of the night flying.

We were out at the satellite field where Gutteridge and I waited anxiously for our turn and for our instructor to put in an appearance. He was late and when he did appear he was clearly not his usual self I went first and we got ourselves airborne. The weather was clear

Page !24 Collected Articles as a bell with a brilliant Texas moon doing its best to turn night into day but I became worried because my instructor had fallen strangely silent so after a bit I landed and taxied in. Gutteridge hurried out and together we got our man ashore and into his car I succeeded in phoning his wife and explained our predicament. With the passage of time I have forgotten her exact words but “Son of a bitch” comes to mind directed as much towards my inability to drive a motor car as towards her husbands condition.

Over the next few days I fully expected the sky to fall in but nothing absolutely nothing happened unless you count a check flight with the chief instructor. I must have got something right for I got a new instructor thereafter or rather a series of them all pinch hitting until things settled and then behold I got Mr Mitchell back, my hero from primary days. Now at last I could unpack my bag I felt I was home and dry or very nearly. Much later It must have been nigh on 35 years before I became involved again with Ab Inito training.

I was employed at the time by a local airline flying out of the Gulf (for American readers that is the Arabian Gulf and for elderly Brits read the Persian Gulf ). They were dabbling with the idea of training their own nationals to eventually replace the expats. such as myself and I got dragged in to advise.

The upshot was that I set off for the USA with a small hand picked team of experts on a pre-arranged tour of the flying schools starting in California then across the country to exit from Florida. You may be sure that Texas featured large.

And the team? Well I had to take Frank as he was the company training manager dealing in everything except flight crew and he was an American with a clean driving licence and credit card never mind he spoke the language. His wife was already over there so he was keen. Then there was Abdul a bright young co pilot who had previously paid for his own training and so was much more recent than I was. If anyone wanted to talk to us in Arabic we were covered. His wife Amina, an ex stewardess could not be left behind being so recently married. She was very keen. My wife agreed to take notes and type up as we went the usual acting unpaid status of airline wives everywhere.

In California we made a bad start. The first two were dawgs. Not their fault. They were at the budget end of the market dealing mainly with kids saving up and tackling things the hard way in stages money up front. I must have misread the ads. On day three we got lucky just what I was looking for hidden away in the Napa valley amongst the vineyards. They had recent experience of foreign students both Japanese and Mexican and were all geared up ready to go. The rest of the trip was fairly relaxed.

And so it came about that I stood once again on the tarmac at Love Field and looked about me at what should have been a place peopled by ghosts waiting maybe for my old instructor to reappear. It was as if I had never been there. The school was good with a great pitch. They had even hired an Arab speaker, an Egyptian for the occasion a nice

Page !25 Collected Articles touch I thought. Abdul however was not impressed. Apparently they should have known the Arabic spoken in the Gulf was not that of the Nile delta.

In Florida both schools we visited were very busy. They had lucrative contracts with an Arab country to train agricultural pilots. Closer questioning revealed they meant crop spraying. The students were not required to pass the civil FAA exams nor take an instrument rating. The staff were very hospitable but not really interested. I thought about the fertile crescent and the surrounding deserts of Iraq and privately wondered how much spraying would be necessary. The team enjoyed the trips out to the orange groves and the Disney experience.

Back at base others took up the contract signing and the difficult bits.

Several of my colleagues were very scathing, but the cadets and the guys at Napa valley came up trumps and the scheme was a success I did promise to look in from time to time in case they hit problems but somehow I got trampled in the rush and never quite made it. Later still One day Big Harry called me in.

The ruler has asked for a charter flight, he said, and I have put your name to it. Now I knew at once that if it really was for the ruler himself it would never have got beyond the front office.

I was right. It was the ruler’s son. He wanted to visit his opposite number in Tehran. The ruler was a most generous man rewarding even the smallest service handsomely. His son was not of that school. However that is not to say he was mean in any sense, in fact he had arranged a present for the young Shah a pair of splendid Arab steeds.

The freighter company undertaking the livestock transfer had a day job ferrying fresh vegetables from the Mediterranean. No sooner had the horses been loaded and ready for takeoff then a snag arose. The veterinaries at the receiving end demanded equine health certificates. A straight case of looking a gift horse in the mouth.

The horses were unloaded and the freighter captain went back to the Lebanon for more lettuces during the delay. When I asked him about the difficulties of combining mobile stabling and vegetables he muttered something about lettuces and horse manure being old friends. We co-ordinated our respective flights the presents had to arrive first. After several false starts the vets gave in.

The young prince sat on the jump seat throughout the flight taking an intelligent interest. I ventured to mention the mountain tracks in back of Tehran wonderful for riding, worn smooth by generations of pack animals. He wasn’t sure if his friend was indeed a keen rider he hoped so but he did know he was taking flying lessons. I felt it only right to offer an opinion. High level airfields where the air is thin and surrounded by mountains are not

Page !26 Collected Articles ideal for beginners. Tell him you could arrange something better California maybe or Texas even.

We taxied in slowly and cautiously The VC10 delightful in the air was something of an iron duck on the ground the long wheel base and high rear mounted engines giving a combination that could be awkward in confined spaces. There was a splendid turn out soldiers on parade a band ready to strike up and rows of dignitaries awaited his arrival I sat back in my seat to enjoy the show.

When it was over I went walkabout to assess the way out. Nothing for it but the illegal reverse or risk bandstands flying all over the tarmac. The return trip was uneventful and back at base Big Harry seemed relieved and we awaited the call for a return.

Again the prince opted for the jump seat but he seemed quiet and not inclined to chat. My impression was that he was concerned about something, maybe the visit had not gone as planned. Approaching Bahrain the tower called up to ask if we would take part in a trainee Ground Controlled Approach (GCA) in layman terms a “talk you down”.

They seemed a little startled when informed that the heir apparent would be taking an interest and they best get it right. Indeed he did take an interest and brightened up noticeably. When he left us he did the rounds thanking every one politely but I was right, no gifts, no handout and the crew members looked at each other, shrugged and smiled.

Win some, lose some. Last Lap Back at the ranch the times they were a-changing. We had a new ops manager in Peter Bruce-Souster Like all new brooms he sought to make a clean sweep and succeeded in making himself dead unpopular. Amongst other measures he tore up the pilots contracts and introduced new ones on a strictly take it or leave it basis.

Meantime the Emir of Qatar Sheik Khalifa Bin Hamad Al Thani in his role as quarter owner of the airline decided the VC10s were past their sell by date, and ordered some spanking new L1011 Tristars. The manufacturer must have seen him coming and equipped the aeroplanes with every possible mod con. By a stroke of fortune, good or otherwise, a holiday charter outfit in UK had just gone belly up and so type rated crews were going begging.

An enterprising member of the VC10 fleet managed to find a buyer. The RAF, starved as ever for aeroplanes, snapped them up and he delivered them to the door for conversion to tankers. At Heathrow the old blue funnel line were breaking theirs for scrap, in plain view outside the hangar known as the North Pen. Big Harry decided on honourable retirement.

Although aware of the adage about old dogs and new tricks I decided to stay on.

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Suddenly in Tehran all hell broke loose. The Shah and his family fled for their lives. Their fair weather friends in the West appeared not to want them. Eventually Egypt gave them sanctuary. Other lesser mortals, the expats and the oil men attempted to flee heading for the airports only to find them deserted.

Our new ops manager rose to the occasion. He took over the ops. room turning it into a war room with a battery of phones on his desk and his charpoy alongside. Essentially the short haul fleet set off around the Gulf every morning on their various schedules, back around midday and set out once again later in the afternoon.

Souster pushed the two shifts apart and won himself a space. He despatched his volunteers into Iran to where ever the refugees were congregating. The crews took over their own handling maintaining separation on the buddy watch frequency as air traffic control had ceased to exist carrying enough fuel for the round trip. They packed them in carrying whatever they stood up in, men women and children.

As the backlog built up in Bahrain the long haul Tristars took over carting them out nightly to the Med., where it being off season there were hotel rooms to spare. There was barely time to get back and ready the aeroplane for its 10 o’clock schedule to London.

I took one such flight to Athens. A bitter cold northerly wind (the Bora) had set in “Take the blankets with you” I said. On the tarmac the passengers refused to leave until I appeared and I overheard the chief purser tell his colleagues afterwards “A kind of biblical scene resulted. They fell on his neck and kissed him”.

Only when the last refugee had been gathered up did Souster relax and dismantle his war room and go home for a nights sleep. No medals, no mentions, no honours came his way.

One day the chief accountant appeared wearing a huge smile “The accounts I have just submitted are the best I have ever drawn up“ he said “The oil companies have paid for every flight, top dollar charter rates and no quibbles”. He was not a man given to smiles nor light hearted banter. Later on the pilots found there were some negotiable points in the new contracts after all.

Page 28! Collected Articles The Trip That Never Was! Wartime incident

At the Skellingthorpe memorial in June 1989, the survivors amongst my crew came together for the first time since we parted company forty five years earlier. The question arose, what of the trip we never made, the one that got away?

We were sent to another station; Waddington seemed favourite; to operate one of 61 Squadron's aeroplanes which had landed away. We were to fly as part of the Australian squadron based there. Geoff Ward recalled that Leipzig was the target.

When the departures commenced the second aircraft swung violently off the runway and headed towards us. Ron Jones vividly recalled the sight of a rogue Lancaster curving towards us, the distance between the navigation lights rapidly increasing as the distance between us shortened. By the grace of God it passed to our starboard side knocking off the wing tip as it went and scattering the ground crew positioned under the wing ready for start up. The aeroplane came to rest on a sort of earthen embankment just behind the dispersal.

After a little while, when I pulled myself together, I went to see if there was anything to be done. It occurred to me that I couldn't just leave them there even if they were Aussies. I recalled clambering aboard the wreck, forward over the main spar to the flight deck, but the birds had flown. On the way out I met Geoff who had come to look for me, declaring that the whole thing could blow up at any moment and advising in strong language that we should get the hell out of it. Someone found the Aussie rear gunner wandering around the airfield in tears because his intercom plug had got wet.

A little over 45 years later in July 1989, I went to the Public Record Office at Kew to see what, if anything, had been recorded, and, starting with RAF Station Records, this is what I found.

Document AIR 28/880. RAF Form 540 Waddington. Date 15th. Nov. 1943 . No 53 Base Waddington H.Q. under Air Commodore A. Hesketh. Waddington = 467 Squadron (RAAF) Skellingthorpe = 61 and 50 Squadrons. Bardney = 9 Squadron. Date Dec. 3rd/ 4th 1943 Night. At 16.15 Leipzig given as target. 33 aircraft took off from base to attack Leipzig of which 467 Squadron provided 10 and 433 Squadron one. Zero hour was 04. 00. 5 Group

Page !29 Collected Articles

T.O.T. was from 04.06 hours to 04.14. hours. PFF marking technique mixed Sky/Ground marking. G of 467 Squadron swung on take off and collided with a stationary aircraft severely injuring the rear gunner and a member of the ground staff, both died later in hospital. Document. AIR 27/1927 Date 4th.Dec Bad luck is upon the Squadron again for our take off this morning G-George with F/O Reynolds and crew crashed, two engines cutting. Luckily most of the crew were O.K. except for minor injuries but the rear gunner suffered bad injuries and was rushed to Rauncey. The bad luck didn't end there for the aircraft crashed into the ground staff personnel and Sgt. Parker was killed and Sgt. Hobbs slightly injured . This was very bad luck for this Sergeant was one of the foundation members and was a capable worker and also very popular with his fellow men. As it turned out he was killed by the aircraft he serviced The pilot displayed great initiative and coolness and told his crew to standby for a crash landing. He saw that all his crew were safely out of the crash, kicking away burning incendiaries and then went looking for the rear gunner who was some distance away. The cookie luckily rolled clear and didn't go off. This was the second occasion in a very short time that there had been a crash, for Sgt. Schomberg crashed on take off last month. All personnel who knew Sgt. Parker were much upset by this incident." Date 5th. Dec. More bad news to record for late afternoon brought the news that the rear gunner of F/O Reynolds crew , F/Sgt. Frizzell had died at Rauncey Hospital. Another blow but it was expected yesterday for he had suffered pretty bad injuries. Date Dec. 6th In the afternoon there was a station service for the late Sgt. Parker and there was a large representative gathering at the church. Pall bearers were his former cobbers and most of the flight formed the escort party . The Air Commodore represented Base and Group Captain Elworthy the Station. The C. of E. padre gave an excellent service which made it a truly fitting ceremony. There were many wreaths from all sections for all wanted to pay tribute to a grand chap.

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Authors Note. Other than the mention of a "stationary aircraft" there is no record of Sgt. Gray and his crew in either the No.467 Squadron records nor our own No.61 at Skellingthorpe. Truly the trip that never was. Of interest in view of subsequent events is the entry for 11th. Dec. in the No. 467 Squadron record book.

Date. 11th. Squadron Leader Doubleday, our new Flight Commander, arrived today and he must know everyone in the Air Forces for he recognised crowds straight away. He and his crew are second ‘tourites'. N.B. In the spring of 1944, Doubleday, now promoted to Wind Commander, wasposted to No.61 as our new CO. It is idle to speculate on what fate might have had in store for us over Leipzig. If F.O.Reynolds had given more thought to pulling back on the throttles and less to preparing his crew for a crash landing he might have stayed on the runway, or at least on the airfield and, if then we had a tale to tell, it would have been a very different one.

Page !31 Collected Articles Where Are They Now Wartime Aircrew Training

Initiated in 1940, the R.A.F. Delegation to Washington, (RAFDEL) was headed by Air Marshal A.T.Harris. "Because America was not at war, the delegation was known, as 'The Air Advisers to the British Supply Council,' and its members wore civilian garb. Proper status was achieved in December, 1941 after a visit to Washington by the British Prime Minister.

RAF BEL was concerned with three main issues, the training of RAP pilots ia the U.S., agreement on air routes and, perhaps their greatest priority, the procurement of aircraft and associated spares.

Some records have survived from those days, now classified trader AIR 45 at the Public Records Office. The documents listed under AIR 45/11 cover the period June 1941 to March 1943 and are concerned mainly with the ARNOLD scheme. They are largely statistical, hours flown to first solo, numbers of 'eliminees' and the like.

AIR 43/16 deals 'with the project to set up Operational Training Units (O.T.U.s} in the U.S.A. To the best of my recollection, it never got off the ground although the A.T.U. planned for Nassau may have come into existence. The folder listed as AIR 45/15 is of more interest to us as it is concerned, initially at least, with setting up the B.F.T.S. scheme. There are letters and documents naming the contracting schools and the supply of aircraft under the Lease Lend agreement. Then a few difficulties start to appear, concerning the supply of spares. Someone noticed that the basic trainers were not fitted with Gosport tubes to enable two way communication between the occupants. These were no longer used by the Americans. The correspondence this engendered takes over the file completely. Letters and memos fly to and fro. Enterprising individuals purchased their own tubing from friendly neighbourhood stores and wrote results on the results achieved, a manufacturer in California supplied a quite enormous amount of rubber pipe and pressed the authorities for payment.

An argument raged for over two years then suddenly in 1943, someone discovered that the R.C.A.F., just across the border in Canada had, all along, been sitting on the genuine article, the original Gosport tubing. The last letter on the subject acknowledged receipt of the tubes, but rather ungraciously went on to spoil the effect by demanding to know what had become of the mouthpieces and ended with a demand for fifty five mouthpieces,

'To tell the truth, I don't remember how we communicated on the Stearmans, although I know instructors do appear able to express their feelings without the use of words.

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Thirty six years later, I led my own little delegation to the U.S..A. to select a flying school for the National pilots of a well known Arab airline, visiting six such schools. I stood on the tarmac at Love Field where once I had waited for ay instructor, Bartlett, but it was as if it had never been. Perhaps, rather regretfully, for I like neat endings, I recommended the contract go to a school in Napa Valley, California where, happily, the training continues to this day with every indication of success and satisfaction.

Page 33! Collected Articles Cowley’s Unsung Heroes Wartime aircraft recovery

Perhaps it is understandable that Morris and Cowley are synonymous with motor cars, and their wartime connection with the world of aviation is scarcely remembered.

As No. 1 Civilian Repair Unit, in addition to repairing damaged aircraft, Cowley provided many of the crash teams which went out to recover the aircraft wreckage. These teams, operating from the various RAF Maintenance Units, were often supplemented by men from Cowley.

Very recently, whilst engaged (by relatives) in investigating the cause and circumstances of a wartime aircraft crash, I came across reference to these Cowley recovery teams.

On May 24th, 1942, a Lancaster of 207 Squadron RAF, crashed on Standon Hill in Devon. Two of the crew survived and were rescued by the local Home Guard and taken to Standon Farm where the farmer's wife cared for them until an ambulance arrived from the nearby RAF station at Harrobeer. The crash recovery team, comprising seven men under the command of an N.C.O. and equipped with a 'Queen Mary' transporter, arrived to bring out

Page !34 Collected Articles the engines and clear away the wreckage. From official records Cowley had two of their teams on loan to the district at that time.

Because of the difficult nature of the terrain, the recovery team hired a local farm contractor, George Mudge, to bring the engines off the moor with his tractor. George had only just purchased the machine and branched out as a contractor. Because the spring was cold and late that year he gladly took on the contract. Three of the engines were recovered in re-usable condition but the fourth was badly damaged by fire. Subsequently, the remainder of the wreckage was brought down and stacked by the churchyard at Peter Tavy before being loaded on to the Queen Mary for disposal.

One of the crash team took some snaps on the High Tor and these have survived. George, in fact, feels rather guilty about them for he meant to write and thank the sender but somehow, as these things turn out, he never did get round to it.

Perhaps someone amongst our Morris enthusiasts was part of this endeavour and, who knows, may even recognise members of Sgt. Tibbles' team. Of all the many and varied wartime activities, the story of these unsung heroes seems to have been forgotten or completely overlooked.

And what of the Lancaster? It was on a night cross country flight with a mainly inexperienced crew. According to the survivors, the flight encountered bad weather and the pilot decided to abandon the exercise and return to base. In endeavouring to remain below cloud, they flew into high ground on Dartmoor. Although no formal court of inquiry was convened, the accident was officially ascribed to inexperience and no disciplinary action was taken.

Two members of the crew lie in the churchyard at Buckland Monachorum and the others were returned to their families for burial. The pilot who survived the crash was killed some nineteen months later in the war whilst flying as an instructor. One man, the wireless operator, completed his tour of operations and survived the war. Of the crash site, no trace remains. Metal objects there are best left undisturbed as that part of Dartmoor is now an Army artillery range. Pieces of the aircraft were presented to Okehampton museum by a Devon preservation society with a view to forming part of a local history display.

A small glass prism, possibly a once vital part of the bomb sight, is still carried by George in his waistcoat pocket, a talisman perhaps against evil and a token for him at least, of good fortune brought about by adversity.

Page !35 Collected Articles Wellington Crash In The Galant Performance of Their Duties

In the early morning of January 4th, 1944, an R.A.F. Wellington bomber crashed in Brockhurst Wood near the village of Farnham Common in Buckinghamshire. Of the six aircrew members on board only one survived.

After the war the people of the village clubbed together for a suitable memorial and a stained glass window was installed in the south wall of St. John's Church. They dedicated it to the crew, in the gallant performance of their duties.

The Wellington came from R.A.F. Westcott in Oxforshire, flying out of the satellite field of Oakley, on the night of January 3rd. The weather was fair and the moon was one day past its first quarter, setting at 01.33. The crash occurred at 02.00 and the Observer Corps alerted the nearest R.A.F. station at Uxbridge at 02.20.

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R.A.F. Westcott was home to No. 11 Operational Training Unit, (O.T.U.) part of 92 Group, the training arm of Bomber Command. The aeroplane was an MKlc fitted with two Bristol Pegasus engines and numbered Z8793. The Wellingtons, having been the mainstay of Britain's bomber offensive early in the war against Germany had been retired from active service for some time and were, like this one, largely confined to crew training. From the St. John's church Records it seems the villagers were under the impression that the Wellington was on active service, returning from a raid on Germany and indeed, the mother of one of the crew remained convinced of that throughout her life.

In fact, the crew were trainees, accompanied on their fatal flight by an instructor or 'screen' pilot. He was Tommy K. Paul, a member of the Royal New Zealand Air Force with the rank of 'Warrant Officer. Previous to his service with No.11 O.T.U. Tommy had been a member of No.207 Squadron, Bomber Command, flying first on Manchesters, the ill- favoured predecessor of the more successful Lancaster and then on Lancasters themselves. After some twelve operational flights, Tommy was involved in a serious crash and was taken off operational flying but considered fit to continue in a non-operational role.

The Trainee crew was made up as follows:-

Sgt. Arthur Coulter (RNZAF) Pilot of Auckland, N.Z. Sgt. Ernest Clayton (RAF) Navigator of Southampton, England. Sgt. Jack O'Callagan (RNZAF) Wireless Op. of Lumsden, Southland, N.Z, Sgt. Victor Payne (RAF) Rear Gunner of Aylesbury,Bucks.,England Sgt. Clive Estcourt (RNZAF) Bomb Aimer of Hamilton, N.Z. It was probably natural for the New Zealanders to crew together and also for the New Zealand instructor to be attached to them. One crew member, Victor Payne, the rear gunner, was close to his home in Aylesbury and indeed, took other members of the crew home from time to time to meet his family. He was, incidentally, the apple of his mother's eye. Her Victor could have done anything on that aeroplane such was his ability in her esteem but, damaged by their encounters over Stettin and caught up in barrage balloons around Slough, not even he could save them. Missing from the list of names immortalised in the stained glass is that of the survivor, Bomb Aimer Clive Estcourt.

What the crew were engaged upon was a 'high level' practice bombing exercise at a bombing range near their base. It is to the survivor that we owe the next part of the story.

Low cloud persisted throughout the evening into the night, hampering the flying programme. The crew waited for, either the weather to clear, or a decision to scrub. Estcourt was asleep in his chair when, close to midnight, the instructor entered the crew room to roust them out. To their surprise the weather outside was now as clear as a bell

Page 37! Collected Articles and the bomb aimer remembered clambering on board through the nose hatchway to his position and very shortly thereafter they were airborne.

He remembered stowing his parachute pack in one of the bins provided and confessed he didn't always do that but generally slung it somewhere and got on with other things. The bombing range lay just to the north of Oakley. They climbed overhead the field. Estcourt was not certain what height they went to but he thought it must be some eight or nine thousand feet. They were flying a figure of eight pattern. This took them overhead the airfield prior to each bombing run and the detail seemed to be going well. He felt they were getting good results and a nice grouping when the weather began to deteriorate. On their final run in, the bombing range disappeared, obscured by cloud. They continued to circle for some time hoping to get the last bomb away. The 'screen' pilot was nervy, he said. His pilot, young Coulter, was flying the aeroplane quite calmly with the instructor, Paul, directing him, and in charge. At length they were forced to abandon the detail and started to descend, still circling.

Estcourt expected them to break cloud at any moment and see the DREM lights and go straight in to land. The instructor Paul, previously described as 'nervy' now became panicky and began fretting about an engine fire. There was a glow certainly, as of landing lights reflecting in cloud, but no sign of fire and both engines seemed normal. At this point, with the instructor panicking about fire, they hit a bump, a heavy isolated bump. The bomb aimer thought they had struck something, perhaps a barrage balloon, or its cable, but afterwards concluded it was no more than turbulence. Over the intercom, he claimed, Paul gave the order to bale out.

Estcourt at once removed his helmet and, from that moment, was cut off from the rest of the crew. He was also cut off from all knowledge of what subsequently transpired on board. He removed his parachute pack from its stowage and clipped it on. He pulled the lever to release the hatch and eased himself out feet first. For a moment he hung suspended before he pushed himself clear. When his parachute opened he found to his horror that only one hook had engaged. He saw the aeroplane circling with landing lights on and wondered if it might return to collide with him. He landed safely in a tree close by a house called Huntswood in Templewood Lane.

At least two children saw the aeroplane, either before it crashed or just afterwards. Max Hewlett, whose bedroom window looked out towards Brockhurst Wood was awake and called to his Mother, “There's an aeroplane afired and it's going to crash.” Wendy Jubb, from her parents' house on the edge of the wood, saw the aeroplane light up the trees and ran to waken her mother who raised the alarm.

At the bottom of Green Man Hill the part time fire brigade team were alerted by their headquarters in Burnham and set out up the hill towards the scene. Archie Dunkin recalled that they went in by Templewood Lane and, finding their route cut off by the trees, left the fire engine and continued on foot. It seems that the aeroplane, approaching

Page 38! Collected Articles at a shallow angle as if to land, was caught and held in the tops of the mature beech trees and caught fire. The engines became detached upon impact and gouged their way ahead of the main wreckage, coming to rest on the far side of a small stream. In the days that followed, many visited the site although it was declared out of bounds, and wondered as to the cause.

So why did the aeroplane crash or, to be more precise, carry out a crash landing so far from its base in good weather conditions with all systems functioning normally? The sole survivor seemed unable, or unwilling, to address the question. Told by his Commanding Officer to put the matter from his mind and to continue with another crew as the opportunity arose, he was forbidden the funeral as the coffins would be weighted. Four of the crew members were buried at the nearby military cemetery in Northwood with full military honours. In the case of the instructor, Tommy Paul, he was taken by his U.K. family and buried in Durham alongside his maternal grandparents.

A court of inquiry was convened and found as follows: 'Pilot may have panicked in bumpy flying conditions without any foundation. CO. considers landing lights accidentally selected on in cloud caused pilot to believe fire existed.'

Contributory Factors: ’Darkness and unusually thick cloud layer may have misled the pilot. Captain did not carry out correct abandon aircraft procedure, attempted to crash land aircraft. Previous accident may have unnerved him.’

Hidden in this last statement perhaps, is the key to the tragedy and the reason why these young men came to perish in their Wellington amongst the beech trees of Brockhurst Wood.

[Jeff went on to write The Stain on the Glass which can be found here.]

Page 39! Collected Articles Amy, Wonderful Amy Australia

It was 1960 when I made my first visit to Melbourne, and I was prepared to dislike the place. The Sydney siders had told me all about it. Sydney had its harbour with the coathanger bridge and Bondi Beach, and the best of the climate. Poor Melbourne had nothing, unless it was the River Yarra. By all accounts, that was little more than a muddy stream, its banks disfigured by warehouses and the paraphernalia of commerce.

What they'd told me about the old airfield out at Essendon was certainly true, it was barely adequate for the jet age. It had two short runways and, where they intersected, the engineers had got the levels wrong, creating a switchback effect that could ruin the smoothest landing and test the undercarriage to the limits of its travel. The city suburbs had sprawled out to meet the airfield perimeter and even encroach upon the runways. Life must have been rather uncomfortable for the occupants at times, as the jets screamed overhead, striving for a short landing, hopefully without actually touching the rooftops below.

At a place called Diggers Rest, there was a fiendish holding pattern. Two radio beams crossed to form a fix, one emanating from a transmitter nearby, the other, attenuated and barely readable, from a distant station away to the north. To set and reset these bearings whilst circling in the hold, on our British made flight director, called for a degree of dexterity and skill designed to test the most intrepid of aviators to his limits. The direction of the hold left the aeroplane facing the wrong way with no obvious procedure for joining the traffic pattern except, what our American friends would call, a split-assed turn.

I was lucky, there was no delay and no hold required. Then, more by luck than good management, I pulled off a nice short landing. By the time we reached the intersection, the weight was firmly on the bogies and the aeroplane stayed on the ground. When we got to the bus my crew were very complimentary and managed a small round of applause. A great improvement, they said, on the usual controlled crash which signified arrival in Melbourne. I found myself warming to the place.

The hotel was exactly to my liking, rambling Colonial, decayed glory, seen better days and very comfortable. I slept like a top. I awoke to the sound of a horse drawn vehicle, clattering along in the street below and what could only have been the distant screech of a tramcar attempting a bend. Aberdeen, I thought, or Edinburgh perhaps, some northern city. The quality of the early morning light gave it away. It had that unmistakable brilliance that is exclusive to the Southern Hemisphere.

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I anticipated a lengthy wait before I could have breakfast. Wrong again, life starts up early, down under. Business was brisk in the dining room, the waitresses all hustle and bustle, the room itself high ceilinged and gracious. "You'll be the new jet jockey, just in last night, and starving," she said. "I know what you want, lamb's fry, with all the trimmings."

"Too right," I said, "Right on every count, don't forget the trimmings." While I waited for the lamb's fry, I pondered on being so readily recognised. In our crowded islands, we expect to spend our lives in a comfortable all-embracing anonymity. In my village, I had yet to exchange a word with the neighbour who lived in the house opposite. I was surprised to be identified like some entertainer or minor celebrity. I was more surprised when she brought the lamb's fry. It covered the plate. Not that I could see much of it, only what showed through underneath the trimmings, the fried eggs and bacon and sausages piled on top. I made a hearty breakfast.

At the street door, the Hall Porter gave me a cheery, “Good day.” He seemed to know who I was. "First time in Melbourne, Captain?" I told him, yes it was. "What do you think of the old Menzies Hotel?" Without a word of a lie, I told him it was first class, absolutely first class. "All the aviators stay here, Captain, when they come to Melbourne. Amy Johnson stayed here when she came, back in nineteen-thirty.”

"You'll have to excuse me," I said, "I'm not used to being included in such exalted company. What do you remember of Amy Johnson?" At the time? he told me, he was the lowest of the low, the most junior hotel employee, just a lad. The motor cavalcade turned into the street led by Amy in an open limousine, a slight and vulnerable figure. A great roar arose from the waiting crowd and they surged forward, forcing the cars to a halt. The

Page 41! Collected Articles hotel staff lined up two abreast and drove outward like a human wedge, lifting the girl from the car and passing her, shoulder high and hand to hand over the heads of the people.

"Here," he said, "she stood right here on these very steps, waving to them. I've never seen anything like it. Thirty years ago, Captain, and it's just like yesterday." I left him there, the echoes of that time ringing down the years and I walked away unseeing, towards the city centre.

I liked the town hall and the Victorian architecture. There was a concert that evening, a performance by the famed Victoria State Orchestra. I'd heard of them and heard them play on the BBC radio. I was due out that evening, the story of my life. The Yarra was better than I'd expected, but nothing to write home about. Only one thing now remained on my visitor's check list. Even the Sydney siders had admitted that they could brew a decent beer in Victoria. I'd best sample a drop of Melbourne bitter.

The barman was serving beer in a manner unfamiliar to me. Glasses were lined up six deep along the bar. In his hand he held a pistol device of the sort housewives once used to light gas stoves and attached to it was a plastic garden hose. When he pressed the trigger, a frothy liquid spurted forth, filling the glasses, approximately half beer, half froth. Several passes were needed. He seemed to be adept at keeping supply and demand in balance. The surplus beer ran away through a grill set in the counter, presumably to be pumped through again. The glasses dripped beer. Beer everywhere. I hung back awhile ‘till I'd figured out how you ordered and paid for the stuff. You have to know these things if you ever hope to fit the part of a much travelled airline captain. Most of the customers stood facing the outside wall. A narrow shelf ran round the room about chest high. They stood their glasses on the ledge, apparently studying the wall intently. The atmosphere was so dismal, so utterly awful, the very antithesis of social drinking, that I swallowed the beer down and beat a retreat.

That night we departed Melbourne for Darwin, following the airways to Sydney and Dubbo. When we signed off with the Dubbo operator and his incomparable accent, we got into the uneven tussle with skip distance and static on the long-range high frequencies. My thoughts turned to Amy facing the rigours of the Timor Sea and the great continental land mass of Australia, alone in her ridiculous and fragile craft. What a debt we owe to Amy and all the other pioneers who struggled to open the air routes and show the world that it was possible.

My admiration is tinged with one slight regret. We have inherited the mantle of heroism and daring, of unquenchable spirit and courage and it lies uneasily upon the shoulders of today's aviators. I, for one, could have done without it. Admittedly, the sharp end of an aeroplane is not a place for the fainthearted, but commercial aviation has moved on and seeks to cultivate a new image of reliability and regularity and, above all, of safety. The

Page !42 Collected Articles pioneers live on. Having conquered and tamed supersonic travel, they are now embarked on manned flight in outer space.

However, just for an instant, on the steps of the old Menzies Hotel, I must confess that I was at first startled, and then flattered, to be linked with our heroine from an earlier generation, and to bask in such reflected glory.

Page !43 Collected Articles Ah, Moon of my Delight Recollections of the Gulf

My young artist friend called me into the gallery as I was passing his door. I went reluctantly as my knowledge of the art world is strictly limited and I could see he was excited about something.

He was framing some coloured pictures of the earth photographed from far out in space. I was at once interested and intrigued. After a minute or two, I noticed that they were signed by the astronaut who had taken them. They were a gift to the Sultan of Oman. We studied them together. I pointed out the Sultan's territory. It was unfortunate, I observed, that it was partially obscured by cloud. The ‘chota’ monsoon, no doubt.

"There," I said, can you pick out the Suez canal? That's the only man-made thing I can distinguish, although I recall that the early astronauts could see the lights of Perth."

"Seen from the moon," said Greg, not to be outdone, "the only man-made feature that shows on the earth's surface is the Great Wall of China." The implications occupied us for a while.

An uneasy thought pricked me. "I trust these pictures weren't taken from the moon as that would be a terrible faux pas. You know that the Sultan's followers hold the moon to be

Page 44! Collected Articles sacred and they were vexed when word got out that men had walked upon it?" Greg expressed a mild surprise. I told him what little I knew of Islam. Their calendar, I explained, was based upon the moon. "That gives them a shorter month, but they've still only got to fourteen hundred and three because their prophet, Mohammad, was later in getting started than ours." Now Greg is just like the rest of us, he doesn't like getting drawn off the subject, specially into religious or philosophical debate. He steered me away from Islam and back to the Oman. To keep his interest, I told him it was a grand place for sea shells. He has a great collection of those.

He resigned himself to hearing more of the Oman. I explained that they had employed me, for a time, as an examiner while I was working in the Gulf, to look at their operations round the oil fields on the desert plateau. I had to take the Omani pilot's licence, number seventeen I think it was. Greg immediately enquired as to who were the other sixteen and I had to head him off. I wanted to tell him about the desert and the mountains and the great sand dunes sculptured by the wind. I remembered the silence, the utter silence of the empty spaces of the world on the edge of what they used to call the empty quarter. The oil drillers set up their camps where the geologists indicated and cleared an airstrip alongside, usually nothing more than a bulldozer scrape, sometimes sprayed with oil to give a black top. They knew where they were but the trick for the pilots was to find them, specially if off schedule when they might have switched off the radio beacon and gone about their business. They moved on like the nomadic Arabs, setting up a new camp miles away and, if they thought of it, they would leave an arrow on the desert floor to mark the direction. I glimpsed, momentarily, the reasons why men get hooked on desert places and never quite escape again.

I bought a Martini-Henry rifle from an Arab. I paid him forty American dollars. It was all I had, and far too much, but he accepted it. It was a beautiful thing, worn and cared for and chased with silver about the stock and the barrel. He would have preferred real money, Maria Theresa thalers no doubt, with the right date on them, the only date, 1780, but I didn't have any. Customs took it off me and I never saw it again. When I produced the receipt, their English deserted them.

The present Sultan has brought his country on apace. His father was a man of the old school who permitted nothing of the modern world to intrude, such as bicycles or electric flashlamps. His son has brought them immense prosperity with roads and cars and their very first school, and the knowledge that men have walked upon the moon. In the desert places where his writ does not run deep, there are men who regret the passing of the old ways, in the fashion of old men everywhere.

There was nothing much I could do for the pilots nor their employers. I stayed as long as possible, flying out to as many of the desert strips as I could locate. I wrote them a well rounded, if somewhat cosmetic report, unlike my usual style. I left with the thought that I'd had the best part of the bargain.

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I gradually realised that Greg had finished the framing and had made a lovely job of it and was looking at me closely. Apparently I had been silent for some little time, an unusual thing when I get started. I felt I had to say something. "I suppose you know they get earthshine on the moon, just as we get moonshine on the earth? Next time you see a crescent or a gibbous moon, look at the dark bit and notice the earthshine. That's us, you can say." Greg had the last word. He knew that the moon turned to keep the same face towards us and no one had seen the dark side, except maybe, the self same astronauts, and he couldn't recall if they had mentioned it and could I cast any light on that, he wondered?

I made for home and mentioned the subject to my wife. As so often happens, it was she who had the last word. When she did the meals-on-wheels in Slough, one day she came upon an old dear in downcast mood. The old girl admitted that it was the astronauts who had saddened her. Until they set their feet upon the moon she had visualised her dear departed husband as having taken up residence there to await her coming. My wife comforted her as best she could, with a hot meal on the one hand and on the other the thought that her husband must have moved on another stage just a little further out into the unknown. The old lady seemed to derive comfort from this, but whether due to the sustenance provided by the hot food, or the more abiding knowledge that there are many mansions and someone had gone ahead to prepare a place, my wife could not say.

Almost immediately, as these things happen, my son-in-law brought me a photograph of the earth taken by a satellite as if to prove that, today, you don't have to be a Sultan to share in the world's riches. I got Greg to frame it. It's not in colour, only black and white, but he did it exactly as if it were for royalty, only cheaper. My wife and I looked at it in admiration and wonder. Being taken by a weather satellite it shows up the swirling clouds in great clarity. "I hate to mention it," said my wife, "but can you see a mouth down there by Cape Town, and a nose…..?”

I broke in, "Oh, Lord," I said, "you've done it now, it has a face, a Man in the Earth face."

We can't look at it now, it will have to be consigned to the attic alongside all the other forgotten treasures,

Ah, Moon of my Delight who know'st no wane, The Moon of Heav'n is rising once again: How oft hereafter rising shall she look Through this same Garden after me - in vain!

Omar Khayyam, ed. 1, lxxiv

Page !46 Collected Articles By the Grace of God A flight in Africa

Log Book Entry: 30/7/68 VC10 GARVL Self as Captain. Capt. Orimoloye l.C.U.S. (In Command Under Supervision) London Rome

31/7/68 As above. Rome Kano. Then Kano Lagos, Diversion Kano due weather at Lagos. Then Kano Lagos. Diversion Accra on 3 engines, again due Lagos weather. Narrative. The flight departed LHR at 21.50Z for Rome, operating as WEST AFRICAN service W.T. 923. Capt. Rufus Orimoloye had completed his VC10 training course with B.O.A.C. and was operating as Captain in the left hand seat under my supervision as part of his route clearance prior to gaining approval to operate in command. The flight proceeded without incident via Rome to Kano arriving at 05.07 on the morning of July 31st.

For the final sector, Kano to Lagos, the arrival weather forecast was dominated by Line Squall conditions affecting Lagos with Cb activity and heavy rain. Capt. Orimoloye elected to proceed to Lagos (with my approval) on a 'look see' basis, nominating Kano as the return alternate. In the event, after descending to limits on an approach to R/W 19 at Lagos in heavy cloud and rain, nothing was seen and go around action was initiated. The flight returned to Kano.

Consideration was now given to terminating the flight at Kano, but, during this period, improved conditions were reported by Lagos so a further attempt was made, departing at 09.28. During the flight conflicting WX reports emanated from Lagos and we hald off for a time hoping to effect a landing during a period of improvement.

We then elected to approach from the coast running inland, on a non precision procedure based on the V.O.R./DME, At a late stage we sighted the runway well placed for landing but, such were the conditions in heavy rain with the airfield awash, I elected for a further go-around. At this point, No, 3 engine commenced running rough and had to be shut down. This further factor influenced me towards diversion to Accra with its better maintenance facilities and the availability of a spare engine.

During the short diversionary flight to Accra, the Lagos controller called us to report that a Comet A/C of West African Airways had just landed at Lagos and appeared to aquaplane right off the end of the runway coming to rest in deep mud just short of the boundary, Rufus and I looked at each other with perhaps understandable gratification. "There, but for the grace of God, go I,"

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We landed at Accra at 12.10 and terminated the flight. Just before leaving the airfield, the engineers called me back to the tarmac to inspect the failed engine. This particular engine had been fitted with new compressor blades made from the experimental wonder material, 'Carbon Fibre’ which formed the entire basis for the projected Rolls Royce engine, the RB211, To my astonishment, the blades, made from this new wonder material, appeared to have shredded and were hanging in tatters. I concluded that this effect was due to the battering they had endured from the exposure to heavy tropical rain.

On my return to London I reported that, in my opinion, Capt. Orimoloye had been thoroughly examined and was fit to operate in command of the VC10 and further, that anyone holding shares in Rolls Royce would be well advised to sell them at once.

Page !48 Collected Articles Gulf Aviation A brief history

The Gulf Aviation Company was one of a group of small ‘feeder’ airlines owned wholly or in part by BOAC/BA and administered under the aegis of 'Associated Companies'.

During the break up of the British Empire, airlines were usually handed over on independence and frequently continued flying as the national carrier of the emergent country. Examples are HongKong Airways, (now Cathay) Middle East Airlines, West African, East and Central African Airways, Aden Airways and the like.

Gulf Aviation, based in Bahrain, was sold to a partnership of four Arab States, the other three being Qatar, Oman and Abu Dhabi in the U.A.E. (United Arab Emirates.) The Sheikhdom of Dubai remained outside the arrangement and, subsequently, formed its own airline, A small fleet of Standard VC10's , (initially two) was purchased from British Airways and arrangements for crew training set in hand.

Experienced VC10 Captains, either recently retired from BA. or close to retirement, were hired on two year contracts and formed the nucleus of the venture into international services outside the confines of the Arabian Gulf.

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Quite fortuitously the collapse of East African Airways made available a further source of ready trained, experienced VC10 crews.

The first service from Bahrain to London was launched on April 1st, 1974, (Note how April 1st, remains an auspicious date in aviation folk lore,) followed by services from the various Gulf States to U.K.

The cabin crew were recruited both locally and in Europe, mainly as it turned out, of girls from the northern cities of England. Enthusiastic and excited by this opportunity to work in the Gulf, the girls displayed a cheerful and willing attitude which was well received by the travelling public. The service was backed up by an excellent catering organisation, John Thullier, Manager of Airport Service in Bahrain saw to it that the food and drink supplied on board was of the highest quality and well presented. Here it should be said that the VC10 galleys, unlike the well thought out flight deck and ergonomic seating, left a great deal to be desired but the enthusiastic cabin staff made light of these shortcomings.

The service was rapidly expanded with the purchase of more BA surplus VC10's rising to a total of five. Further recruitment of experienced pilots became possible as the R.A.F. Transport Command contracted and service pilots who had seen little prospect of civilian employment with only the VC10 on their new licences were delighted to join.

There was, sadly, one small group of pilots who fared ill during this rapid expansion. These pilots who had served Gulf Aviation well on their internal fleets, came over to the VC10's and were offered conversion training by BA on an aeroplane based in Bahrain, By some shortcoming of timing and planning not all of these pilots completed their training in time. Those who missed out were ferried to U.K. to complete, on an ad hoc basis, out of London. In this unfamiliar environment, beset by delay and lack of aircraft time, several were deemed to have failed the course. This was, in my view, quite disgraceful. The VC10 was known as a pilot's aeroplane. It was indeed rare for anyone to fail to qualify on such equipment. All of us concerned, training or management, whether BA or Gulf Aviation, owe these men an apology.

The Ruler of Qatar, Sheikh Khalifa bin Hamad Al Thani, decided upon a tour of the Middle East and Europe and he chartered one of Gulf Aviation's VC10's. Since he was a man of some presence and reputation, something of an ogre, there was no competition for the job. Thus it was I found myself in command. The trip, however, must have been a success. The Sheikh ordered another VC10 from BA for his own personal use. Capt. John Willet, ex BOAC/BA, was subsequently engaged as Captain of 'The Royal Flight,' to fly it.

The Sultan of Muscat and Oman also acquired a VC10, this time from the RAF. One of the Gulf pilots left to take up this appointment. Not to be outdone, the Ruler of Abu Dhabi acquired yet another VC10 from BA and this time, the crews were supplied on rotation by British Airways. These three aircraft were painted in a variety of suitable liveries and luxuriously appointed. Only the Ruler of Bahrain held out and later acquired a Gulf Stream, again crewed by Gulf Air as it had now become.

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After nearly two years of VC10 operation, a sea change in our affairs took place. The Ruler of Qatar purchased four L10-11 TriStars from Lockheed and presented them to the airline. By sheer chance, the British charter company, 'Court Line,' had just collapsed and Gulf Air was able to pick up their redundant crews, already trained and experienced. These four aircraft were equipped with everything possible by way of operating gear and cabins of such luxury as has rarely been seen. But that is another story,

For my part, I was in a quandary. My expertise as a training captain on the VC10 was no longer a marketable quantity. My two year contract was up. Renewal was difficult except under the most onerous conditions. I took myself off to Singapore where my old friend Charlie Chan offered me employment. Armed with this my contract renewal proved quite straightforward.

When the VC10's were phased out the story had a happy ending. We had all become used to seeing VC10's being broken up for scrap outside the North Pen at Heathrow. The sight brought protests from some of the BA staff. Under the circumstances, Gulf Air did very well to sell their fleet on via Vickers at a good price to the RAF who wanted to convert them to tankers. Thus it was that these aircraft, time expired, overdue for new spars and tail planes, fetched good money. Captain Jimmy Peers was instrumental in brokering the deal and flew the aircraft back to U.K. Incidentally, Brian Trubshaw, (of Concorde fame) turned out on behalf of Vickers to act as his co-pilot and Jim took the opportunity to renew Trubshaw's licence rating as they went.

The aeroplanes were delivered to RAF, Abingdon and, as far as I know, they are there to this day.

Page 51! Collected Articles In High Places VIP Transport

When old Harry came on the 'phone to tell me I was to fly the Ruler's son to Tehran, I wasn't really surprised. Not when I thought about it. Now, if it had been the Ruler himself, I'd not have got within a mile. The Ruler was noted for his generosity but the Prince, they said, was of the modern school. Not mean, you understand, just not given to distributing largesse, as was the time honoured Arab custom. Your run of the mill line pilot seldom gets a look in unless there's a snag. It has to get through the inner screen of management pilots and they don't pass up such opportunities lightly.

Not that they're all aces, some of them are real stumble-bums, only they don't always know it. When my friend, Pete, became an examiner, he found this out. He had two managers come together for their check. They were rather like the 'Laird o' Cockpen, so proud and so great, their minds taken up with the things o’ the State.' Their performance was dismal so he failed them both, well, not completely, only partial, so they could do a re- run and give it their full attention and pass second attempt. Even Pete wouldn't have risked a complete double top.

Mind you, flying the Ruler had its drawbacks. One particular chap got in his good books and every time the Sheikh felt the urge to travel he sent for his favourite Captain. The

Page !52 Collected Articles arrangement flourished for several years. When the Captain got married, he and his bride were invited to spend their honeymoon at the palace. I did hear that the bride was very beautiful. I don't know what went wrong, but they left abruptly and it was rumoured that the Sheikh was looking for a new pilot. Perhaps another of those time honoured customs had got in the way.

I was no stranger to V.I.P. flights. Way back in the days when Lord Mountbatten was Far East Supremo, I was summoned to Changi to relieve his regular crew. I didn't get to fly the great man himself, but I took Lady Edwina on a tour of India and she was most gracious. At the hinder end I brought his staff and his baggage back to U.K. The aeroplane had seen a lot of service ferrying troops about and it broke down en route. I don't know how the Supremo got on attending whatever it was he had gone home to attend, what with all his uniforms stranded and himself dressed only in whatever he stood up in. I didn't do any more VIP work for a while.

I remember another occasion when I came near to having greatness thrust upon me. President Kennedy's brother, Robert, was touring the Far East when his Clipper ship went kaput in HongKong. They 'phoned me at the hotel to tell me we had a charter to Singapore. The first class passengers were given the choice of being turfed off or riding steerage. There was a spot of bother with one Australian. I advised him to write to the White House where Jack was having a 'Buy American, Fly American' campaign, and let him know that his kid brother hadn't heard. He took it all right in the end, what with the free booze and the promise of his money back. Young Kennedy ignored us, but his wife, Joan, thanked us most kindly.

When Harry rang me there was plenty of warning. In fact a lengthy delay developed. The Prince had decided to take a present for his opposite number in Tehran. When he did open up, it was on the grand scale as befitting a prince. He had decided on two Arab stallions. Transporting horses by air is common enough, but you have to kit out for it. Passenger aeroplanes are not suitable.

The government chartered a freighter which was in the vicinity ferrying vegetables from Cyprus to the Arabian Gulf. It's better not to call it the Persian Gulf whilst you are in Arabia. The Persians turned uncooperative, insisting on a veterinary inspection of the horses before they could be shipped. A straight case of looking a gift horse in the mouth.

High ups in the Arab world generally counter delays and inconvenience by the clapping of hands. Normally this action produces instant results. When it comes to dealing with blood stock however, the Arab is ultra cautious. Nothing must be allowed to endanger his precious horses. The days went by and the veterinaries failed to appear. It's probable that they'd got their Gulf Sheikhdoms muddled and were incommunicado in one of the other states. The freighter Captain, meantime, aware of the perishable nature of his cargoes, kept nipping back for more vegetables and, in between, he loaded and unloaded horses ever mindful of the consequence of getting his cargoes mixed.

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At length, when the officials did appear, I was able to take off for the Iranian capital, the Heir Apparent strapped firmly in the jump seat beside me. The flight was uneventful. We chatted desultorily on the way. He offered me a cigarette but I refused. I'd switched to cigars in the mistaken belief that they were less harmful. He told me about the Shah's son. The young prince was keen on flying and taking lessons with his father's airforce. I offered him some advice. As we descended into Tehran, I pointed out the rugged nature of the terrain and!the great bulk of Mount Damavand towering away to 18,000 odd feet. "It's no place for amateurs," I said, "tell him to keep his feet on the ground, or in the stirrups, shall we say."

After we landed, I taxied across the tarmac to the bandstand where the red carpets lay. I ignored the marshallers and their contradictory signals and stopped hard on the right spot. I shut down the motors and settled back to enjoy the parade. The two princes greeted each other with every sign of cordiality and affection. On the way home I asked the stewardess what she thought of him. "He's lovely," she said, "a real sheikhy baby."

Safely back at base I awaited Harry's next 'phone call. It is another Arab custom to request the same pilot for the return flight, a subtle compliment. At the appointed date and right on time I let down through the overcast and headed for the Alpha-Alpha beacon and 29 right at Meherabad airport. It was the same bandstand, same carpet, same everything. I had to reverse out so as not to blow them all away. Feet on the floor, don't touch the brakes, gently does it. On the way back I remembered to enquire about the horses.

Again I had to tread warily. Gifts are bestowed by stealth and not over praised, lest it detract from their value. I refrained from asking about the flying lessons. He remembered not to offer me a cigarette. I didn't see him again and his father didn't send for me, so maybe I hadn't made such a good impression after all.

With the New Year all hell broke loose up there in Tehran. I thought the Shah would survive it, maybe abdicating in favour of his son. With the young prince, Reza, on the peacock throne and his mother to back him, they might have held it together. I didn't understand the nature of the thing any more than anyone else.

When it quietened down again, I was sent back to Tehran. This time, I was in the jump seat to report to my company on the resumption of services. It didn't look too good. What remained of a once proud air force lay scattered about. I counted fifteen Jumbos, enough to man a big airline, or move armies across, distant continents in pursuit of some forgotten dream of power and conquest. There were no bandstands, no red carpets. There was no ground handling, no fuel, no A.T.C., no nothing. We collected whatever it was we had come to collect and high tailed it out. I stayed up front to add another pair of eyeballs till we cleared the zone, then I went back to write my report. I don’t remember what I wrote, but I don't suppose it gave me too much trouble.

As I write this, however, it gives me trouble. I am troubled by the terrible things that befell the Shah, victim of a bloody revolution that led him to die in exile, a broken man. I see the

Page 54! Collected Articles slim figure of the young prince, his life ahead of him, stretch out to greet his friend and bid him welcome. I'm saddened too, when I think of the waste of those brilliant Kennedys, cut down in turn by the assassin's bullet. And what am I to make of the old warrior, Mountbatten, when war in the shape of the terrorist bomb, reached out to claim him?

Down the years, the voices that will not be stilled cry out in anguish, sorrowing for those who walk in high places and are cut down.

How are the mighty fallen in the midst of the battle! Jonathan, thou wast slain in thine high places. I am distressed for thee my brother Jonathan: very pleasant hast thou been unto me:…… How are the mighty fallen, and the weapons of war perished.

2 Samuel i. 25/27

Page 55! Collected Articles Falling Leaves Flight Testing

Essentially English. The phrase conjures up pictures in the mind's eye. A host of things evocative of England. For some, the sound of leather on willow, of country cottages with roses round the door, quaint pubs on village greens, for others the chimes of Big Ben, the hunched stature of Churchill, or yet again the distantly heard afar off sound of steel clashing upon steel at Agincourt. Of foreign fields, forever England, for each his own.

For me, a voluntary exile from beyond Hadrian's wall, destined forever to remain marginally outside the magic circle, it is another thing, unseen yet remembered, unheard yet engraved upon the memory. For me it is the sights and sounds of fighter 'planes locked in combat in the blue vault of a September sky over the sunlit fields and weald of Kent. There, the 'brightest and best of the sons of the morning' jousted with the encroaching aerial armadas, their fellow countrymen earthbound and helpless to assist them, anxiously counting in the precious men and machines from each days toll. Little did we know that at that time and in that place we were witnessing history in the making.

There are qualities in man that are glimpsed but rarely, qualities that lift him briefly above his fellows and place him amongst the angels. The tragedy is that it is usually war, unholy conflict, which produces the qualities of courage, of endurance, of self sacrifice which we so admire. Now war has been rendered unthinkable, outlawed forever by the thermo nuclear bomb. There can be no more gladiators, no jousting knights, no fighter pilots to disguise such all-embracing destruction. If the young men go forth again, it will be for the very last time. They can only go forth if unreason and over-weaning pride prevail over sense and common humanity. We must learn to seek out admirable qualities in circumstance divorced from war; to cultivate a new set of values. We must step forward or sink into the abyss.

One Sunday afternoon, on just such a September day, 32 years after the young men had flown their Spitfires and Hurricanes into the wild blue yonder. I found myself on the tarmac at London Airport for an air test. The annual certificate of airworthiness air test. I considered myself, ex-bomber pilot turned airline Captain, as temperamentally unsuited for any kind of, test flying. Not for me the edges of the operating envelope, the pushing out of frontiers. My passengers were likely to become alarmed at anything more than 15 degrees of bank near the ground and would consider a steep turn at any altitude to be an aerobatic of the most extreme kind. In all truth, this suited me very well. The annual certificate of airworthiness however, does involve getting fairly close to the edges and checking out the systems that make the aeroplane safe, and the functioning of devices

Page 56! Collected Articles which make up for design shortcomings and rescue the hamfisted from the consequences of mishandling.

I thought about a real test pilot I knew of and how he set about his work, infinitely more demanding than anything I was to perform. To my surprise I'd learnt that his methods were exactly the same as mine, identical with those of the most staid and unadventurous Airline Captain. He made thorough and detailed preparation. He drew an elaborate profile of his flight, and an alternative low level one in case the weather was bad. When called upon to demonstrate his company's wares at air shows and displays he took extra special care, doing nothing that wasn't carefully pre-planned and rehearsed. Only once did he break his self-imposed rule. That once came close to being his last.

Heading across Europe, en route for an important air display, air traffic control called him to ask if he could go straight into his routine on arrival overhead, without landing. It was a beautiful day, he was in good practice, the aeroplane familiar and functioning perfectly. Anything to oblige. He started from high overhead, his very own version of the falling leaf. Carefully timed, counting the turns at exactly the right height and instant, into the recovery, diving steeply at the airfield to pull out just above the runway, nudging the speed of sound before the gasping crowd, the shock waves visible over the wings before pulling up into the near vertical, re-heat on, and straight into his main act. As the aeroplane spiralled downwards, he caught sight of the ground and froze in an instant of sheer abject terror and disbelief. The ground was far too close. He couldn't believe it. Unbidden, his limbs went instantly into action; stop the turn, start the recovery, his brain now thinking furiously. What a helluva a way to go, to plough straight in, what a bloody stupid mistake, a high-level airfield, an altimeter error, oh God! what a fool. No ejector seat yet designed could save him from his folly. He had to start the pull out, now, before it was too late. The damn thing would never take it. If he pulled any more G it must stall. High speed buffet, then high speed stall. In desperation, he ran out some flap. They'll never stay on, he thought. What the hell does it matter. They stayed on, and he ran out more. He barely made it round the corner, levelled, and pulled away. Thank you God, I have it now. Those who saw it spoke of it for years afterwards. What a fantastic display, what a mad, incredible stunt. It was 17 years before he himself could speak of it.

Not for me any such display nor errors. Sunday morning in clear skies with a free choice of UK airspace in which to perform and 3'/i hours of precise test flying ahead. Every aspect of the aeroplane's performance to be timed with stop watch precision. Heights within a few feet and speeds to the last knot. Exactly the sort of flying I enjoyed. Sheer delight to see the dials rotate, the needles apparently stuck to the glass. Only a small audience of crew and test observers and, by long tradition, a selection from those who had worked the overhaul. I reviewed the flight profile.

I had no fears of the high speed run when the aeroplane would just begin to go unstable and the nose tuck under. I thought about the Dutch Roll. Aeroplanes with swept back wings suffer from a particular instability called Dutch Roll. If they yaw one way, they roll

Page !57 Collected Articles as well. This causes them to yaw and roll the other way. Starting insidiously, it builds up, doubling in amplitude each. time. Yaw dampers are fitted to detect and counteract the Dutch Roll. The test pilot turns them off, kicks the aeroplane into instability, lets it build up, then turns on the dampers to see if they recapture. If not, he does. 'Break glass in case of emergency!' I wasn't worried by that. No real problems there.

The thing the Air Registration Board was fussy about was stalling, and very properly too. They sent one of their pilots down to see that you were sound on stall recovery before giving authorisation to do air tests on their behalf. High tailed, rear engine aeroplanes have one very nasty trick. If you once get in a stall, what they call a deep stall, there is no recovery, no way out. The tailplane gets in the turbulent downwash.off the wings. The control surfaces, lacking airflow over them are powerless. Like an old fashioned windjammer, you are locked in irons. The designer, having set the trap, now provides a way round. First, a stick shaker to warn, then a stick knocker to reinforce the natural buffeting. Then, before it's too late, the klaxon, flashing lights and stick pusher. Duplicated systems, just to be sure.

I chose the south-west, flying in the wedge left between the airways with radar surveillance, and air traffic control to keep me clear of other aircraft about their lawful occasions. Section by section, we completed each part of the test, the observers logging times and figures, cross checking results, setting up the configuration for the next part.

Victor-Echo looked to be well up to her certified figures. The profile I had constructed took us up to the performance ceiling into what the Americans called 'Coffin Corner', and down again in the 'failed pressurisation emergency descent' procedure, checking that the rubber jungle of oxygen masks appeared on cue.

And now, the approach to the stall. Carefully and methodically I cross checked the weight and trim, confirming the speeds and called my crew to full alert.

Radar confirmed all clear. Taking no chances, I turned steeply, first one way, then the other, scanning below. I fixed the sun upon my left shoulder, raised the nose above the horizon and closed the throttles. Flying straight and level, holding the nose up against the increasing weight of the feel units, I watched the speed decay. One knot per second. Beautiful. Bang on target the stick shakers came on song. Just hang on in there, keep the control column back, don't let the incidence increase, wait for the push.

Suddenly, without warning, the right hand wing started to drop. I wound in a fistful of aileron; must keep it level at all costs. I could feel it getting away from me. Discretion the better part of valour, I chucked it and pushed. I pushed the control column against the panel. I unwound the aileron control as it began to roll the aeroplane the other way. The green fields in the windscreen never looked so good. I opened up and completed the recovery. Something very nasty had happened and I didn't know what the hell it was. I set it up immediately for another attempt before I got cold feet, this time forewarned and forearmed. The, result was exactly the same. Just before stick push, the right wing

Page !58 Collected Articles dropped sharply. I went down to below 20,000ft and ran out the flaps and slats. This time in the landing configuration, I brought the aeroplane to the stick push using both systems, then each individually. Absolutely as sweet as a nut. Stick push right on schedule, no wing drop. I completed what remained of the programme, called control for joining clearance and headed back to London.

I parked in the North Pen, and shut down. I told the engineers of the defect. The Chief Engineer looked at me incredulously. "What are we supposed to do? What kind of a defect is that?" he cried.

"Heaven only knows," was my truthful reply, "it only happens when she's clean. But get up there on those wings and look for any damn thing that could cause one wing to stall before the other. Make sure those slats and flaps go right home, check every seal, every panel, dents, damage, anything. And get me the Air Registration Board on the blower."

The Air Registration Board. It was as if I'd called for the Deity. "It's Sunday, Captain," said one, "nobody there." Of course.

After a time, I tracked down the Chief Pilot's 'phone number. His wife was most charming, but he was not at home. I had better luck with his deputy who was burning leaves in the garden. He came hot foot from the depths of Surrey. We got the aircraft airborne again and I explained the problem as we climbed out.

"With your permission, Captain," he said, with a touch of old world courtesy, "I'd like to carry out a clean approach to the stall." When the wing started to drop, he pushed and recovered, he looked rather pensive. "I shall require your further permission, Captain, to take it right through to the stick push, although I have no wish to place your aeroplane in jeopardy." "Be my guest," I said. Young pup. Before we got to the stick push, he pushed. I think I beat him to it. The recovery was very lopsided and cackhanded with so many hands on the controls. I flew it back to London. "I think I know the problem now," he said. "This has happened once before, I had forgotten. Very remiss of me. I'll tell you when we get down."

When we shut down, I asked the engineers to bring a ladder.

"Do you know what these outboard wing fences are for?" he asked. Of course I knew. They stop the air in its natural tendency to flow outwards towards the wing tip. They make it flow back over the wing. Only the stuff that flows back does any good. If it flows out it doesn't produce lift. At low airspeeds you have to generate all the lift you can get. It began to dawn on me. Boundary layer control. Wing fences. It had to be.

"Observe", said the ARB deputy chief pilot, "on this model, the wing fence is in two parts. The major part is fixed to the wing, the forward part being attached to the moveable slats on the leading edge. To cater for when the slats are closed, there has to be some kind of seal between the two parts. I think we shall find it missing on this side, and present on the other."

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I didn't need to look. If the seal was missing, the air could rush through. It would be as if the fence had been removed on that side. That wing would stall before the other. I thanked him for his time and trouble. "I doffs my hat to you," I said.

"One more thing, Captain, in parting. How long is it since you did recoveries from the spin? We came very close to needing that today."

After a day or two, I 'phoned in to see if Victor Echo had been cleared back into service. It took a long time to penetrate the various admin layers till I uncovered an engineer who knew what I was on about. He was very disgruntled. "Oh yeah, Victor Echo went out all right, nuffink wrong with that, some bloody silly rubber seal on the wing fence. Lucky we had one. Nothing wrong with that, mate. No, trouble was these blokes came down from the ARB, first thing Monday, all over the aeroplanes they was. Three more they found, all bloody grounded, aren't they! All because of this bloke, some training Captain got 'is knickers in a twist, had to get in this young pilot from the ARB to help him out. Shah't have him. again, I can tell you."

"Right," I said, "right, I'll second that. I'm in full agreement with you there."

Page !60 Collected Articles Leaving their Brains Behind Fog over Europe

The fog was thickening right across Europe. South of the Alps, Milan Malpensa vied with Milan Linate to be the first to go. As the night advanced the fog formed in a swathe through Germany and France and up into the Low Countries. The major international airfields were mostly socked in. Only here and there, because of some quirk of topography, some idiosyncrasy of the air mass, the visibility held out against the trend.

In southern England, on the edge of the Siberian high, they were slower to go. London Gatwick was quoting runway visual ranges. London Heathrow had thought to tag the word 'trend' to the end of their report. Trembling in conditions of calm wind and clear sky with temperature and dew points merged, they awaited only the trigger. Away on the fringe, under the influence of the Atlantic air, Prestwick and Shannon held out, the only clear bankers in a classic fog situation.

The aircraft Captain shifted uneasily in his seat. Alone and awake within a sleeping world, he thought of the creeping fog almost as a personal thing, a problem for his concern only. Now, far behind him, the population of the Eastern Seaboard of the U.S.A. must have succumbed to sleep. Ahead of him the Europeans, those of them with any sense, would still be locked in the arms of Morpheus as the dawn line crept remorselessly forward. Inside the darkened, crowded cabins of the aeroplane, the passengers had only just settled, the cabin crew slowly gaining control.

The Chief Steward made his way to the flight deck. "What's it look like then Skipper?" he said. "I noticed your reference on the P.A. to the early Morning mist and fog patches."

The Captain hesitated for a moment then, speaking more to himself than to the Chief, he vouchsafed an explanation. "London's holding up O.K., probably hold till after dawn, that's the critical time," he said. "We don't carry much excess these days, once or twice round the hold and we're committed. I'll have to decide before then if it's Prestwick. You know we threw out all that zero zero kit, economy drive before last. We can take pretty low limits but we're still a ‘see to land outfit’ these days."

The Chief nodded. "You want me to tell them anything?" he asked.

"Don't tell them anything," said the Captain. "You know what they're like. Any time they get near an aeroplane they leave their brains behind them." The Chief Steward sized up his man carefully.

A thought crossed his mind, "I'm not sure where that leaves us, Captain." he said.

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He didn't know how to handle this new style of Captain with 'A' levels and university degrees, these men who grew their hair too long, clinging to an out-dated fashion. He'd known where he was with their predecessors, the early pioneers, the 'Atlantic Barons' as they'd been called. You said nothing other than 'yes sir' or 'no sir’. You brought the tea things on a silver salver and woe betide anyone who forgot the sugar tongs. You knew where you stood.

Mind you, he'd preferred the next generation, the wartime breed, men with the common touch, who had done uncommon things. You could say what you liked to them. It was very comforting, when the chips were down, to have a man up front who'd flown with the Pathfinders or found the Bismarck, who'd flown upside down and survived. Survived everything except the advancing years and now, they too were gone.

At times of stress he quite warmed to the flight deck. "Anything I can. get you, more coffee, hot and cold running stewardesses? How about Bovril? Three cups of Bovril! Coming right up." The Chief made his exit. "Get some Bovril up there," he said, "they think it's Ramadan again. Make it hot and make it strong." He did a round of the galleys. He revised his plans for breakfast. "Start in early," he thought, "get everything cleared away in good time, just in case. Bloody diversions. Four hundred disgruntled passengers, all bleating like sheep, as if it was all the airline's fault. It didn't bear thinking about.

The 'A' Lady hunted in the jumbled galley for a Bovril jar. She slopped it together and looked about for suitable containers. Plastic glasses would do. One inside the other with a paper napkin between them to absorb the spills and act as insulation, She hated serving the flight deck. First time ever, fresh from training school oozing charm and smiles, she set her tray down on the control pedestal. They shouted at her in unison. How was she to know that liquids could ruin their silly dials and equipment? Why hadn't someone told her to pass drinks around the outside? She could rely on the flight engineer to give her a good reception, specially if she brushed past him, unnecessarily close. Flight engineers were all the same, God's gift to stewardesses. At least you knew where you were with them.

Almost imperceptibly, dawn took possession of the night sky. The Captain noticed that Venus seemed less brilliant. As the light increased he could see the dark streaks of decaying condensation trails riding above him. Despite all the evidence the feeling of isolation persisted. The first rays of the sun struck upwards from below the horizon setting the con trails ablaze in purest gold. He caught his breath at the sheer beauty of it. He searched for words to describe it.

"Tis sights such as these that the angels see in their flight," he muttered.

The co-pilot looked at him anxiously, "You all right, Sir?" he asked.

"Yes, yes, just talking to myself, I do sometimes, advancing years," he replied. "Any change in the actuals?"

Page !62 Collected Articles

"No significant change," said the co-pilot, echoing the reports, "Fog patches in the vicinity. Gatwick's gone though. Below limits."

The Captain called for a re-check on the fuel remaining and started in on top of descent briefing. Into the familiar routine, his mind settled to the task. He made his last announcement on the public address, relaxed, noncommittal, reassuring. Perhaps a short delay before landing due to air traffic control procedures and reduced visibility. From long experience and habit, he avoided all reference to adverse weather.

In the Thames valley, the fog was thickening, Heathrow’s early morning shift struggled to get to work, congregating in the north side car parks, huddled and silent in dank bus shelters. They crowded thankfully into each brightly lit bus that came, their ears assaulted by the inane early morning drivel of the radio. The exhaust laden tunnel provided only a momentary respite from the cacophony. Condensation obscured the windows cocooning the occupants, hiding the world outside. They straggled through the various terminals picking their way amongst the few benighted travellers and the back pack dossers asleep on the carpeted floors.

At the London air traffic control centre it was business as usual. As each aircraft came on the frequency it was greeted with a cordial 'Good morning’, The controllers issued or confirmed the clearances, checking each read back for precise compliance. No time was wasted on ‘Rogers' or ‘Wilcos' or any 'say agains'. The English voices cut through the ether, clear and crisp. Known as the world's best air traffic control, jealous of their reputation, they guarded it carefully, mindful of the need for eternal vigilance. On the first contact with London A.T.C. the tension eased on the flight deck amidst the rising work load. The visibility fell steadily as the flight checked out of the levels, shedding altitude and speed. They closed the localiser in one smooth interception, level now, awaiting the glide slope fly down. The flight engineer, checking and rechecking his panel, spoke softly, "M.D.F. Captain, minimum diversion fuel for Prestwick,"

The Captain grunted, then, “Thank you engineer, continue approach, confirm 80 feet decision height.”

Now coupled to the glide slope, established on the approach, cleared to land in rapid sequence, the last and vital thousand feet started to unwind on the altimeters. In the cabin the Chief heard the soft thump as the gear locked down, and checked his safety harness secure. All departments had reported, checks complete. He relaxed, settling hack into the seat.

The tower supervisor was the first to notice the monitors, The touchdown visibility was falling rapidly. He leaned across the operators shoulder, "Your traffic on short finals," he said, "what's his limits?" The operator hesitated. His superior spoke again, "Let it ride," he said, "probably only fluctuating,"

At decision height, 80 feet, the flight engineer challenged, "Decide!",

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The Captain looked ahead for the centre line. He counted three lights, four lights, five, "Land!," he commanded,

The co-pilot moved his hand clear of the go-around button allowing the automatics to shape the flare, checking the throttles closed, waiting for the bogies to touch. With reverse thrust selected and wheel brakes on, the great aeroplane slowed, eighty knots, sixty knots. The Captain cancelled reverse thrust, pushed the autopilot cut out, groping slowly forward for the runway turn off. The tower bade them good morning with a crisp, "Report clear of the active, call ground control, frequency, one two six nine," Ground control watched their every move right through to the apron.

By the time the Captain reached the roof of the multi-storey carpark, the morning was well advanced. He loaded his suitcase into the car and slumped wearily into the driving seat. Hopefully, the engine would start without trouble. The sun was now well above the horizon. He could feel its warmth heating down on the fog, thickening it at first as the air moved in response, mixing the cold surface layers with those above. In another hour or two the sun would burn it off, dry it out, his early morning mist and fog patches.

He'd had enough for one day. Weariness with its rust-eaten knife overcame him. He'd push the seat back, let down the backrest and stretch out. A couple of hours would see him right. By then it would be close to opening time, the world would be at work while he had finished. He could drive home in the clear. From long habit he turned the ignition key. There was a dull clunk and then silence. "Flat, dead flat,” he thought."These damned electronics, I never did trust them.”

Page !64 Collected Articles The Judges’ Story Comments on Erebus

OK, so I didn't get hired to check out the judge's findings, but let me try to do it anyway. In his masterly report he came pretty close. He put the major blame where it belonged, on the administration of the company's operation. He went a little astray here and there, but he toughed some sensitive nerves. Let's see why he got so strong a reaction when he touched them®.

Three headings then:

1. Pilot management 2. The descent into McMurdo 3. The Airline vis-a-vis the Regulating. Authority Pilot Management

Let's go back to the days when BOAC was a major force in aviation, starting just after the war. The Brits, owned, or operated, a stack of airlines and had a major influence on their pool partners in the Commonwealth. They had a lousy professional management running the operation, lacking in aviation expertise and often antagonistic to the flight crew. Eventually, pilots were brought in to replace them, becoming part~time fliers, part-time managers. The improvement was so marked, everybody copied and accepted that this was the right answer, No one stopped to question any weakness there might be in administration. Such training as was given was of the "Staff College" variety, concentrated on decision making. (Ironically, this was their strong point.)

So they cobbled it together, the office work, the budgets and whatever. In many airlines they still do, A.N.Z. (Air New Zealand) may be a case in point.

Part of the answer is simple, the pilot managers must be trained in these skills. When I suggested as much in my last airline, severely criticising the managements shortcomings, I went home to start packing. It was touch and go whether I left the island that day.

Without these necessary administration skills, there will always be a lot of cobbling behind the scenes. It doesn't matter too much on scheduled operations, because, once set up, it tends to run itself. But chuck in a few charter flights or specials of some sort, and it will come apart at the seams. Today there is a trend away from entirely "pilot management". Some key posts have to have a “permanent" long term holder. The aviation expertise, being a developing and on-going thing, has to be supplied by a system of deputies, or the approach I instigated as Manager Flight Standards bringing this day to day expertise to bear on each department.This latter gives an additional benefit. You get more of the highly

Page 65! Collected Articles paid aviators back where they belong, on the flight deck. As Freddie Laker says, "It's all a question of bums in seats."

The Decent into McMurdo

As a training captain you become aware of a variety of human weaknesses, Put a guy under enough pressure and he will begin to break down. His normal good housekeeping and methodical cross checking will start to go. He may revert to earlier faulty methods if his early training was faulty. The pressure may be only slight, an unfamiliar area, unforeseen difficulty, an enforced course of action away from the planned progression. No need for the wing and. a prayer stuff.

Since the days of Pontius Pilate, people have been killing themselves by flying into the ground. They descend through breaks in the cloud to stay in the clear, or to see where they are. On routine scheduled flights, there are clearly defined descent procedures, you can't always position for a "straight in". You go overhead, letting down in the pattern, or a series of patterns in "protected" airspace under control, be it radar or procedural.

So at McMurdo, the pressure was the unfamiliar area and unfamiliar task. Somewhere about the time a circling descent through gaps in the cloud was decided upon, somebody said,"My God". Whoever said that, it could only have been a seasoned aviator, maybe a flight engineer. To say he didn't like it, can't begin to get the natural feeling of horror. It say seem harsh and add to the bereaved widow’s burden, but there is no escaping the conclusion that this was a major blunder and a contributory cause of the disaster. You can

Page !66 Collected Articles see the Chief Inspector's difficulty, he doesn't like it, but he needs a bigger peg to hang it on than just poor airmanship. The judge rejects this conclusion, wrongly in my view.

The Airline vis-a-vis the Regulating Authority

The judge would smell a rat here, even if he didn't catch it. The airlines and the authorities have to work closely together to ensure compliance with the concept of the air operators certificate. It won't work if either body predominates. All too often it transpires that the airlines have the authority in their pockets.

The better, well established airlines usually carry a good deal of political clout and, since they appear to know what they're doing, they're left to get on with it, largely self- regulating.

But there is, today, another factor, perhaps more important, and I must digress. In the constant struggle for high safety standards, one major dominating factor has emerged. Leaving aside some defects in the design of the DC 10, this major contributory factor in flight safety has been the marked improvement in the last generation of aircraft. They are both better designed and fitted to their purpose and less critical of mishandling or other mismanagement. All this may be summed up as the advance of technology. Other areas of effort towards flight safety have apparently been, downgraded by this advance.

Along with this improvement has come a fearful and unlooked for penalty. When an accident does occur, it takes on the status of a national disaster. Airlines and their management react to this.

Whilst striving at every point to avoid such a thing, they begin to behave defensively. How would this look at a court of inquiry?, becomes a criteria. Managers begin to look over their shoulders, Are the records straight, able to withstand scrutiny? Perhaps a little editing is needed here and there.

Operating procedures may be judged, more by whether they comply with the regulations, than whether they are practical for the airline pilot who has to execute them. Faced with a set of regulations that do not fit the circumstances, he, poor soul, has to make it work and, maybe, breach the regulations. Once breached, it is easier next time.

Meantime, back at the ranch, we have to keep records of this man's competency as revealed on his mandatory checks. One set, perhaps, for inspection by the regulating authority, and another with all the training captains' comments on weaknesses or shortcomings marked, "Confidential File." The intention is clear. In the event of an incident involving our hero, one file will disappear lest it fall into the "wrong" hands, those perhaps, of a sharp lawyer suing the airline for punitive damages, I kid you not, this is standard practice in many airlines. D0 you now begin to understand the thinking of the ANZ chief executive and his minions? Once committed to this tack, the scene is set. Air New Zealand are distinguished, chiefly, by being found out.

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So the relationship between the airline and the authority has to be put right, to find the right mix. All the machinery seems to be there,

What is the greatest weakness in any such relationship? It lies with the examiners or inspectors, or whatever name you give them there. To function, they have to be type qualified pilots, of necessity subject to all the usual mandatory competency checks. Not having a fleet of Jumbos of their own, they have to come to the airline for their periodic checks. Since flight time is costly, they have to get by on an absolute minimum of flying and simulator time. They can get rusty. Some accommodation may be necessary on the part of the delegated examiners who work for the airline. OK, it should balance out when they, in turn, renew their delegated authority. Perhaps, Anyway, it's a good starting point for any review designed to get the thing working effectively. Of course, there is an easy way out, have an internal inquiry and get a clean bill of health,

Now, I'm not an "authority" organisation man, though I've filled in for them and worked with them. Airlines are my business. I suggest that help is fairly close at hand. Across the Tasman, they run a very tough authority. I might even agree that they are over-regulated, Not a bad fault. A couple of hard-nosed examiners from the D.C.A. would soon put things to rights.

Page !68 Collected Articles In Flight Entertainment Passengers

Crossing the International Date Line on a westerly heading you miss a day, but eastbound you get the same day twice. I remembered that from my navigation licence exams. On the way home from 'God's own country', we lived through Sunday, December 5th all over again. Well, when I say 'lived through it', we spent most of it cramped up inside one of Mr. Boeing’s wonderful flying machines.

In Honolulu we completed the entry procedures for the United States and waited for the aeroplane to be readied and another dawn to shatter the bowl of night.

"You realise," I said to my wife, "if we had gone to St. Mary's in Pokeno this morning to thank the Lord for another day, we could have gone again to thank him for the same day here in Honolulu. Maybe we'd have seen Jack Lord on his balcony on the way there as a bonus!". My wife said that when she was a girl, they always went to church twice on a Sunday so the Lord wouldn't be all that surprised. I thought of the White Queen who said, "In my country we only have one day at a time." That wouldn't have been in the Navigator's Licence, more like Alice in Wonderland. We watched the pink dawn stealing across the tarmac. Alice's wonderland has nothing on ours. "Did you enjoy the movie?" I asked, knowing the answer already. "No," she said. "I turned the sound off and tried to sleep through it." "I think it's John Travolta next sector." My wife groaned, but made no reply.

When B.O.A.C. flew the Pacific in the VC10s, we didn't have movies or sound channels. No in flight entertainment, the term was only just coming into use. I had become an important chiel by then and didn't get that far from the office. A quick trip across the Atlantic to keep my hand in, was about all.

Tommy Thompson was flogging his way amongst the anti-Greenwich meridians when the Chief Steward came up to say they had a couple of passengers causing a disturbance and could he come back and sort it out. Tommy was a big outgoing sort of chap, well equipped for sorting things out. When he got back the situation was beyond even his powers. The troublesome couple were coupling in full view right there in the middle of the first class cabin. You know how it is if you come upon dogs beyond a certain stage, beyond the bucket of water treatment stage. It was way beyond even Tommy's undoubted ability to sort things out. He must have signalled ahead, perhaps with some idea of off-loading, forgetting all about Harry. In Honolulu we had a great Station Manager, one of the old time B.O.A.C. greats. Harry took an interest in everything that went on. It was difficult to get through Honolulu without meeting Harry. Most stations it was difficult enough to find out if we had a Station Manager. Somehow the story leaked out to the press and the

Page !69 Collected Articles newspapers down under had a great time with it. The B.O.A.C. had come up with the latest thing in 'In Flight Entertainment'. It might even have got back to the U.K. although anything west of Kilkee, like north of Watford, is not of much interest. Something to do with inverse proportion and the square of the distance.

During my time at the sharp end, I tried to encourage the cabin staff to keep order for me. I preferred not to rush back and get involved every time some fracas developed in the galley. I didn't always succeed. One trip I had this big Scot's lad as Chief. His proud boast was that he'd kept order in a Glasgow pub., a sort of civilian equivalent of the Marines at Wake Island, or our own S.A.S Regiment in Malaya. So I was surprised when he came on the flight deck complaining of trouble with a 'stroppy' Arab. "Bob," I said, "I expect that I can rely on you and safely leave it in your hands."

"O.K. Skipper, sure you can", he said, but I noticed that he hung about for a while. After a time he came back. "They're threatening me with physical violence," he said, "and removing my gadageries." Although I'd worked for the Arabs for some time by then, my grasp of Arabic was still very slight but, although I wasn't familiar with the word, I was willing to hazard a guess as to its meaning. I knew that I'd have to go back and sort thing s out. I had Bob's version, that we had a 'stroppy' Arab playing cards with his friends in first class. These Arab kids had come through from economy and were racing around. The 'A' lady had chased them out and one of the card playing Arabs objected. They weren't his kids, they belonged to his friend. Bob had weighed in to support the stewardess and a row had developed.

I dragged myself reluctantly from the seat to go back and hear the other side. We were out of Paris for Doha and Abu Dhabi with a bit to go and nothing much demanding my immediate attention. Above us the spent man made ironmongery was whistling around the world, occasionally showing against the backcloth of the stars. Below us the Arabs were hell bent on burning off the gas, all that lovely, irreplaceable fossil fuel which had taken billions of years to lay down, just as fast as they could flare it. Sandwiched between we were making our own contribution, pouring seven tonnes of kero down the jet pipes every hour, adding what we could to the general pollution. Something about these long night flights makes philosophers of us all.

I knew it was quite common for Arabs to travel in first class with their wives and families in economy but it's probably not common knowledge in the Glasgow boozers. I was right. The kids had come forward to see their Dad and had been rudely ordered out, and by a woman at that. The most important Arab had taken umbrage on his friend's behalf as he was honour bound to do. The misunderstanding was easily settled and ruffled feathers smoothed. I told the Chief that it was all patched up. In my book the passengers come first, the Company rules second, and don't screw it up again. I worried a bit about the 'A' lady. She was an Aussie sheila of uncertain temper and dubious breeding. For all I knew she might have other plans for Bob's gadageries, and stir things up again. I decided to let it ride.

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We transited Doha without any problems and I fired up the RB211s for Abu Dhabi. Just before top of descent, Bob reappeared. The Arab had turned real stroppy, now Bob was going to jail just as soon as we got there. There were no further threats in Arabic, but probably that too. I instructed the First Officer to call the Tower. "Let's have the police to meet the flight," I said, "just tell them we have a slight problem, they'll understand."

When we got on the chocks, I noticed a group awaiting the steps to go up and a squad of police, or at least quasi-military type guards with them. I watched as our 'stroppy' Arab got to the tarmac, half expecting him to be seized and rushed off. Instead, the night shirted ones fell upon him and kissed him. The guards made a shambolic attempt at a salute. The 'stroppy' one was clearly a man of some importance in his own land. I learnt shortly that he was a minister of the government and amongst many titles and offices he numbered that of Chief of Police and Governor General of Prisons.

I signed the master's report and collected my few belongings. The cabin crew were hanging about the galley nervously waiting instead of haring it across the tarmac weighted down with sufficient company stores to take them over the slip. "Stay here," I said, "you are protested this side of Customs, on international territory. I'll go ashore and spy out the land." Bob seemed comforted by the international territory bit, little knowing that I had newly invented it for the occasion.

In the Custom's Hall things were brewing up for a diplomatic incident. The Minister had told his friends and they were poised to execute his bidding. "No, no!," he cried, "not the Captain, he is very good man, he is my friend." They released me at once. I ventured the information that I had detained the cabin staff aboard. They were not to set foot on his country's soil until it was decided what to do with them. This was a slight shift away from the international territory idea. I detected a look of relief on the Minister's face, an indication of seeking a way out. No poker player here, I thought. He unwillingly settled for a public apology. "The man," he said, "and the woman too. The woman is not to speak".

By the time I got back to the aeroplane, the seriousness of the situation had sunk in. They were more than willing to apologise. Not just apologise, I told them, grovel, lay it on, really grovel. How in Heaven's name was I to prevent the Aussie scrubber from blowing it, I wondered. What power on earth would keep her mouth shut? Actually, it went off very well. At the last moment, I nearly threw in the 'caps off bit, hut refrained. The woman must not uncover her hair. She opened her mouth once to say something, and I yelled at her to shut her up before she got a word out. I don't generally yell at people, but I yelled at her.

Once safely in the hotel, they began to sing a different tune and back at base, they complained to Catering about it. The Catering bosses, ever keen to stir up trouble between the cabin staff and flight crew, wrote indignantly to the Operations Manager of the failure of the Captain to support them. A sure fire winner that one, and generally a top card.

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Although sworn to eternal and absolute silence, I at once revealed the name of the 'stroppy' one and I heard no more.

I expect my rating in the galley dropped a few points after that. It wasn't ever very high, nor did I rate myself highly on the public address. I was glad when movies and music channels came along and the cabin staff took to hogging the PA with exciting safety briefings and explanations of immigration procedures and 'doors to manual'.

Not everyone agreed with me. My friend, Jack, known affectionately as Catering Jack, loved the PA and his passengers loved it also. I took him to task one route check flight. I had the dread that, one day, carried away by his own eloquence he would overfly his destination, vanishing from the radar screens, talking away, the other crew members pointing downwards, vainly trying to divert him. Jack responded by telling me of all the letters he received from delighted passengers from all over the world and all walks of life, praising his public address. I tried to think of one that I'd had, just one. Nothing came to mind, nothing except a two page telex abusing me and my aeroplane and my airline, and only narrowly missing out on my ancestors. It ended with the most arresting declamation I have ever seen in a telex. "I will never set a leg on your golden fallon again."

I turned the route check form over, looking for the part on passenger handling. I put the ticks in the far right hand column, the column where ticks had never gone before under the heading, 'Exceptional'. "A very good route check Jack," I said, "no adverse comments whatever, keep up the good work."

Page 72! Collected Articles The Twain Shall Meet Training aircrew in the Middle East

The redistribution of wealth between the Western nations and the so-called Third World, has brought about major changes in the civil aviation scene with the emergence of large, state sponsored airlines, intent upon employing their own nationals in every phase of their operation. This is particularly so in the Middle East where the oil revenues have facilitated a rapid development.

In the initial impetus these airlines employed expatriates in large numbers and, whilst many still do, the expertise of the expatriates has bean increasingly employed in the training of "Nationals". The flight deck was long regarded as the last stronghold of the expatriate in this progression, but now, nearly all the national carriers have well advanced pilot training programmes. A major part of the ab-initio training has been entrusted to the Western nations, with the U.K. and tho United States flying schools and airlines predominating.

Whilst it is fair to say that these programmes are succeeding in producing well trained pilots, they have not been without difficulty and misunderstanding on both sides and I hear a good many reservations expressed either as to the quality of the candidates, or the standards achieved and the rapidity of the change over.

Compared with other fields of learning, the aviators are latecomers and much of the knowledge gained in other fields has been slow to filter through. A good deal of literature has been published seeking to explain the difficulties which Middle East students and their tutors encounter in undergoing higher education in the West, based mainly upon differences of theological and philosophical background. In summarising such material, it is impossible to avoid some generalisation and assumptions, and practitioners of such disciplines should bear in mind that I have endeavoured to select and put forward only such views as appear to be borne out by my own experience in aviation and which accord with my own beliefs.

The Middle East region is predominantly Muslim, The great cultural heritage of Islam is both a religion and a prescription for conducting a society. Throughout the Middle East, after a period of westernisation, there has been a resurgence of Islam. Such societies traditionally, have a rigid structure lacking in the social mobility, opportunity for advancement and improvement in status which is such a feature of Western society, particularly North American society. Whereas individual aspirations are fostered within Western society, the Easterner tends to a group philosophy, relying not so much on individual effort for advancement, but on the combined group efforts. Such groupings are determined by family, occupation, economic status, ethnic background, and the like.

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The individuals within such a group tend to conform to the group aspirations with their primary loyalty to the group. This develops certain excellent characteristics, but also a limited self reliance, dependence on authority and acceptance of traditions. These are not altogether the characteristics we wish to develop in the airline pilot, as the eventual aim is to command and qualities of leadership, self-reliance and individual acceptance of responsibility are required. Here let it be said that the responsibility placed upon today's airline captain is very heavy, and the individual, if he is to succeed, must be able to bear this responsibility and indeed, to thrive upon it.

As the Irishman said when I asked him to direct me to the Cliffs of Mohnr, "If I were you, I wouldn't start from here.” However, start from here we must, and in constructing a training course, or series of courses we must aim to foster the latent individualism, so that the qualities required in the airline captain emerge.

Higher education in this country and the United States demands a mastery of concepts, abstractions, analogies and interpretation. The student is educated by being encouraged to think for himself. The Middle East student may be ill prepared for this.

Islam has evolved an educational system based upon the teaching of the Koran. The Koran, being a sacred book revealed to Mohammed with divine authority, must remain unaltered and unquestioned. Such a system leaves little room for personal interpretation and tends to set patterns of learning. The teacher takes on the mantle of authority and great reliance is placed upon rote learning and memorising the lesson content. This type of education is well adapted for indoctrinating people to take their place within a group society which values tradition and seeks to maintain the status quo.

In flying instruction and the teaching of aviation subjects, we are involved in developing a skill and providing a background of knowledge to support it. Clearly over much of this territory we can adapt our methods to suit the students as much of the subject matter lends itself to teaching by rote. Socratic methods can be introduced as the student progresses.

A particular difficulty arises when the instructor favours a questioning technique. The student, if unable to answer correctly, in addition to losing face has failed to please the master. The instructor then goes on to ask further questions to help the student to deduce the right answer. Unable to follow this kind of logic, the student becomes more confused and, in the end, relapses into a sullen silence. The rest of the class, inhibited by the instructor from bringing their "group" philosophy into play and answer for him, relapse also and conclude that this man is not their friend and also he is a very bad instructor.

The Eastern student has great difficulty with instructors whose methods vary when dealing with a particular subject or manoeuvre. His innate belief that the subject is not open to differing interpretations and that there cannot be more than one truth, prevents him discerning that the instructor is teaching the same principle but from a different

Page !74 Collected Articles standpoint. He will find this lacking in clear authority and be confused, once again finding fault with the instructors or the school.

His previous experience has, however, given him at least one marked advantage. In subjects such as spoken English, where instruction is ear orientated, he will do well and display a quite astonishing ability for retention of spoken material. It is necessary to differentiate between the standard of attainment in spoken English and that revealed in written tests, where such tests rely upon analysis and interpretation of the text, this is a form of intellectual exercise which the student is unable to perform in English, or indeed in his own language. The ability to memorise and recall lesson material is one which can be used to great effect in learning drills, procedures and aircraft systems and in preparation for set piece examinations.

The work ethic which is so well developed in Western society, has little or no counterpart in the Middle East. Within a closed group society, work, without its attendant rewards, is not highly valued. An Arab student selected for training, may take it for granted that by undergoing the training, or simply putting the time in, he win emerge successfully with the right qualification. He has to be brought to appreciate that hard sustained work and application will be required and different study habits developed.

A sponsor airline, in considering whether to detach an experienced aviator to work with the contracted flying school, should consider employing one of their younger "national" pilots for this task. As course shepherd and natural group leader, such an individual can greatly assist in developing guided self study sessions and, playing upon national aspirations, can produce the required application in a way not open to more senior expatriate employees.

Christianity and Islam share a belief in one God. Christianity emphasises the direct personal relationship between God and each individual on earth. This gives rise to the development of a conscience for feeling and recognising personal guilt. The Westerner, however, can fairly readily disregard his society's condemnation or disapproval if he feels justified within himself. Allah, through Mohammed, appears not so much concerned with the individual but, as supreme being, governs all earthly and universal circumstances. Muslim prayers show a belief and trust in Allah's generosity and acknowledge that he alone determines all causes and effects. This results in quite different moral values and judgements. Perhaps because of this and the group structure of his society, the Arab student often displays an inability to establish cause and effect relationships. Whilst strongly "goal" orientated, he may be unable to say how this can be brought about and Arabic expressions abound to this effect, "Everything is from Allah" or "Allah will be generous". Western instructors may well he baffled by such an attitude. It is often necessary to motivate the student towards an objective mastery of each subject. Left to his own devices, the student may adopt methods of obtaining the desired result which give rise to accusations of cheating. Where no moral code has been flouted, no stigma is attached and the student may well reply,"You wanted the right answer didn't you?".

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In the course of a visit to one North American aviation academy, I was invited to observe a class of foreign student pilots sitting a phase examination. In addition to the classroom invigilator, I found myself watching with another invigilator through a one-way mirror. I raised the point at a subsequent management meeting. “Can't seem to be able to stop them cribbing and cheating other than by catching them out and disqualifying them”, I was told. I recounted my own experience when I underwent flying training in the U.S.A. and first encountered the American honour system. Not only was I honour bound not to cheat, but also bound to report any evidence of cheating by my colleagues. This latter requirement conflicted with my British sense of fair play and horror of "sneaking", and I found it repugnant. As a Britisher, I might be prepared to crib if the opportunity presented itself, but the prospect of detection would have to be very low and the return, by way of a higher grade, very important to me. I left with the impression that I hadn't got my point across.

On a more recent occasion, with a group taking a type conversion course, although they had not distinguished themselves in any way during the course, I found that they had produced quite outstanding results in the final examination. Subsequently, on the simulator, I noticed that one or two were decidedly weak in their technical knowledge and privately concluded that they had somehow circumvented the system and gained access, not only to the paper itself, but to the answers as well. Whilst giving full marks for initiative, extra time had to be given in repairing these weaknesses.

An American professor teaching foreign students, mentioned to me the problem of presents. This became acute as examination time approached and grades had to be awarded, and she felt they were seeking preferment. She dealt with it in class by explaining that, within her society, such present giving could be misconstrued and the teacher offended, whether given in friendship or not. Judged by the subsequent lack of presents, this ploy was effective. I have always made it plain that I would be happy to accept presents, on the understanding that it wouldn't make a blind bit of difference to the outcome. Judged by the same criterion, this also seemed effective.

It is evident that the candidate needs to succeed, whether in his own right or from family and national pressures, coupled with a different moral code, may lead to such stratagems and has to he tackled with understanding and circumvented by explanation of the necessity for individual unaided effort, whilst not neglecting strict security.

Loss of Face is a well known cultural concept which is more readily described than explained.

It seems to be a complex interaction of several factors. Where western man is concerned with facts and objective truth, almost without regard to his personal dignity, the Easterner considers his personal dignity so important that he will view the facts subjectively, as he wishes to see them. This attitude is reinforced by his theological and philosophical

Page !76 Collected Articles background which demands that he answer to society for his deeds and must needs appear perfect to escape its censure.

Whilst we all suffer hurt to our dignity and a sense of shame and humiliation when, we fail to achieve our aim or fail an examination or check flight, in general we are able to rationalise our failure and either accept it or make good the deficiency and successfully retake the test. The loss of face concept makes this situation particularly hard for the Middle East student as much more is involved within his family and national group, and pressures are liable to be exerted on the examiners or the flying school to get the student through the course in breach of the normally accepted standards of competence. This issue has to be squarely faced. It has to be clearly spelt out with the contracting school, or body providing training facilities, just who is responsible for assessing the standards achieved, and how decisions are to be implemented.

One considerable safeguard exists whilst the students are undergoing approved courses leading to the issue of the host country's commercial licence. This licence is then accepted by the regulating authority of the national carrier as prima facie evidence of the licence holder's competence. Although the system appears pretty watertight, it is not altogether foolproof.

As every examiner knows, there is no problem in assessment where the candidate is clearly competent, nor when he is incompetent, it is the middle group which gives difficulty. This group, which we may call the "marginals", may be assessed by one examiner as a marginal pass, and another as a marginal failure, although no such formal category exists, there being only a pass or fail assessment, where other constraints have been eased, such as the requirement to complete the course within an accepted time scale, or within a budget cost, candidates may continue under training, be given extra time and facilities, or switched to other schools to appear eventually as qualified pilots. Experience has shown that when this occurs, the marginal pilot is likely to remain a borderline case in his subsequent career. It has been said that you could train a monkey to do it, given enough time and money. In this situation, it's no good blaming the monkey, it's the organ grinder you want, when he turns the handle, the music plays and the monkey merely jumps up and down.

To fend off undesirable "political" pressures, the best solution is to create a review board whereby the sponsor airline, the national government and the regulating authority share the responsibility in deciding upon marginal cases, Where no such safeguard exists, it is difficult for individuals to take decisions and they will, almost invariably, feel compelled to bow to external pressure.

The course of civil aviation has developed along much the same lines as the mercantile marine, but on a shorter time scale. The strict regulation enforced by the great maritime powers led to high standards of safety and competence. When "commercial" pressures intervened and "flags of convenience" appeared, the situation continued, apparently

Page 77! Collected Articles unchanged for some years, but lately we have become aware that all is not well in the regulation of maritime affairs. It seems to me that there was a good deal of fat in the system and it took some time before this was used up.

The fear at the back of my mind in aviation today is that we may, inadvertently, take the same route, and if political pressure, nepotism, or whatever, is allowed to interfere in the selection or training or qualification of the pilot force, then we most certainly will.

Within an autocratic society the reins of power lie in a very few hands. The interdependence and independence between government regulating authority and government backed airline which functions well within our Western society, cannot have the same scope within an autocracy, however benign and well intentioned. When you get right down to individual cases, you may be dealing with someone's favourite nephew and he has recourse to powerful influences. The most subtle and potentially most dangerous influence is the suggestion that you are antagonistic towards the national aspiration, and unsympathetic towards members of that society.

The real safeguard, and eventually the only one, lies with the examiners and perhaps more importantly, with the delegated examiners. Standards of competence are their business and it is their integrity which has to be maintained. If the marginal pilots are allowed to progress to their province, the problems become even more acute. If we are right in thinking that the mandatory checks are the means by which standards are achieved and maintained, the examiners must be able to operate in an atmosphere free from fear or favour.

Right at the end of the chain is the passenger, the guy who puts the money on the counter. Implicit in the contract is the notion of a safe flight, and the most important component in this is the well-trained and competent flight crew. Although he may be more immediately concerned with timetables, pretty stewardesses, free drinks or any other aspect of the ballyhoo of aviation, at the back of the passenger's mind is the paramount idea of a safe flight. The greatest constraint then, for the nations newly turned to aviation, is this unspoken but powerful desire for safety. Feelings of national pride and prestige have to yield pride of place to this overriding consideration. Unfortunately, this ultimate sanction cannot function until too late, when the structure has already been undermined.

There is a critical period in the emergence of a national carrier, where the expatriate labour force carry the responsibility for standards of competence before the national pilots are ready and sufficiently experienced to take over. It is here that the time servers, the "I'm only here for the money" guys, and worse, the "It's their airline" brigade, can begin to let it slip.

Once the more able of the nationals start to fill the examiner slots, the standards rise. They are, by then, aware of what is at stake, and are better equipped to function within their own society. When this begins to happen, you can cheerfully pack your bags, close your bank account, and head for home.

Page 78! Collected Articles That Doesn’t Count Returning to the UK

When I decided in 1979 that enough was enough and gave up my job, my wife and I returned from the Middle East to the U.K. After what seemed a very busy month moving back into our house, which had been rented out for close on six years, I found time to visit the Social Security Centre. Ahead of me in the queue was a gentleman from Pakistan, his women folk and offspring taking up a good deal of the available space along the row of seats under the windows. The girl at the enquiry counter questioned him briefly. He had apparently, arrived in the country too late on Friday afternoon to call upon her and had to wait till Monday morning. Both the clerk and applicant seemed quite at ease and after a few more enquiries, he was instructed on how to complete various forms, he produced a bundle of passports and, when these had been pronounced satisfactory, he went over to the window wall there to explain to the ladies that all was well. They left with every appearance of satisfied customers.

When it came to my turn, things did not proceed quite so smoothly. Perhaps I had become used to the Arabic ways and found it difficult to embark directly on the business in hand. I wished her, "Good morning". "What do you want", she demanded. I told her, as briefly as I could, that I was a British subject who had been abroad for nearly six years and, having made Social Security contributions throughout on a voluntary basis to the overseas centre in Newcastle, they had now advised me that that arrangement must end and I should contact my local office. She pushed a form towards me. "Go over there and fill that out," she said. I went and sat on one of the chairs vacated by the Pakistani family. I studied the form. It was a claim for unemployment benefit. I took it back having to join the queue of new arrivals to do so. "I told you to fill it out", she said. I countered by saying that I had no wish to claim unemployment benefit and, moreover, I was aware that, having been abroad, I was not entitled to do so. At this stage, I think, she decided that I was a trouble maker and thought to frighten me off. "Do you want to see the Supervisor?", she asked. "Yes", I replied. I had to go and wait in a booth alongside, screened from outside view. I could hear her brief the supervisor, who turned out to be another slip of a girl, barely distinguishable from the first in both appearance and attitude.

I went over it again, explaining as best I could that I was not employed and did not seek employment. Did I need to continue paying contributions to the scheme and for how long? Could I continue to pay voluntarily? Was I entitled to have the State make the contributions or was there some other suitable arrangement? She affected not to hear. I must complete the form and sign it, that was all. When pressed she couldn't answer the questions. I would have to write to Newcastle. I said again that that was what I had done and here was their reply, go to your local office. Here I was. Reluctantly she began to

Page !79 Collected Articles answer some of my questions. No I could not pay voluntarily, I could, however, pay as self- employed and she knew of no other arrangement. I said I was not self-employed, nor was I unemployed, merely not employed. The distinction was too fine. She decided to cajole me. Just sign the form, she would do the rest. I decided to go along. I crossed out all the questions on the form and signed it. She sighed with relief. "We will write to you to tell you if you are entitled to benefit, you will have to come here every second Tuesday at eleven-fifteen, now go to the Job Centre. Do you know where it is?". I left.

I had signed on as unemployed, there being no other category except employed and self- employed. I had asked for unemployment benefit although not eligible. But perhaps they would credit me with further contributions if I came every other Tuesday at 11.15 for ever. Well not for ever, there must be a time limit but no one seemed to know. Perhaps they knew at the Job Centre.

The girl there was altogether different and quite charming. No, she couldn't tell me, only the Social Security could do that, I had now come to an entirely different department. She went into a prepared pitch, filling in items on her score sheet as she did so. "I think it's Reading you want", she said, "I'll ring up Reading”.

She did so and spoke brightly into the telephone. Something she said alarmed me, something about "Airline executive, qualified L1011". I protested. "Perhaps you'd like to speak to them", she said and handed me the telephone. It wasn't a very satisfactory conversation hut the girl at the other end was very reassuring. "We'll send you all the information Captain, just give me your address and you'll get it in a day or two'.'

Whilst I'd been away the County Boundaries got altered. Slough had somehow got into Berkshire. That wouldn't have mattered too much but all the little villages just to the north, which had Slough as part of the address, had, perforce, been moved also, although in every other respect they remained in Bucks. You have to be careful over such matters.

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In Reading they got it quite wrong, mistaking Farnham Common for Farnham in Surrey. The information must have gone to Surrey as I never received it. I realised that now I had been registered on something called the Executive Register.

The bright girl smiled reassuringly at me. There was very little danger of them finding a vacancy for me. But a T.O.P.S. course in management was obviously just what I needed. I knew about T.O.P.S. "My dear", I said, "I have been involved in management for some years now and frankly, that's the very last thing I want. Couldn't I do something useful? She looked slightly worried. "Oh dear, perhaps Reading wasn't the right thing, do you mean craft courses?". It turned out that craft courses came under the Job Centre. Rather like D.F.C's and D.F.M's I thought.

I pored through the literature she produced and then I spotted it. Bricklaying. Yes, definitely, that's what I wanted and besides, as everyone knows, there is a distinguished precedent. Things now became very difficult, she studied her charts, bricklaying was more popular than I'd thought, the courses were booked up simply yonks ahead. Again, perhaps not, some of them were suspended or the centre closed, perhaps Southampton, but no, all full up for yonks. She looked at me and warned me that I couldn't just go through the leaflets and pick out things I fancied. There were interviews and tests. "Tests", I said, "What sort of tests?". (My whole experience as an airline pilot had made me very wary of tests.) "What sort of tests do you give a chap who wants to be a bricklayer?". She was not to be drawn and fell silent. I had begun to feel hopeful of T.O.P.S. To change course and retrain for a whole new career, like the happy people in the photographs on the leaflets she had given me, now began to slip away.

I would make one more effort. What of my Army friends? What of those soldiers of fortune in the service of the Sultan of Muscat and the Oman? When they left the Army and returned to the U.K. their T.O.P.S. courses were already arranged and, laying aside their sun bleached khaki or Air Force blue, they transferred smoothly from service to civilian life.

She smiled at me. "Ex-servicemen are given a degree of priority," she admitted. "Good," I replied, "As it happens, amongst other things, I am an ex-serviceman myself." She looked at me. When was that?", she cried. I confessed that it was sometime ago, during the war even, as a bomber pilot. "That doesn't count", she said.

I realised that the other occupants of the room, seated at their desks, had all fallen silent. I decided to play to the gallery. "What do you mean, it doesn't count?". I looked around the room, "Did you hear that? Six years in the R.A.F. during the war as a bomber pilot and it doesn't count". Poor girl. "That's not what I meant", she said quietly. Her colleagues all looked away, pretending they hadn't heard. I made my peace with her, as best I could, and went away.

As anyone who has ever retired will tell you, in the first six months or so, you wonder how you ever made time to go to work. It's surprising how quickly you get to every second

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Tuesday and Box Three at what was the old labour exchange. I sometimes look round the queue for my Pakistani friend, but I don't know if I’d recognise him amongst so many. One day, they had a young fellow behind the counter and he looked more approachable than most of his female counterparts. I ventured an enquiry as to how long one needed to contribute to the Social Security to secure the standard old age pension. He didn't know but hazarded a guess, about forty years, he thought. From his standpoint, forty years was little short of eternity. Who would know? He volunteered an address. I wrote, but they didn't know either but they thought High Wycombe might know and they had sent my letter on. In due course, I had a letter from High Wycombe and, not only did they know, but they had checked the records. The answer, albeit hedged about with conditions and safeguards, was forty-four years, in my case, only two to go.

When my old buddy came through, en route from New York to Sydney, I told him all of this. He was incredulous and firmly of the opinion that, having retired at the normally accepted age for airline pilots, he need make no further contributions. That's right too, there's no compulsion, but, if you make it to your 65th birthday, it might come as a disappointment to find your old age pension reduced. And, who knows, ten years of inflation with "index linked", already a rude expression, you might be pleased to have a little help by then.

Oh yes, I nearly forgot, what looked like some sort of computer print-out came through the post. Written in fearsome jargon, I managed to interpret most of it. It said I was not entitled to unemployment benefit.

I read in my Daily Telegraph that this year's Bomber Command reunion was a great success. 'Butch' Harris was in great form and fired off another burst or two at all those who believed it didn't count. Sadly, I read that it might be the last reunion. That is a pity because I haven't attended one yet and, now that I have got time to go, they plan to pack it in. It's got too expensive apparently.

While I'm still flush, I'd be prepared to chip in to enable one of the guys to go and, maybe if there are a few more of like mind, we could keep it going for a bit yet. Just so long as it doesn't fall on a Tuesday, a second Tuesday at 11.15.

We used to say in what the Irish called The old Bee Ho Hay See , "I'll buy you a beer ". If you really owed him one you added, "Even in Karachi". Today then, even in London.

Page 82! Collected Articles 1984 Opinion

Politicians and pundits alike have joined in the general hoo-ha . Orwell was wrong. Nineteen eighty four is here and his predictions have not come about. Perhaps we have missed the point.

The Americans always saw the book as a straight forward attack on Communism, on Russia in particular. Others saw it as a dreadful warning on the dangers of Fascism and authoritarianism in general. Some considered it a satire or a fable of our times. Taken literally, his predictions for Britain were certainly wrong.

I believe Orwell was right in at least one respect. There are men and women who desire power and strive ceaselessly to achieve and maintain it. Governments, of whatever political hue, by their very nature fall within this category and, in their endeavours to sustain themselves, may encroach heavily on the lives and freedom of their fellow citizens. Orwell describes,, in terrifying detail, how they do it, stressing his point by taking things to their logical conclusion. The battle for hearts and minds leads inexorably to brain washing, the subversion of truth, to bread and circus acts, and the constant need for enemies. Wars are particularly useful, providing at once the willing acceptance of whatever decree authority deems necessary in the 'National Interest.' In nineteen forty eight the government seemed reluctant to strike off the shackles imposed by War, and Orwell felt compelled to sound his dread warning by projecting forward to 'Big Brother,' in his neat anagram of the date.

What leads us to suppose that the danger, if it existed, is now past and cannot recur? Is our democratic system entirely foolproof?

It has just been revealed that, thirty years ago, Churchill had a stroke. It was kept a secret. He was overworked, a temporary strain. Press photographs were permitted only whilst he stood still. Why the secrecy? Did the government feel endangered if the truth got out?

More recently, in the Falklands conflict, truth was an early casualty. The news arrangements seemed to go adrift. The Argentine Government became a Junta, and then the pronunciation changed to the didactic 'Hunta'. Suddenly, we heard of women circling a courtyard, calling for missing relatives, mysteriously vanished in sinister circumstances. The hate campaign had begun. Fortunately, the conflict was brief and successful and we heard no more. It did not go unnoticed in both the old world and the new, that success in war brings success at the ballot box. In this, perhaps fateful, year the process of installing over six hundred nuclear weapons in Europe is already well begun. No doubt the Russians will then install a like amount. This increase in armaments, we are told, will further deter

Page 83! Collected Articles our enemies and thus guarantee peace. The Defence Secretary declares himself to be the Guardian of Peace. The Orwellian parallel is plain.

Orwell is very pessimistic. Slowly but surely, his hero and heroine are crushed. In the end they betray each other in abject and total defeat. This goes against the grain. We like to believe that there is an unquenchable spark somewhere in the human spirit, at least amongst the heroic. What if Orwell is right? If the pressures are strong enough, can the spark be extinguished?

I think he may be warning us, not to leave it too late to find out as, once beyond some ill defined point of no return, the process becomes irreversible and freedom, once lost, cannot be regained. In nineteen eighty four there is more at stake than Orwell thought to predict. Not merely freedom and truth and decency, but the very existence of the human race itself.

Page !84 Collected Articles Mr Forbes I Presume Letter to sister Olive

I was on duty at London's Heathrow when the billie came through, "Mr. Forbes," I said, "would you oblige me by signing your passport?" I had to give him the loan of a pen for it was clear that he was travelling light.

As he signed it I asked him, "Do you call yourself Forbes in the English way or do you work the Scottish style of For-bis?"

He had got used to Forbes, he told me. I noticed that he was born in Buckie. "My grandmother had a saying, something about 'gang tae Buckie for Skate'," said I as I made sure of getting my pen back. He didn't respond to that,

"No, no," he said, "I don't live there these days though I was born there. I'm from Fochabers now."

I told him I was acquainted with Fochabers. Well, I'd had fish and chips there once and my sister moved there recently so I kent of it and had it in mind. By now I'd had a chance to size him up. He seemed dressed more for the road than for the air. He stuck his passport back in his pooch. Folk come through here in all manner of dress, you understand, better than twenty thousand of them, every day, but I'd spotted what was unusual. He had both hands free. He wasn't carrying anything,

"Where are you off to," I enquired, just out of ill fashions more than anything.

"The source of the Nile," said he. Well, you're a bit latchy, I thought to myself, it's already been found and some time ago at that.

"Jinja, then," I ventured.

"That's no' the real source," said he, "it's Rwanda I'll be starting from, then I'll be walking it, all the way to Alexandria." He strung off the names of places en route so I knew he'd done his homework and he wasn't as casual about it as might appear at first.

"You'll not walk some of those bits," I said, "You'll need to take to the river at times and strike away from it at others."

"Ach, I’ll buy or hire a boat where I need it, I’ll build one if I have to," he said, "but I’ll walk the feck of it."

"How long do you think it will take you?" I asked.

"About four months was his estimate. He started to tell me of previous trips he had made. I managed another observation.

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"It might interest you to know, I’ve flown the length of the Nile many a time," I said, "in the course of an afternoon, in little, over four hours." He made no reply. I think his mind was casting ahead to the journey. There was nothing more I could do for him, he was not a man who needed directions to the Gate or to speir as to what he should do next, I wished him well. "Take care of yourself," I said. I nearly added, "And tak' an egg whiles," another of my Grannie's sayings, but I refrained.

"Tell your sister in Fochabers that you've seen me," he cried as he made off.

I thought I'd do that and better, there will be others interested in his progress. When he'd gone, I thought of all the things I should have asked him. You know how it is. The first white man to clap eyes on the river, where it flows out of Lake Victoria, built a cairn, in the Scottish way of marking the spot. Later on they built a dam and had to move the cairn. When I saw it, I got the feeling they'd moved it to the wrong side of the river to be handier for the tourists. I could have asked the billie if he'd pay particular attention to the point and let me know. I'm not likely to get another, chance. Mr. Forbes, I thought, was just the kind of man to undertake a small commission and cry inby on his way home with the answer,

God forbid that he fall into difficulty or adversity amongst hostile tribesmen, but if he does, I have the satisfaction of knowing that his passport is up to date and signed in all the right places.

Afterword Sourced from www.http://buckieheritage.org/ Oct 25 - 1983 Bill Forbes returns home, “beaten but not unbowed” says the report on the front page of the ‘Advertiser’. He was attacked and robbed of much of his money and decided that discretion was the better part of valour and returned home. He was obviously most disappointed that the journey that he felt he was more than able to complete should have been brought to sorry end by a bunch of thugs. He was fortunate to escape with his life.

Page !86 Collected Articles Mailly-le-Camp Wartime Recollections

I recognised the gaunt figure of Cheshire at once. He was pouring himself a cup of coffee in the departure lounge of the old Terminal Three at Heathrow. "Don't have the cream," I said, "it's gone off." He gave me a slight glance but made no reply. "Try something stronger," I suggested moving towards the array of bottles. "I could use something". Again no reply. He started to move off. There was no possible way he could recognise me, we had never met, in any conventional sense, that is, other than in the air.

"Do you remember a place called Mailly-le-Camp?", I asked. He stopped dead in his tracks. Now I had his full attention. After a moment he said something about forgetting, about never forgetting, then abruptly launched into an explanation of what went wrong on the raid, and the losses. It was the Australian voice breaking in, he claimed, jamming the R/T, that caused the difficulty making control impossible, allowing the night fighters time to move in for the kill. "Strange", I thought, all these years I had believed the voice to be Canadian. Privately I wondered if, at the time, he could tell one Colonial accent from another. English, public school educated, it seemed unlikely. I ventured the thought but he was adamant, no, no, Australian.

Presently they called the flight and we trooped out with the others. The Jumbo lifted effortlessly into the night sky and out across Europe on to our first scheduled stop in Bombay. Cosseted inside the warm cabin my mind ran back to the cold dark winter nights of 1943 and 61 Squadron at Skellingthorpe. Sixty one, just another run-of-the-mill main force squadron in Bomber Command's Five Group, had endured a hard winter. Butch Harris had declared his intention of destroying Berlin and thus began the series of sixteen major raids on the Capital city. My crew and I escaped lightly with only nine but for variety we did a couple of Leipzigs and one Stettin, all reaching deep into Germany.

In high places and in low, it seemed to me, that resolve began to waver. With the mounting losses, and what Churchill had previously called 'the fear of injury', the Air Marshals began to back off.

First to go were the lumbering Stirlings with their lower ceiling which caused them to endure both the flak from below and the rain of bombs from above. Then the vulnerable Halifaxes, now taking the brunt of the casualties, were withdrawn. The Lancasters carried on. Away to the north, for whatever reasons, the commanders of No.l Group began to overload their aeroplanes. The crews responded by shedding the 'cookies' into the North Sea to gain altitude. Pathfinder Bennett complained of the 'fringe merchants' who skated around the target perimeter avoiding the worst of the flak. In turn, the crews complained of his poor target marking.

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Nuremburg effectively ended the winter series with over one hundred aeroplanes lost in a single night. Shortly thereafter we found ourselves attacking the easier French targets preparatory to the forthcoming land invasion. Cheshire, meantime, had been given command of 617 Squadron who, following their spectacular successes at the Dams had been sitting out the air war over Germany. Cheshire sought the opportunity to put into operation his ideas of low level target marking previously condemned by Bennett as suicidal against heavily defended targets. Harris eventually gave permission and an aircraft factory at Toulouse was selected as the target for the first full scale effort.

On the night of April 5th 1944, with Cheshire flying a Mosquito and personally carrying out the initial target marking, backed up by members of 617 Squadron, some 144 Lancasters from 5 Group moved in to demolish the target. The results exceeded all expectations. Even on the ground the factory workers had been given a ten minute warning, via the resistance movement, of the impending attack and casualties were light. Apart from one aeroplane which inexplicably blew up over the target, all returned safely. The factory was completely destroyed.

Cheshire was now given the green light and even a couple of squadrons which had been loaned to the Pathfinders were returned to 5 Group. Thus began the brief interlude which gave rise to the 5 Group title of 'The Independent Airforce'. Certainly the French targets were easy, a piece of cake. There was only one cloud on the horizon. Rumour had it that each trip was to count as only one third of an operation. For my crew, close to being tour

Page 88! Collected Articles expired, we took it badly, although privately agreeing that it seemed only fair. Mailly-le- Camp was to change all that.

The plan for Mailly was essentially the same as Toulouse but further developed. This time the target was a Panzer Tank training school. The main force was increased to 346 aeroplanes. R/T was to be used, one way of course, and the bombers were to hold circling to the north of the target, their position marked by yellow flares. On the night of May 3rd. 1944 we set out flying at 6000 feet in fine conditions. It soon became evident that we would be early and we slowed as much as practical to be on time.

We arrived slightly early and the target markers slightly late. The yellow flares, however, were in place. One look at them convinced me that it was not a healthy place to be so we held our easterly heading towards the darkness. Presently my rear gunner, Jock Hay, reported that a red spot fire target indicator had gone down and we banked away to port ready to move back in. The R/T instruction to bomb came just in time as we were bomb doors open and tracking the target indicators. It has been my belief ever since, that we were the first to bomb but recent researchers have put us at number six. Be that as it may it was clear we had a direct hit, too direct as it happened for the red spot fire vanished. With the instruction 'Cease bombing, cease bombing', ringing in our ears, we bent the throttles for home.

It took some time, apparently, for the bombing to cease as the crews could see the target for themselves and things were getting lively around the yellow flares. New target indicators had to be laid. The one way R/T became two way, the bomber crews protesting at the delay, with one Canadian particularly vociferous. The second wave of bombers arrived to join those already circling, and so too had the enemy night fighters. By the time the target was re-marked, instruction to re-commence bombing was, somehow, lost in the chaos. For such an easy target the losses seemed particularly high. Forty two bombers were shot down.

For Cheshire and his boys it must have been a blow. For us it had one inestimable benefit. We heard no more of the one third of an operation business.

By the time my thoughts returned to the present we were running into dawn and nearing Bombay. I took the opportunity to talk to Cheshire again. He told me something of his plans involving yet another home to be opened in the Indian sub-continent. I meant to tell him how, after the war, when I first heard of his charity ventures, I thought perhaps his conscience had troubled him or, perhaps, he had simply taken leave of his senses. It was years later before I realised that, on the contrary, he was merely the first to come to his senses. However, the opportunity did not arise and I was unable to tell him how I felt.

Now, sadly, it is too late.

Page !89 Collected Articles The Bean 18/50 Importing Vintage Cars

My first encounter with this model was in Canberra on an all Bean rally where there were two of them taking part, an open tourer and a saloon. I confess that the changed appearance of the radiators and the Australian built bodies did not appeal. Well maybe they grow on you because some time later when the tourer came up for sale I phoned the owner Graham Harder and arranged to buy it. That was the easy bit.

Graham arranged for shipment door to door and wrote that the money was safely in his bank account and the car was on the high seas. It was all plain sailing until the car arrived at Felixstowe. There I made my first mistake; all right, maybe my second. I had all the paperwork everything needed to import the vehicle and as soon as I was advised of the arrival I should have gone to the docks and taken over. Too late. The British side of the deal was already in operation. Not realising that special rates of duty and reduced VAT apply to veteran cars the import agency had gone ahead with the wrong forms as applicable to modern vehicles and submitted them to Customs. A bill for duty at 10% of the cars value plus VAT of 17.5% on top resulted and unless paid forthwith even larger bills for demurrage would be set in train. All concerned now dug their heels in, nothing could be changed, no error admitted to, set in concrete it was.

In today's world of citizens charters, Ombudsmen, appeal procedures and the like a whole nightmare scenario awaits the intrepid. There is however one higher court today, the power of the media. I got lucky. Times journalist Eve Ann Prentice was interested (This was before she achieved fame getting blown up in Bosnia). She wrote a jokey piece about Mr Bean entangled in red tape. Nothing. The local press joined in. Nothing.

At the time one of my grandchildren was enamoured of Thomas the Tank Engine and the Fat Controller. We read it together. That's it, I thought. Customs have a top chap not unlike that. He is called the Collector. Greatly daring I wrote to him adopting my most servile attitude, your humble servant etc.. He did not reply. Instead an envelope arrived, no letter, no apology, just a cheque for the full amount of the overpayment.

When the car eventually arrived it looked rather sad. It seemed to have developed a list to starboard. The missing windscreen gave it a vacant look, but I was pleased to see it whatever. I know inanimate objects cannot have feelings but after spending all its life down under, some seventy years, I thought the car ought to be pleased to be home again. When the tyres were blown up and the windscreen repaired it looked better. The tussles with the Swansea lot seemed small beer after Felixstowe and before long it was registered and insured and back on the road. After the wide horizons and vast distances of South

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Australia the narrow leafy lanes of Buckinghamshire must have come as something of a shock.

It is probably a common experience to find unexpected and unlooked for snags in any newly acquired car of whatever age or provenance. The Bean 18/50 was no exception. On the way home from a wedding it ran a main bearing. The bride never knew just how lucky she was. Then the magneto died on the Daffodil run and we were towed home. Again, on the way home from yet another Daffodil the clutch failed to disengage posing a severe test for the driver in changing gear without the benefit of a clutch and doing nothing for the gearbox innards. But then it settled down and gave every appearance of becoming more reliable.

When I passed my eightieth birthday I began to feel the years weigh heavily upon me and I decided it was perhaps time for a change in lifestyle. More time in the garden less lying on the cold concrete in an oil puddle. The Bean 18 was the first to go. I rang Robin Lawton at Blackbushe and entered the car for their forthcoming auction. It attracted a lot of interest. Only recently an Australian had modified a similar car to achieve a quite staggering performance. Brought to the UK by dealer Dick Parrett it sold to a German enthusiast and our very own Guy gave us an inkling of things to come in the Bean Car Club magazine (Letter from Michael Strauss Issue 260 Summer 2001 page 7 and photo page 18). I have to

Page 91! Collected Articles say I was rather sceptical. Flat out at fifty in a Bean life becomes quite exciting but nudging ninety, the imagination boggles.

On the auction day it just scraped by at the reserve. I heard later that Dick, enjoying life on the balcony of his pad in the south of France made the winning bid on his mobile. He had a customer all lined up.

First off, out came the Meadows engine, to be bored out from 2.6 Litres to 3.3. New pistons, new con rods, and new shell bearings followed. The head has been gas-flowed. To transform the increased power into higher road speed the rear axle ratio is to be altered. Heavier dampers and torsion rods are being fitted to handle the increased loads on brakes and suspension. The list goes on. Big bucks are required.

The new owner writes to me from the Shatin Heights of Hong Kong, outlining progress and I hope to keep in touch. He tells me the Bean 18/50 is destined for a new life in the New Territories and the wide open spaces of southern China when the work is complete, hopefully early next year. I wish them well From its Black Country beginnings to the Lucky Country with a brief sojourn back in the UK and several failed attempts at the Daffodil run (To be fair we did make it twice).

Now for something completely different.

Page !92 Collected Articles A Frog In My Throat A Brush with the NHS

The doctor pulled his prescription pad towards him and started to write. He paused and repeated one or two of his questions. When had I first noticed my voice was going? How long was it since I'd stopped smoking? He pushed the pad away, laid down his pen and looked at me.

"I don't think we should waste any time,” he said, "go directly to Wexham Hospital and arrange to see one of the E.N.T. specialists. Tell them it's urgent. If there's any delay, ask if Windsor can do better. Come back and see me if you have any difficulty."

I walked home from the surgery, the sunshine unnoticed. If the blackbirds were still singing in the hedgerows, I didn't hear them. A dark and fearful shadow had been cast upon the day. It seemed unreal, as I felt fit and well, only a hoarseness that persisted and refused to clear.

The hospital receptionist was brisk and businesslike. A week on Wednesday was the earliest, one of the specialists was away. I mentioned what my doctor had said about urgency. That was pretty quick, she said, and Windsor, certainly, couldn't do better.

I went home and marked the date on the calendar. My wife was a tower of strength right from the beginning. We agreed to go on as usual and take things as they came. The hoarseness was becoming embarrassing at work, more noticeable every day. "That's a nasty frog you have in your throat," said one customer. I went to see my department head to tell him what was afoot but without mentioning my real fears. The days passed and I forgot my feeling of apprehension at times although a lassitude and a deathly tiredness was growing upon me.

The hospital gates were picketed by strikers when I went to keep my appointment with the E.N.T. man. In the curious manner of medical etiquette, he was a Mister, not a Doctor. To my surprise, the receptionist had a file bearing my name and she invited me to wait. I sat in the waiting room with the others. Sunlight streamed through the windows and the ebb and flow of hospital life swirled around us, strike or no strike.

The specialist worked in a darkened room with a uniformed nurse in close attendance. Patients passed rapidly and seemingly endlessly through his hands. His manner was brusque. He seemed displeased with the inspection of my throat, displeased with whatever he found there, but most of all, he seemed displeased with me. I croaked out answers to his questions trying vainly to raise my voice. The more I tried, the less I succeeded and the more he shouted. He made copious notes. At length the storm abated and he listed his instructions.

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The nurse showed me the way to the various departments for the routine of X-rays and blood samples. Admissions checked the arrangements for next Sunday. Ten o'clock without fail. I made the necessary arrangements for absence from work. With the season barely begun it mattered little, but the newly drawn roster looked messy already.

I felt a fraud on the Sunday disguised as a patient in pyjamas and dressing gown. The real patients kept to themselves, concentrating upon their own affairs and their own visitors. Only one chap seemed inclined to be sociable. I sat down beside him in a chair looking out across the uncared for rose gardens. His left ear was a mess, stitched to his head. He was about my own age. We held a difficult conversation since he couldn't hear very well and my voiced failed periodically. "I know you," He said, "remember you from the war. You were a pilot in Bomber Command." I was astonished. We couldn't quite connect up. "Never forget a face," he said. He was an ex-wireless operator, air gunner, one of the legendary WOP/AG's.

They had a proper look down my throat the next day. A cheerful Scotsman wheeled me to the theatre. My wife was waiting by the bedside when I came to, finishing a crossword puzzle. My voice had vanished, I could only whisper. I moved my hands about in futile gestures. When the Doctors had been round next day they let me go home. I said goodbye to my friend the WOP/AG. "Goodbye Skipper," he said. The word 'Skipper' coming from so long ago, caught me by surprise. I could feel tears close by. The biopsy report would be ready in a few days. I had another appointment with the specialist in a week's time. The word, benign, was used, we shall know if it's benign or not. The word, malignant, was avoided.

If Harold Wilson thought a week in politics was a long time, it is nothing compared to a week awaiting a biopsy report. Both my wife and I began to feel the strain. What if the growth were malignant? "We shall have to find the strength to face it," my wife said. I sat silently at the kitchen table. I knew she was right. I would have to find the strength from somewhere, but I didn't know where or how.

I went back to my departmental chief and arranged a further leave of absence until I knew whether the results were against me or not. He was kindness itself, which made things worse. At this stage, my emotions were very close to the surface and kindness was difficult to cope with.

My wife and I went together to get the news from the specialist. He spent some time shouting for the report and letting light into the room before he got to the point. "What do you want to know?" he asked. Perhaps, for the first time, it was possible to glimpse the man behind the mask, the human face behind the reflector. My wife put it at its simplest. "Is it cancer?" she asked. Yes, it was. He paused a while, then turned to the next stage to talk of treatment. I was fortunate, it seemed, that it was isolated and could be treated and did not require immediate surgery. I made no quibble about the word, 'fortunate'. Cancer is a dread word. To be told that you have cancer can never be easy. To have to tell someone

Page !94 Collected Articles they have cancer can hardly be easier, however often you have to tell it. Yet, somehow, as we drove home, it was easier. Fear of the unknown, fearing the worst, yet buoyed by faint hope that it cannot be, is infinitely harder to bear. I was reminded of Samuel Johnson's dictum, "When a man knows he is to be hanged in a fortnight, it concentrates the mind wonderfully." A fat lot he knew of it. I had to go back to see another doctor at his clinic that afternoon. Things were now moving fast. Not bad for the much maligned National Health Service, I thought.

The next man was as different from his predecessor as chalk from cheese. Kindness itself, he talked of 'getting you better.’ He was horrified that I should contemplate giving up my job. "Why do that?” he demanded. It was hardly fair to the department, or my colleagues, to do otherwise. "You must think of yourself and not of them," he replied. I bought him off then by saying that I'd think it over, but I had already decided and it was too complicated to explain.

He described the treatment, told us what would happen next and gave re-assurance, as if he were a man with all the time in the world at his disposal. We drove home to await events. Three days later, his secretary rang. She gave precise directions when and where to report. She even included a detailed route to the hospital. I noted it down in my old airway clearance shorthand as she spoke. On the following Monday, we followed her directions to the letter and arrived, far too early, at the rear entrance to Mount Vernon Hospital.

There followed a week of fittings and planning and, for me, another week of waiting. The first stage was to make a contraption to fit my neck, whereby I could be strapped to the table and immobilised. I willingly laid my head upon the block. Infinitely careful measurements were taken and cross checked and, somewhere, out of sight, a computer drew elaborate diagrams following the sessions on the simulator. The place bustled with activity and dedicated expertise, contrasting oddly with the run down buildings and surroundings. Here it was that the treatment was to begin. At last, I thought, praise God. Daily treatment for the next five weeks. The treatment was described as onerous but with a good prospect of success. An isolated tumour, an early diagnosis, a hopeful prognosis, I saved up the quotations for my own encouragement and family distribution. My wife lifted the greater part of the burden from me and took on the task of telling relatives and friends.

The radiographers and their staff were marvellous. They have acquired a grace from their work of healing. It seems paradoxical that their healing derives from their dangerous and destructive machines.

A great grey army of sufferers come their way. I began to be able to pick out my fellows, not relying entirely on the tell-tale reddening of the skin area from the sunburn effect of the X-rays, or the newcomers with the red marks drawn on them, the modern marks of Cain, but those with the other attributes of the disease. It seems to bear its own stamp, a bad colour, a deathly weariness and a depression of the spirit.

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Seeing myself as the chap without shoes, I dreaded meeting the man without feet. I thought he might be about. I didn't recognise him at first as he was fairly cheerful. He told me, without rancour, what it was like. "You soon learn not to talk too much about it," he said. "People can only stand so much." They had cured his lungs, but now it was back again, he said, and in his legs this time. Something of the darkness that I had first experienced crept back again.

There was one further bad moment and there may be more awaiting me, for all I know. One evening, I left the T.V. and went through the hall into the kitchen surrounded by all the familiar trappings and comforts of home. When I got to the kitchen, I stopped and realised that all the safe surroundings were somehow stripped away and an instant of black despair gripped me. It is at such a moment that you have to summon whatever reserves of spirit or of strength you possess, calling them up from the very depths of your being and set them against the fear and despair. My wife was right, you find the strength from somewhere.

By the end of the fourth week, I knew I had it cracked. As the Service people say, I was going to 'hack it'. I sat in the corridor awaiting my turn to see the doctor, the seventh doctor so far, or maybe the eighth. There is one subject of conversation which brings the sufferers together and that is the waiting. I often ruin that by saying I don't mind the waiting as I have nowhere else to go and nothing better to do until this is over. The door at the end opened and the nurse looked out. She looked directly at me. "Are you the driver?", she asked. I got to my feet. "No," I said, "but I really must be getting better. I'm not the driver, I'm the patient!"

Page !96 Collected Articles The Rover’s Return Slough Arts Festival Entry January 1984

The restoration of the old Rover motor car was intended to be therapeutic. The cancer had me by the throat and, by the time the radiographers finished with me, I had reached a low ebb. I needed something challenging to renew my depleted reserves and concentrate the mind.

My young artist friend suggested it. He had the old car stored away in a tumbledown shed behind his workshop. When we dragged it out into the daylight it looked a sorry sight. Greg was adamant that, underneath the battered exterior, the Rover was as sound as a bell and only needed 'slight attention' to bring it back to life. Artists are not altogether of this world. His one stipulation was that it should be ready for his wedding in the spring. I identified the car as circa 1934 with later additions, a Rover 10, much favoured by family doctors and reputable business men of the time.

My wife will love it, I thought, when I take to living in the garage. My neighbours will love it when I get to the bodywork. Not everyone is charmed by the whine of a powertool, nor the smell of cellulose. I proceeded dis-assembling and stripping down. The car became ever more wraith-like. Inside the garage its yellowed headlamps peered out blind and lifeless. I tried not to show it to visitors lest they became discouraged and it spread to me. Greg tried to keep away, but couldn't. He invariably left with smears of grease on his clothing having dropped some vital component into the limbo under the bench.

The West Indian proprietor of the backstreet firm looked carefully at the battered radiator I had brought. "Say man," he cried, "dis here is something." We discussed the car and the frost damage. When I went back, the radiator had been repaired and completely repainted and looked like new. He made me promise to drive round to let him see the car when it was finished. Apologetically, he mentioned a small sum, for his time, you see.

I repaired the rest of the frost damage, fitting new core plugs. The engine block had survived. When I'd tracked down the Rover Sports Register, I got new valves to replace the ones that were burnt out. I got heavily overcharged for them. I replaced the electrics where the fire had been.

An ascetic and kindly gentleman in Windsor made up the gaskets I couldn't locate. I could have mistaken him for an absent-minded academic. He didn't look or sound like an engineer, but his gaskets were perfect. So I had discovered the world of the car buffs and the kind of engineers who repaired and made up parts. I had also discovered that there were sharks about.

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The car and I progressed slowly together down the road to recovery. Quite out of sequence, I picked on the front wing nearest to the garage window and carefully prepared it for painting. I cut and rubbed the new paintwork till first it shone and then it sparkled. On Greg's next visit I removed the dust sheet and turned on the overhead light. The neon flickered and then struck. The gleam of the paintwork was reflected in Greg's eyes.

As winter tightened its grip, the garage grew steadily less attractive, the work slowed down and then stopped. Components were scattered in workplaces around the district undergoing various processes of refinishing and overhaul. Some were lost for ever, others ruined, but the majority were returned. Shaun, my Irish friend, excelled himself with the

chromium. "Dat's better now than when it left Coventry," he said. "Bring the car round when you finish it."

I located a derelict wreck in a damp lock-up in Staines. It belonged to a coalman. Although it was his busy season he found time to deliver it. The neighbours will love it, I thought. Located within its corroded frame were a few vital components which had otherwise eluded me.

In the spring a young man's fancy turns to thoughts of love, and car enthusiasts, like Toad of Toad Hall, turn their minds to thoughts of the open road. Greg and Karen had set the date. I summoned the energy to overcome the last few niggling problems. Before the car

Page !98 Collected Articles could fulfil its role of bridal transport, it first had to pass the Ministry of Transport test. It was Greg who found a garage proprietor willing to perjure himself a little if need be. Veteran cars, like veteran airline captains, need a sympathetic approach when it comes to tests.

On the wedding day, the heavens opened. I need not have worried. The old car, its innards renewed, slogged cheerfully through the downpour, pulling strongly and inspiring first confidence and then merriment amongst its occupants. I'd under-estimated its performance and arrived ten minutes early. We parked nearby, holding off for an on time arrival. The one condition of sale was now fulfilled.

By this time, the medics had re-inspected my innards and, breaking the monastic-like vow of silence they observe towards national health patients, pronounced a near perfect result. I took the old car to a Rover Owners' rally at Stonor Park. Old cars and stately homes complement each other. The photographers were busy and I enjoyed the day. Although my old car looked splendid, it could not compare with the sheer perfection of the real enthusiast's efforts. The old car and I had a long way to go.

The wet spring of '83 gave way to a blazing summer. Unlikely as it seemed amongst so many unemployed, I found myself a job. My wife disliked being left at home without transport, so I took the Rover into use. Forty-eight years after it had rolled off the assembly line, it went back into daily service amongst the speeding monsters on the M4 motorway. The heatwave caught us out. The engine faltered and died. I diagnosed fuel vaporisation. When the engine cooled, we resumed the journey.

It took me a week to rid my mind of the notion that the designers had built in such a defect. I found the fault in the fuel tank changeover cock. The seals had deteriorated with age, allowing air to be drawn in along with the fuel. We were shortly back in business.

My workmate, Dusty, late of Scotland Yard, with his mind forever tuned to enquiry, approached me one day with a conspiratorial air. "I've left a magazine in your locker," he said. "It may not be your line, it's a girlie magazine. Whatever you do, don't look at Page 62." At breaktime, I found the magazine and turned at once to page 62. There, sandwiched between pages of nudes in suggestive poses, was a section on old Rovers. My car was there. Although old cars and stately homes go together, I'm not sure how well they go with nude ladies.

The very next weekend, I drove to Warwick Castle for the last of the season' rallies. The old car ate up the distance without demur. Once again, it was completely outclassed by the perfection of the competition from the Midlands' section, as well it might in the heartland of the motor car. I produced Dusty's magazine in the Committee Caravan. It caused a mild sensation. At the end of the day I had a job to retrieve it. We drove back through Banbury to the Oxford bypass and the M4o motorway. The old Rover bowled along helped by a strong tail wind, returning its hefty eighteen to the gallon and fifty miles to the hour.

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With the end of summer, my seasonal job ended also. I have laid up for the winter to tackle the list of deferred defects. Some things have improved. The engine has run in, the clutch has smoothed out and my gear changes with it. The miles have taken their toll of the steering box and kingpins. Now, one year into extra time, the doctors have called me back for another examination, a sort of Ministry of Transport test. Already, humans can be fitted with spare parts. Perhaps, sometime in the future, like old motor cars, it will be possible to restore them to their original, pristine condition. Meantime, with W.C. Fields, we can only lament, "If I'd known I was going to live this long, I'd have taken better care of myself."

Page 100! Collected Articles Out of the Wood The Rover 10/25

At first sight, I was distinctly put off by its appearance. The boat tail and lurid colour combination seemed totally out of keeping with the Rover image.

It wasn't in bad nick, having been restored, probably sometime after the war, but it had gone defunct and was losing out heavily in the competition for space with lawnmowers and garden equipment and general household junk. The spilt emulsion paint did nothing for it either.

It had spent most of its life in the hands of a sea-going mariner who filled up ever more space in the log book each time he changed establishments and body colours.

The present owner had seen it outside a garage on the Bath Road just west of Slough. He was on his way into town to buy the ring and there it was, exactly what he wanted for wedding transport. He made them an offer they couldn't refuse.

After a lot of heart searching, I did likewise. I was now the proud owner of a 1927 registered Rover 10/25, non running, semi sports of dubious originality, complete with a family of mice who had taken up residence in the dicky seat. In the wonderful way that nature has of turning everything to account, the paper confetti formed a colourful basis for their nest and, no doubt, the rice had seen them off to a good start. Shades of Rabbie Burns.

There were other uninvited guests too. The previous restorer had made lavish use of plyboard and thereby, introduced the common or garden furniture beetle. They seem to have a special affinity for the glue. I gave them a warm reception, ripping out all the plywood and the entire floor, consigning it to the garden bonfire, then treated the sound stuff with Rentokil and finally, setting a bomb under it. Two bombs actually, of the smoke producing, fumigating variety, if nothing else, as a warning to any remaining residents.

Maurice, the greengrocer, dropped in to see it. He pronounced it completely original. I was immensely relieved. Next day, he called with his copy of the 1927 Olympia Motor Show Catalogue. The show model was in red and cream.

The engine had finally died because the magneto windings failed. Before that happened, the oil supply pipe to the rockers split, cutting off lubrication to the overhead valve gear. Heavy wear resulted. A blow-by developed between the inner cylinders, producing an undesirable inter-communication between the two and the water pump joined in the general melee by allowing oil into the cooling system and, perhaps more seriously, mixing

Page !101 Collected Articles water with the engine oil. A timely magneto failure had saved the engine, from inevitable seizure. I turned to the R.S.R. for help. Parts were difficult, if not impossible.

Down in the New Forest, something stirred. An Austin Seven buff was known to hold two spare Rover engines and was thought to be anxious to turn an honest penny on them. Condition was 'as seen'. One was very early, 1925 vintage, 9/20 H.P. which, until recently, powered a saw mill in Aberdeen. The good miller had, assuredly, got his money's worth. Its mate had suffered severe terminal damage to its crankcase, either in a road collision, or later from careless handling, such as being dropped from a great height.There was a chance, albeit a small one, that the innards were O.K. I bought the pair.

They yielded some worn but serviceable replacement parts. I was out of the wood! When Lew, of Car Electrical, completed the magneto rewind, the engine was coaxed into life. Good oil pressure, no smoke, but disappointingly noisy. The timing chains are worn and I haven't located a supplier. Reynolds can't help. The noise is typical of the camshaft kick back you get with worn chains, noticeable at slow running and reducing at speed. The carburettor is rather clapped and doesn't supply the enrichment needed for rapid pickup so I have to resort to the crude expedient of a little strangler to accelerate, until I locate a replacement carb.

Now it's down to the real nitty gritty, the ninety five per cent complete stage. Still to come, shock absorber rubbers and spring shackles, then some surreptitious road testing en route to the M.O.T. station. The dynamo has still to be persuaded to produce a reliable charge and, no doubt, one or two other bugs linger on, as yet undiscovered.

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And the colour? Ah, yes, as shown by the exhibitors in October 1927, red and cream, of course. Stonor Park then, next spring, for sure. Inshallah!

Page !103 Collected Articles Transport of Delight The Rover 10/25

As was the custom, the new models were introduced at the previous years Olympia. In October, 1927 the Rover Motor Company proudly announced their new 'Nippy' range of 10 H.P. cars for 1928. Now believed to be the sole surviving Semi Sports, as exhibited in red and cream, WW4129 was first registered 12th. December 1927.

It is very much a local car having been owned at one time by Mr. Len Jones, the well known motor cycle dealer. In the sixties, his son took it over and together, they displayed the car, then in cream and brown, at motor rallies throughout the country.

One day, a young man on his way into Slough to buy a wedding ring, saw the car on the forecourt and fell in love all over again. It was exactly what he wanted for his honeymoon. He made an offer they couldn't refuse.

Shortly afterwards, as is the way of these things, the engine packed up and the car was put away against the day when the new owner could find the time to rebuild it. The old Rover competed for garage space with lawn mowers and tins of emulsion paint. Mice took up residence in the dicky seat turning the confetti to good account and, no doubt, the rice came in handy in feeding the hungry offspring. Other uninvited guests came, particularly the dreaded furniture beetle "with its insatiable appetite for plywood panels. Must be the glue.

I took the car over last year, as seen, a non-runner, complete with extras. Now, it will shortly be back on the road, resplendent once again in red and cream. The original engine date stamped June, 1027, its innards rebuilt, starts first swing and might easily break your wrist if you don't set full retard.

I am very wary of those restorers who tell you they did the whole thing themselves in the garden shed. Rewinding magnetos or skimming cylinder heads is tricky stuff calling for specialist tools and skills.

In Slough we are most fortunate. Specialist engineers abound, but you have to seek them out in back street workshops and unlikely places, and get them interested. The real trick is knowing where to find them.

Spares are a problem. I have a spare engine which last saw service powering a saw bench in Aberdeen. All the most essential parts are duplicated, axles, gearbox and wheel hubs. Murphy's law decrees that whatever can go wrong, will go wrong.

The car has another date this coming summer. The lady who went on her honeymoon in it, wishes to take a trip down memory lane in her original bridal transport. Who could resist

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such a plea? And, if she looks beneath the passenger seat, I dare say she will find some pieces of confetti still lingering there.

Page !105 Collected Articles The Eye of the Beholder Discovery of Frank Baker Paintings

The auctioneer's men who came to clear the villa in Brighton had no reason to suppose it was different from any other. Disposal sales were their routine business. The neighbours barely noticed. Perhaps, now that the old lady had died, the house might get a coat of paint and the children were relieved for, once it was said, she shouted abuse and swore at them.

One room in the house was unfurnished, empty except for a pile of discarded paintings, some mounted and framed, but a mostly, just lying there as if someone had tried to sort them into categories and failed, and threw there back together again, higgledy-piggledy, and gone away, shutting the door behind them.

The auctioneer sized them up. "Fifty quid the lot," he said The antique dealer who bought them was really a furniture man. He put them up for sale. Four pounds each, more if they were framed. They were good sound frames. Twelve quid if they were framed.

The young man who came into the shop was looking for art nouveau, clocks or ornaments from the thirties, gaudy and bulbous relics of the tasteless period between the wars, now fast becoming collector's items. He came to Brighton because he loved the place. Its raffish air and down at heel appearance appealed to him. Its outward zest for pleasure concealed a deep attachment to the arts. Although nothing now remained of its once flourishing art galleries, something lingered on in the junk shops and, dare it be said, in the monstrous Polytechnic where the art students dressed themselves in outlandish garb, lest they be mistaken for summer trippers or Londoners down for the day.

When he saw the first water colour, he stopped dead in his tracks, his quest forgotten. The artist had captured the spirit of the Sussex Downs, that most elusive quality that generations of artists had sought. He looked at several more. There were Sussex barns, all mellow brick and oak beams and the great elm trees now vanished from the landscape.

The style was unusual. It lacked the precision and detail of the great Victorian artists. It seemed to go hack to the first flowering of that most English and most difficult of all the arts, the original water colour. Even the feel of the paper in his hands suggested something very early. It simply couldn't be. What came suddenly to his mind was a recollection of an Art Society which flourished in Brighton about the turn of the century. All the paintings bore the same signature. He began to sift through them, setting aside the ones he liked. He arrived at a point where he could no longer decide, rather as someone before him had done, and gave up.

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The dealer came over. The young man looked at him. "How many are there?" he asked. "Dunno, four hundred perhaps, maybe more."

"How much for the lot then?" The dealer thought for a moment and mentioned a figure.

"Forget the frames," said the young man, "they're junk, but some of the pictures are quite good, just give me a price for the pictures." They agreed a price.

Driving home, he was assailed by doubts. The whole lot was probably worthless rubbish. All that money down the drain and his new workshop set at risk. From his days as an art student he knew, only too well, how rarely any artist could live by his art, or achieve any measure of fame within his own lifetime.

He spread the collection about him, separating the immature from the later periods, discarding the dark brooding Welsh scenes. Nobody would buy Welsh paintings, least of all the Welsh. There was also a limited demand for Corfe Castle and yet, no landscape artist could resist it. He became aware that he was surrounded by one man's entire life and work, through youth and maturity, into old age. The thought gave him pause. One or two must be missing, given as presents to fellow artists and, sure enough, he came upon their opposite numbers, bearing other signatures. He crosschecked against his small library of reference works and sighed with relief. At least bis initial investment was more than covered.

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Better was to come. The framed pictures bore faded catalogue numbers from past exhibitions, and even the hallowed Royal Academy itself. Thank goodness, he was not alone in his assessment. He had a discovery on his Hands, a once in a lifetime chance. Crouched on the floor, his mind wandered back to the long defunct Brighton Arts Club and the great men who had graced its membership lists. Even Degas himself, had come down from the Olympian heights to be amongst them.

Before him lay a daunting task. Research and catalogues would be needed. Cleaning and mounting and framing would devour money and materials beyond his resources. A major exhibition, would have to follow.

He was torn between conflicting emotions. He wanted to rush out into the darkened street and shout the news aloud to an uncaring world, yet some more fearful side of his nature held back, urging secrecy and caution, to play for time and safety. After all, what right had he, himself unknown, unable in his turn to earn a living from his art, to believe in his discovery with such certainty. If only it were a matter of art alone and not interlinked with commercial success or failure. Money, inevitably, complicated things, clouding the issue.

The artist himself, had not wholly escaped the compulsion to succeed. He had sought worldly approval for his work from time to time. It must have been necessary to him, if only to secure his standing with his fellow artists. But mainly, he had sought to avoid the inherent conflict, painting the subjects he admired and loved, setting aside thoughts of acclaim, finding financial success elsewhere and using it to support his art. In so doing, he had not resolved the conflict but merely postponed it.

The mantle now fell upon the young artist turned dealer, handed down to him, bundled up inside the portfolio. Around him lay vistas of the South Downs in all their beauty, seen through the eye of the painter, brought to life with skill and artistry. He looked at them unseeing. Before him stood the twin obstacles of critical valuation and monetary worth.

He thought of the twists and turns of fate whereby one man's studio had survived where so many had vanished. The indomitable old lady, treasuring her inheritance, preserved the paintings throughout the years when such things were unfashionable until unbeknownst, the fashions and the times changed yet again.

Working carefully, he measured the first coloured scrap of paper, already choosing the wash lines and selecting the moulding. With growing confidence, he set his foot upon the first uncertain step to fame and fortune.

Page !108 Collected Articles The Brighton Light History of the Brighton Art Club

The Brighton Art Club started in 1895 with a few artists meeting in each others' houses. They discussed art and they painted. Few societies start in any other way but it was the importance of Brighton as a town that brought so many distinguished names together.

Right from the beginning, the club was a professional body with only painters, art teachers and designers being admitted to membership. (Later, this was widened to include allied arts, sculpture, wood carving and photography.)

The most notable founder members were William H. Bond, head of Brighton Art School, two of his former students, Conrad Heighton Leigh and Ralph Glanville Greysmith, along with the already established Col. Robert Charles Goff, (R.E.), Charles Harrington, the young Charles H.H. Burleigh, (R.G.I.), Louis Ginnett, (R.O.I.), Alfred H. Hart and Joseph Longhurst. Their collective experience included the Blade School, the Royal Academy Schools and the Academie Julian i n Paris.

The first club meetings were held, in the studio of fellow artist, Gerald E. Harrison who was a painter of miniatures living at 19, Windsor Street. Little is recorded of these first years, indeed the only documentary evidence of the club's existence prior to 1902, comes from catalogue covers. In 1903, the members formed a committee to stage their premiere exhibition.

Harrison's studio being too small, finding the right venue was a difficult task. Help came, however, from another of Brighton's established artists, a certain Miss Gertrude Mary Saville who was a portrait painter with a large studio at Alexandra Villas. Since the club was, and remained, exclusively male, it seems incongruous that they should have relied on a woman for this essential help but, for the first and second exhibitions, it was the use of her studio which truly launched the Brighton Arts Club. Miss Saville loaned her studio for two guineas and the club estimated their total expenses for the first exhibition to be £6.14.6, which included printing, advertising and hanging. To balance the account, an entrance fee of sixpence per exhibit, plus 10% commission on sales, was charged. An estimated profit of five shillings and sixpence was recorded. This was the first professional art exhibition to be held in Brighton of works by living artists.

From the very beginning, their businesslike accounts and minutes of committee meetings reflect the success of the group. Following the acquisition of club premises, 19, West Street, at the turn of the century, the committee decided to hold two exhibitions annually, with one of oils and one of water colours.

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So, in March, 1905, the first of the club venue exhibitions was held with, water colours, pastels and black and white units being displayed. Most of the subject matter was to be expected, for example, 'A Sussex Lane', 'Morning Amberly', 'Castle in Hove', and 'Market Street, Brighton’. Col. Goff however, produced a picture of Ponte Vecchio, Florence, because he had a studio there. This exhibition was a third of the size of the two previous efforts, and obviously more manageable, with a greater percentage of sales. The following oil and sculpture exhibition met with a similar degree of success.

Later exhibitions were enlarged by the use of screens and doors to increase hanging space. Under a new rule, members were allowed twelve pictures each. This restored the size of the show to around 150 units. The opening day was changed from Monday to Saturday, starting with the fifth exhibition. During that send off day, seven pictures were sold, including several by Charles Harrington, one of which was by far the most expensive, at nine guineas.

After this success, the committee decided to invite members of the Sussex Women's Club to a private view, adding that tea would he provided! The press were also accorded the privilege, although no mention was made of tea, or other refreshments.

By the end of this decade, the club were regularly enjoying two exhibitions per year. The membership increased from the original ten to 36, with the election of further members. Some of the more substantial names were, Alex J. Mavrogordato, Alfred F. Palmer, (R.D.A., R.O.I.), Fred Stratton, Frederick Lessore and honorary member, Eric R. Gill, (A.R.A.)

It was into this distinguished talent that, on the ninth day of the last month of the decade, Mr. Frank Baker was elected a member of the society. Two years after Frank Baker joined the group, a decisive change in their affairs came about. Brighton Corporation offered, the Municipal Museum and Art Gallery for annual exhibitions. For the next twenty years or so, the society flourished, holding annual exhibitions each January. A report by The London Times started with the words, 'The exhibitions by now have, very much, the expected 1920's feel. Works of the cabinet type abound, with interiors and figures, displayed in huge ornate frames on hessian backgrounds, all hanging together creating a blaze of subdued colour with the use of thick paint.' Despite this reference, water colours seemed to dominate the shows, with special mentions, as always, of Charles Knight and Charles Harrington.

Major exhibitions were also held in Hove. An invitation by the Goupil Gallery of Regent Street in 1925, proved to he the first exhibition offered to a provincial art group in London.

Because members of the Brighton Art Club were professional artists meeting socially, it became a very friendly club with at least a dozen or so members meeting weekly for a discourse, a smoke and discussion of their portfolios. The annual dinner was a grand affair, usually held in the Old Ship Hotel, the Mayor being invited, and always as honoured guest, a celebrated artist.

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These included:

1927 Sir Waiter Sickert (he spoke until 12.45 am.) 1928 Mr. Walter Hayes, RMS. 1929 Mr. (Later Sir) Gerald Kelly, A.R.A. 1930 Sir George Clausen, IMA. 1931 Mr. E. Guy Hawber, A.R.A.,F.R.I.B.A. 1932 James Baternan, A.R.A.

The club was also concerned with the artistic welfare of Brighton and Hove. The Mayor and councillors looked upon the artists as co-workers in the furtherance of art and beauty in the town.

It came as a blow when permission for the exclusive use of the Municipal Gallery was withdrawn. Because of the growing importance of Brighton as an Art centre, other professional artists who were not members, had to he accorded equal facilities. The new arrangements proved difficult. The Hove Art Gallery stepped in as before, but was rather limited for space and large oil paintings had to be excluded. The lease of the club premises expired and, because the real strength of the society lay within the central, nucleus of long established members who were now ageing, a noticeable decline began.

However, at the height of their success and influence, The Brighton Herald was moved to comment on what we now call the 'Brighton Light', in the pictures.

'Without seeing the names of the artists, these pictures have a spirit of the place, Working as they do together, in some association with each other, and having so closely at hand some of the most paintable scenery in the country, the Club has developed a certain communal style of its own. Theirs is the cult of the clear shining light, of the firm outline, and of a certain neatness and compactness of composition.'

All this is very much confirmed and echoed in the thoughts and works of Mr. Frank Baker.

Page 111! Collected Articles Frank Baker Artist 1873 - 1911

Frank Baker was born and grew up in Brighton. He came from an old Sussex family and was descended from the Chownes of Alfriston.

He attended the Brighton and Hove Grammar School and, from an early age, showed an aptitude towards the arts. On leaving school he became an apprentice with Hadlow and Son Ltd., a long stablished local firm of printers, die makers and designers.

His first venture into painting was to copy examples of Victorian landscapes with a preference towards water colours.

He grew up a tall, sensitive and shy young man with a sense of humour, devoted to his employers, to music, (he played the 'cello) but, above all, to his main passion in life which was his painting. When he joined the Brighton Arts Club in 1909, the election form describes him as a draughtsman. He must have been a little more than that since he later became a joint managing director of Hadlows.

During the first World War, although too old for active service, he joined the Inns of Court Regiment, was commissioned and served in France and Belgium with the rank of Captain, as an Army Education Officer.

Wherever possible, he took his paints, this time to record the shell damaged towns and army convoys in the aftermath of battle. In 1920 he returned to the Brighton Arts Club where he exhibited several of his wartime paintings.

For the next sixteen years he was much involved with the Arts Club, becoming their Treasurer and this was also his most productive period. Most of the examples in this exhibition date from that time. He visited Yorkshire, Shropshire, Devon, Dorset and North Wales, but West Sussex remained, by far, his favourite haunt.

From his old address in Havelock Road, he moved to a villa in nearby Stanford Avenue where he had his studio. He stayed a bachelor.

Frank Baker's work followed the Cox/Collier tradition. Like the great Copley Fielding before him, he loved the Sussex Downs where he lived all his life. He was, very much, an artist of light, of the ever changing colour of the landscape and the overall expression of space. The reversion to earlier thoughts in water colour technique was predominant in the early part of the 20th century when they questioned the highly finished works of the Victorian artists. Art was to many an expression that had to be started and finished on the spot, a creation completed in one sitting and not worked at in the studio.

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So, for all these works in this exhibition, Mr. Baker would have taken his easel, his paints and his pipe and sat in front of his subject and painted, perhaps for an hour, or a day, but always with the feeling that that day was unique and the sky and the light would never ever be the same again. This is what makes art of the period so acceptable today, we can all relate so easily to it.

Mr. Baker seems to have definite styles which, to some extent, relate to the four decades in which they are painted. The earliest work is a little finer and slightly more finished than that of the thirties. The Charles Harrington influence becomes less obvious with the more art deco styles.

Although there are some oils, most of the paintings are in water colour, either on the popular David Cox papers, or on good quality Whatman papers. There is a great variance in styles with pure water colour, line and wash work, gouache, on tinted papers, simple light and quick sketches, as well as dark and heavy landscapes in thick paint. In all these styles, Frank Baker became a master. A press cutting dating From this period, states, 'Frank Baker's work vibrates with light and movement and has a very strong sense of colour harmony. His handling of the medium is reminiscent of some of our best technicians.'

Page !113 Collected Articles The Booth Water Ram An Old fashioned Repair

It must have been the recent article in the New Zealand ‘Farmer’ that triggered me into action on the water ram. I read that someone had built one mainly from parts lying about the shed for under $50.

Down by the creek on my son's farm, lay the discarded remains of a water ram, the first section of the feed pipe corroded through and the beat valve mechanism missing altogether. The dome bore the legend 'Booth CH-CH', then 'No.20' and 'No.25'. The firm had gone out of business in Christchurch some twenty five years before, my son told me. What remained of the beat valve was probably lying about somewhere, it is not in his nature to throw things away.

I found it half buried amongst old farm implement parts near the stockyard with barberry growing through it. I took it back to the shed for closer examination. When I looked at it the project began seem a bit dotty and over-ambitious for a Pom just out on a flying visit. I decided to give it a go.

When the loose rust was chipped away I found a lot of solid metal remained, the whole machine had been built on a massive scale and the ingenuity of the original principle of the ram's operation was matched by the beat valve construction. It comprised a basic folded leaf spring, one end carrying the valve plunger, the other a moveable counter weight, pivoted centrally in bearings which had once permitted the up/down rocking movement necessary for the valve to open and shut. Clearly the bearings had seized up, causing the leaf spring to break and it seemed to me this was what had led some previous owner to abandon it and install an electric pump further upstream.

Nowhere in the world can you find a more enterprising nor robust group of people than the Kiwi farmers. They excel at improvisation and repair. Gone is the old image of baling wire and six inch nails. In the next day or two, I set off on my round of visits amongst the neighbours. Ross thought the leaf spring would take a weld all right and be as good as new and, ten minutes or so later, proved his point when he'd rigged up his welding gear. I began to feel more hopeful.

It took several visits around plumber's yards and rural suppliers to out together a new set of nuts and bolts and reinforced sheet rubber suitable for making new valve washers and gaskets.

When the beat valve was reassembled it looked as good as new, although the steel rod which formed the spindle for the bearings was worn beyond reasonable tolerance. I cut temporary sleeves to set inside them to take up most of the movement.

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The next stage involved removing the dome of the ram itself to see how the non-return valve had fared inside. When the rust and debris were cleared away, I was astonished to find this in good nick, it all came apart showing the same ingenuity of design. I began to suspect that Mr. Booth had been a ship's engineer and moreover, had made his product too well for his own good.

I put the whole thing together using a liberal supply of graphite grease on the massive bolts and gaskets. Given a water supply there was no reason why the thing shouldn't work. The original installation had been well done, the ram set on a concrete base and the feed pipe was of a massive 2½ inch internal, sixty feet of it in length.

The main problem now lay in assessing whether the original installation was adequate. The head of water at the ram was only of the order of seven or eight feet at most. Clearly

Page 115! Collected Articles this would lift water as far as the house and cow shed which I estimated at a vertical height of about fifty feet using a ratio of 7 to 1 but the electric installation, however, was pumping water to a tank nearly as high again. It was stretching the dynamics of the thing a bit far to expect a lift of 100 feet from seven feet ram head. I could see that I might have to alter the supply pickup point from the creek, using a stand pipe to keep the drive ratio correct and thus win extra water head.

At this point I had spent about four dollars in New Zealand money on new parts, rummaged all the neighbours' sheds for galvanised connections and anything likely to be useful and, before making any real expenditure, needed to prove the Project viable. I rigged up a short delivery pipe from the ram using a stop valve to simulate a dummy load. I set about rodding the delivery pipe.

The cast iron strainer in the creek was corroded up solidly and broke away, and the water then did most of the work. After a while I got a fairly respectable delivery of water at the ram. I wrapped the rotten sections of delivery pipe in sacking and strips of old carpet and baling twine.

To my surprise the thing worked. I kicked the beat valve into action adjusted the counter weight and set up the dummy delivery load. After years of dereliction, I had a working water ram, not delivering water as yet, but proving the theory, albeit somewhat erratic in operation. Between periods of modifying the beat valve and non-return valve, I fell back upon the Farmer magazine. Another article on water rams came to light and, armed with a wealth of literature on the subject, I began to get a thorough understanding of the 300 year old principle.

Nature then took a hand. The long drought broke and Bombay got its first heavy rain in many weeks with about two inches. The creek rose rapidly pouring brown storm water down my improvised and unprotected drive pipe. The beat jammed on stones and gravel, I improvised a strainer, cleared the ram of debris and it now set off pumping with a will. Greatly elated and ready to venture anything, I filched the alkathene delivery pipe from the electric pump and, drawing on my store of borrowed parts, made up the connections from the ram to the storage tank. By now my son had got caught up in the enthusiasm of the thing and cheerfully agreed to cutting into the pipe where it passed the house. With a bucket and stop watch, we measured the delivery, a very respectable one gallon per minute. Reconnecting the pipe, we waited hopefully by the tank. A trickle appeared at the end of the pipe, less than half as it turned out, but water nevertheless. Despite the figures, the ram was lifting water close to 100 feet. Like the bumble bee which defies all the theory of aerodynamics, yet still flies, the Booth No.20 was delivering water.

The final stage, replacing the delivery pipe, was theoretically the easiest, though physically the most difficult and, of course, the most costly. The old 2½ inch pipe had to be driven out where it passed through the concrete holding it in the creek bed, or a new route found. I planned to replace it with a 2 inch pipe, taking the same route and utilising the two good

Page !116 Collected Articles existing heavier sections. I estimated that corrosion had reduced these to 2 inches or thereabouts and, for economy and flexibility if I had to extend the drive length, the smaller bore pipe would be superior.

Here, I regret to say, I got careless and came close to defeat. I decided to cut away the old pipe where it passed through its concrete dam, rod it thoroughly and slip the new pipe through the old. Halfway through, I got the new section jammed. Forty four dollars worth of screw threaded end 2 inches mild steel, twenty foot long galvanised, jammed. Defeated, I had to cut it free. Now I had to drive out the old pipe, reinforced with the new inside. I realised that it was raining heavily again - and the creek was rising rapidly and I was very tired. When my son came home, he found me slumped in front of the T.V. and full of gloom.

I took him down to the creek to survey the scene. "We'll soon get that out", he said, plunging into the creek, "here pass me the Stilsons, get on the other end with the sledge hammer."

Attacked in this way the pipe soon came free and, in the failing light and falling rain, we fitted the new pipe and coupled it up. I omitted to mention to him that we were fitting another new section, another $44 a go, the ruined length hidden out of sight safely away from the rising creek waters.

Fed now with a full 2 inch flow of water, the ram came to life. The counter weights on the beat valve had to be moved right forward to almost overhead the plunger to slow the stroke and even than, up at the tank, the water flow comfortably exceeded the house and farm requirements, delivering a measured 1200 gallons daily.

The final cost was just under $100, one damaged finger nail and various cuts and scratches.

Although New Zealand is full of water pump manufacturers, milking machines, swimming pools and the like, I failed to find a ready-made strainer to fit in the creek. It's ridiculous I know, a strainer to fit over 2 inch internal threaded pipe, there has to be. Not around Bombay there isn't. I took a leaf from the Kiwi farmers' book and made one from paling wire, knitting it into a dome with four legs and a loop of wire holding the legs around the pipe collar. When all was finished, I tidied up the site. It's beautiful down there by the creek, surrounded and shaded by native bush with only the song of the water and the cicadas and the heavy-thump of Mr. Booth's No.20/No.25 for company.

The neighbours came to see it the night before I left on the B18 to see the Poms off and demolish the last of the duty free. Ross summed it up, when he saw his weld was holding and the beautiful water mushroom formed and reformed at the beat valve. "That's neat", he said, "that's real neat". In God's own, praise doesn't come any higher than that.

Afterword

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The operating principles of the water ram are believed to have been discovered by a Frenchman some three hundred years ago and, for the technically minded, a few notes might be helpful.

Water enters the drive pipe and flows to waste through the open ‘beat’ valve. The restriction created at the valve seat gives rise to an increase in water velocity which forces the valve shut. Deprived of this route, the water enters the ram's pressure vessel via a one way (non return) valve. The air trapped within the dome, or pressure vessel, is compressed rapidly by the surge of incoming water. When the AIR pressure rises to and exceeds, the incoming water pressure, the non return valve is forced shut, preventing the ingress of further water. The air now expands and forces the excess water within the vessel out through the delivery pipe.

At the instant when the non return valve closes, with the waste valve already closed, the moving column of water in the drive pipe, having nowhere to go, is brought to an abrupt halt. Hence the THUMP.

The sudden cessation of the water column enables the waste valve to fall open, either under its own weight, or assisted (dependent on the ram's design) by some form of spring. When the waste or 'beat' valve reopens, the water flow becomes re-established, forcing the valve shut again and the cycle repeats indefinitely.

Page !118 Collected Articles The Forgotten Island New Zealand’s Great Barrier Island

There is a forgotten. Pacific island lying some 36 degrees South by 174 and a half East, just off the NorthEast coast of New Zealand.

Captain Cook came upon it in 1769 and called it the Great Barrier Island. In the early eighteen hundreds the pioneers came seeking their fortune drawn by tales of gold and silver in the hills. They were mostly Cornishmen, tin miners who came and stayed until the mines were worked out and the stamping mills fell silent. Others came and felled the Kauri trees and burnt off the forest scrub for grazing land. Then, inevitably, the top soil washed away. Most of the pioneers then went away leaving only a few settlers to farm where they had so painfully cleared and drained the swamps. Today, their descendants, some three hundred or so, live by farming or working for the Forestry Service tending the regenerating forest.

The deserted surf beaches, spectacular peaks and deep sheltered anchorages remain unspoilt and deserted, only so long as the island remains forgotten, Increasingly, summer visitors fly in to tramp the forest trails while yachtsmen drop anchor in the deep bays of the West coast. Regulars come to their holiday ‘baches' and linger on enjoying the life of beachcombers until the school holidays end or the summer runs its course.

To get there from London, take the British Airways flight to New Zealand. Then from Auckland's Mangere or Ardmore airports go by Great Barrier Airline's twice daily service. Special terms are available for airline or travel industry staff. See Jim Bergman, the Chief Pilot. He is also the Managing Director, tractor driver and chief baggage loader. You may, on occasion, have his wife pilot you over in their Britten Norman islander, while Jim stays at home doing the household chores.

Web footed types may choose the amphibian from Mechanics Bay preferring to arrive with a cool splash rather than a hot bump. On the other hand, any of the aero clubs will be happy to oblige. If you have kept up your flying licence, then you may fly yourself across (steer 008 magnetic for 50 Nautical miles out of Ardmore) but they will almost certainly want to check you out on a couple of circuits before they let you go.

When you get there, there is a wide choice of places to stay. There are four guest houses and one small motel. Advance booking is advisable. Terms are anything from full board to self-catering, just as you please. Or rent a bach and set up on your own. Make sure the owner throws in some form of transport. There are only four grocery stores serving the settlements so self-catering requires a little forward planning. Fresh bread, for instance, is flown in three times a week. If you fail to order, you might be unlucky. There are lots of

Page !119 Collected Articles camp sites, usually marked 'No Camping’. This means no camping without the owner's permission. Go to the house. Permission is almost certainly forthcoming.

Best of all, for trampers anyway, are the Forestry huts. They sleep 24 people, no booking is required and they are absolutely free of charge. You are requested not to stay more than two nights in any one place. Then there's always the beach if you really miss out, under a pohutukawa tree with lots of driftwood to make a fire, but please, no fires inland during the dry season.

Apart from all the usual activities associated with the sea and islands generally, for walkers there are the forest trails. They are graded in order of difficulty. 'Walks' are suitable for people of all ages. 'The Old Lady Walk' is Number Ten on on the list from Port Fitzroy, about forty minutes out and back. 'Tracks' are well marked trails for people of average fitness and suitably equipped. 'Routes' vary in steepness and difficulty. Access is dependent on weather conditions and should only be attempted by the more experienced bush travellers.

The N.Z. Forestry Service will gladly advise. Take a good topographical map, NZMS 259 from the Department of Lands and Survey is recommended. For the less ambitious, the AA provide a more than adequate map suitable for tourists and trampers alike.

What to look for? There are native plants here that are now scarce on the mainland, but the real delight is the birds. The Great Barrier has four rare species, totally protected and not to be disturbed. The black petrel, for instance, inhabits those parts of the forest which

Page 120! Collected Articles the loggers failed to reach and where the humus is deep enough to accommodate its burrowing habits.

Cook's petrel is found only near the summit of Mount Hobson at 2000 feet plus. The native brown teal duck is still plentiful, living in the Eastern swamps, while the Kokako prefers the isolation of the North end of the island.

The best beaches are on the East coast, beautiful white sands and rolling surf. On Medlands beach there is a large rocky outcrop and at low tide a most perfect natural pool is formed. Just the place for cautious swimmers. On the top of the rock is a memorial to old man Medland and his wife, the first East coast settlers. Their epitaph reads, 'Where they found waste they brought worth.' Nothing could better express their attitude towards their new homeland. The luxuriant expanse of virgin forest and fertile swamps appeared to the settlers as a wasteland to be tamed and brought under the plough. A brave and hardy people, they understood little of ecology and the delicate balance of nature so in the end, much of beauty and value was reduced to waste by erosion.

Nature, however, is kind and on the Great Barrier at least, very forgiving. The forests are regenerating aided by the Forestry Service, who are carefully tending the young trees in their regrowth. A large part has been declared a nature reserve, making it safe from future exploitation.

However, the pressures from a nearby growing urban population, and the growth of tourism makes change inevitable. The Great Barrier Island will not for ever remain forgotten. The message must be to go there, and go soon, if you hope to get away, that is, away from it all however briefly, to a little beach-combing and the life of Riley.

Page !121 Collected Articles The Rovers' Retreat Where Land Rovers Go to Die

There is a forgotten Pacific island lying some 36 degrees South by 174 and a half East, just off the North East coast of New Zealand.

Captain Cook came upon it in 1769 and named it the Great Barrier Island. In the eighteen hundreds the pioneers came seeking their fortune, drawn by tales of gold and silver in the hills. They were mostly Cornishmen, tin miners who came and stayed on until the mines were worked out and the stamping mills fell silent. Others came and felled the kauri trees and burnt off the forests for grazing land. Then, inevitably, the top soil washed away.

The deserted surf beaches, spectacular peaks and deep sheltered anchorages remain unspoilt and deserted but only so long as the island remains forgotten. Summer visitors come to tramp the forest trails, to stay in their holiday 'batches', becoming temporary beach combers until the school holidays end or the summer runs its course. The three hundred or so descendants of the early settlers get on with their business, mostly farming or working for the Forestry Service. The road system, such as it is, follows the old pack

Page 122! Collected Articles trails between settlements and, by modern standards, is rugged indeed, splendid Land Rover country.

The old Africa hands speak of elephant graveyards. When elephants fail they detach themselves from the herd and wander off to the nearest such graveyard, thus making a fitting and graceful exit. Something akin to this happens to old Land Rovers in New Zealand. When they have past their best and are no longer capable of obtaining a further Warranty of Fitness (M.O.T.) on the mainland, they are shipped out to the Great Barrier Island. However, unlike the elephants, this has an opposite effect. These old Land Rovers, freed from the requirements of officialdom, begin a new and extended life, completely at home on the precipitous mountain roads carting enormous loads about, pulling trailers and boats around, or simply acting as shopping trolleys on family expeditions to the grocery store and post office.

Only in one case is there evidence of a Land Rover which had broken down so irretrievably in the mountains that it had to be abandoned by the roadside and now, sans engine, wheels and everything detachable, it lies there in full view of any passer by, awaiting the forest to grow over it.

There is, as far as I could find out, only one Rover motor car on the island, a Rover 90 Saloon. It is in running order but looking very much the worse for wear. What with the roads being single track, frequently precipitous and often unmetalled, there is a high risk of side swipes, close encounters with vehicles travelling in the opposite direction and unable to move over sufficiently far to allow free passage. This means that readily detachable items such as front wings and doors tend to suffer and are either missing altogether or are held on by unorthodox means. This particular Rover 90 has suffered thus with a rear door torn off which detracts from its appearance but, at least, the door is still there.

Nothing is forever. No doubt the time will come when the authorities find means of setting up vehicle testing stations on the island, and the full panoply of the regulations will then be enforced. In time, tar-sealed roads with passing places, parking meters and traffic cops will appear bringing with them all the multifarious benefits such things confer.

What then of the ageing Land Rovers? Apart from some final indignity, perhaps pressed into service as beach buggies amongst the sand dunes, they will, like the elephants, simply creep away to some hidden secret scrapyard deep within the kauri forests, leaving the tar- macadam highways to their shiny new successors, much as the pack mules and cart horses gave way in their turn to the mechanical age.

Page 123! Collected Articles Thunderbolt Land speed record contender

Shortly after I retired, nigh on thirty years ago, I contracted a throat cancer. The medics of the NHS sprang into action with a course of radiation which at the time left me feeling rather sorry for myself.

A young artist friend in the village took pity on me. “What you need is something to take your mind off this trouble.” he said “It so happens I have an old pre-war Rover car which I have tried to restore but without success. Maybe you could take it on”

It proved quite a challenge, but by the time the treatment ended the Rover’s return was assured. I could tell that my young artist friend was not happy seeing me swanning around in the Rover so it was agreed he should have it back, at cost. Additionally, since he was contemplating marriage. I would drive the wedding car and hand it over then. A happy out-come all round, the cancer was in abeyance, the sun shone, and the newly weds were waved off in fine style.

Some time later my artist friend sold the car, at a profit I believe, but I did not begrudge him, after all he had done me a considerable favour and started me out on a new hobby which kept my interest for many years

After several restorations on a variety of cars I stumbled upon the Bean. I confess it was not known to me although my brother in law William Mander knew it well from his childhood in the Black Country. Newly made cars used to leave the main assembly plant in Tipton for the body shop further down the road. To his young eyes they were the peak, the epitome of automobiles

Harper Sons and Bean, as they were then, determined to become a major motor car manufacturer but whatever their failings the times were against them as the recession of the nineteen thirties took hold. and car manufacture eventually ceased However their reputation as engineers had not gone unnoticed

In the inter war period the British were obsessed by speed, attempting speed records on land and water and in the air. In 1936 Bean Industries were given the contract to build a contender for the land speed record, a massive vehicle named Thunderbolt powered by two R type Rolls Royce aero engines to be driven by Captain George Easton on the salt flats of Bonneville Utah in the USA. Photographs from the Sergant collection show the car in various stages of completion in 1937

In November of that year Capt Easton raised the record to 312 mph beating Sir Malcolm Campbell’s 301 in Bluebird, and following modifications; in August 1938 Easton upped

Page !124 Collected Articles the figure to 345.5. John Cobb in his Railton then moved the record to 350.3 and the next day Easton responded with 371.5. This record stood for a year before Cobb raised it further.

Thunderbolt went on display at the New York World Fair with the Rolls Royce engines removed and dummies fitted. Shortly afterwards it was shipped to New Zealand to take part in that country’s Centennial Exhibition in Wellington. The British built their own pavilion which housed Thunderbolt amongst other things. The Exhibition opened in November 1939 and was deemed a great success and well attended although whether because of the exhibits or the giant funfair I cannot say. The outbreak of the Second World War in Europe rather overshadowed the event.

When the show closed, Thunderbolt, trapped by the war, remained housed in one of the buildings for the duration. Students from the nearby College were known to steal inside

Page !125 Collected Articles during breaks from their studies and no doubt enjoyed crying “Vroom” “Vroom” from behind the steering wheel.

In September 1956 a disastrous fire broke out destroying the building and the car. The wreckage lay outside for the next 10 years then in 1956/57 the nearby airport was redeveloped as Wellington International using land reclaimed from Lyall Bay and taking in part of the old exhibition site. At this stage the remains of the car disappeared but an unknown photographer took a picture at the council dump of what almost certainly was all that remained of Thunderbolt.

Both the engines however are preserved in the UK, one at the Science Museum in Kensington and the other at the RAF Museum in Hendon

The Science Museum claims that the engine in their possession also powered the Vickers Supermarine S6B seaplanes which won the Schneider Trophy for Britain in 1929 and 1931 and using special fuel and again fitted to the S6B set the world airspeed record just two weeks after the 1931 contest. On 29th September 1931 the RAF High Speed Flight under the command of S/Leader Orlebar set the World Air Speed Record at 407 mph. The aircraft was flown by F/Lt G H Stainforth.

The designer of the seaplane Mr R J Mitchell in collaboration with Sir Henry Royce carried this over to the famous Spitfire with its Merlin engine as a direct development. Towards the end of the war the R type engine, which had started life as a development project was shortened, de-rated and renamed the Griffon, and then used to power the later marques of Spitfire enabling them to give the V1 doodlebugs a run for their money.

Page !126 Collected Articles The Family Bibles Family History

When my grandmother Isabel Alexander (m/s Jaffrey) was nearing the end of her days she decided to “redd up” her affairs. Following on family tradition she set a bonfire. However when it came to burning the Alexander family bibles, she hesitated, fearful perhaps of the accounting shortly to come As it happened her son Robert and his wife Mary came home on a visit from their adopted country of New Zealand and she prevailed on Robbie to do the needful So risking his immortal soul to please his mother, he burnt the bibles but without telling her he removed the frontispiece pages and took them back to N Z with him

In the course of time he passed them on to his son George and in turn they were left to George’s widow Freda who saved them for me There were two bibles involved, one belonging to John Alexander and his wife Jannet Morrison, and the other to son William Alexander and his wife Isabella Brown.

Uncle Robbie continued the tradition as best he was able, adding his own New Zealand family in turn. Willy-nilly then, I found myself with a head start in family research, beginning with the Alexanders of Meikle Wartle in the parish of Rayne.

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At first I used long-hand and sheets of paper of the kind used to line drawers to construct the ever widening branches of the family tree Eventually I caught up with computers and started using the Mormon’s PA F programme mainly because it was free to down load and it gave ready access to the old parish records which their researchers had so assiduously collected Computers are great for collecting and saving information but hopeless at presentation and not a patch on lining paper

Now there are two, maybe three pitfalls in the family tree business The first is trying to reach back as far as possible even to stretching things a little for the earliest possible date The next is to search for the rich or famous to add lustre or fame to what may be a very unremarkable tale Lastly when dealing with the affairs of people still alive it is necessary to be aware that they might not wish the world to know too much about them In exchanging information with others it is important to be mindful of this and treat the information as confidential And so to Patrick Alexander For a long time I excluded him as a starting point, the evidence too scant He paid his poll tax in 1696 and the poll tax records are generally the earliest Scottish records we have so he and his wife are useful and we need to know about them Had he reappeared as Patrick at the baptism of an otherwise known family member then OK but as Peter sorry not conclusive enough Since there are now lots of people tracing their roots back to this point it is helpful if we all sing from the same hymn sheet and can readily identify the family so on that ground alone I leave Patrick in but I “hae my doots” I think the next review will see Patrick demoted and William the elder restored to his rightful place

Now Ian brings in our most famous family member William Alexander(1826) and I fully agree Overcoming adversity, and largely self educated he tells us much of the family and their times which would otherwise not be available to us William has an honoured and rightful place As I recall the character in the book Johnny Gibb of Gushetneuk he opens his tale by scolding the ”orra” loon who has left the tail gate of the cart hanging open and losing the load as a consequence This seemed very real to me since I started my working life as just such a loon Verbal abuse was part of the deal, perhaps best summed up in the words of a farmer to one such “What ye dinna connach ye blaad and what ye dinna blaad ye connnach” Although the dialect was familiar to me and fairly easy to read the content was too close for comfort and I gave up very shortly

In my print out “Descendants of Patrick Alexander” I have curtailed the programme at 10 generations although it runs now to 12 so the more recent members of the family are spared any possible embarrassment

I have to rely on family members telling me of recent arrivals, and if they want the entire print out they are most welcome to have it.

(now available online at http://family.gray.kiwi).

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Page !129 Collected Articles A Tale of the Three Cups Letter dated May 1984

As far as I am aware, we've never had a ghost in the family, haud awa’ [apart from] the time my Father convinced wee Pattie Reid that there was a 'roosikerika' in the press ben the house [an inner cupboard or room]. I think Pattie believed on that.

Our visit to 'The Three Cups', however, came near to convincing me. Joan told you about the coincidence, how the bus tour stopped there and we had no idea that this was the place Helen and Howard mentioned. The pub was in the Trill family for many generations.

When we went back the next day, there was only the landlady there. She wasn't surprised, she said, she believed we were fated in such things, it was all planned and pre-ordained. Then she kind of looked at us as if trying to decide something in her mind, weighing us up.

There was a spirit in this pub, she said, a friendly spirit that liked music, but still a spirit. Joan wanted to know what it did, did it sing or play anything, or what? No, it was a quiet spirit. Her husband was a singer, she said. Well, that accounted for the pictures and the old posters on the wall.

One day when he was due to sing in an oratorio, he couldn't find the music. They hunted high and low, to no avail. In the end, in exasperation, she cried aloud, "For Heaven's sake, whoever has the music, put it back!" When she had calmed down a bit, they had one more look. They found the music lying on top of the pile.

We looked at one another, for we hadn't expected anything like this. We urged her to go on.

Another time, a customer brought in a book, a book about music. Her husband asked if he could keep it a while to read it. Certainly, but he must have it back. The book went missing. Every time the customer came in it got more awkward. One day she looked up to see this customer getting out of his car and heading towards the front door. She felt there was going to be a terrible row over the book. Again, she cried aloud and stamped her foot, "Whoever has the book, put it back."

Now, every pub has a shelf where they keep things, the things customers leave behind, cigarettes maybe or their change, a shelf that is in daily use. She went through to the other bar and, there on that shelf, was the missing book.

Before we left the pub she asked one favour of us. Could we find out if there had ever been anybody musical in the Trill family? Would we be sure to let her know.

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We set off chuckling to find the graveyard. The whole episode of 'The Three Cups' had brightened up our trip no end and now a spirit, a musical spirit, no one would believe it. It was on to rain by this time. Joan set about the graves methodically, starting at one end, going up and down. She had her umbrella. I wandered about a while but most of the headstones were of a soft sandstone and the lettering obliterated by age and weather. Without thinking, and maybe looking for shelter, I headed towards a big old yew tree. I cried out to Joan, "This is hopeless, I can see nothing here," and then realised I was looking at the name 'Trill'. I was surrounded by Trills, six or seven stones, set all about the yew tree.

The next week, we told Helen and Howard about our visit and they couldn't think why we hadn't recognised the Three Cups straight away for they had told us all about it, but it hadn't registered. We asked Howard if there had been anybody musical. He didn't know but would ask his Father when he telephoned. Don't say anything about the spirit, I said, he might not like that. We could hear Howard on the 'phone, "Well, well." Then again, "Well, well." His grandfather, Jack Trill, was a musician and church organist at St. James’ Church in Tunbridge Wells for many years. A quiet man. But then again, all the Trills, were musical.

Joan wrote to tell the innkeeper's wife as she had promised. The Innkeeper had said he would send us a copy of the deeds, but so far he hasn't done it and Joan, somehow, doesn't think he will, You can't altogether rely on folk like that, any more than you can believe in spirits, nor yet again in 'roosikerikas.'

Page !131 Collected Articles The Hollow Tooth The futility of war

In Sept 2007 the Times newspaper carried a story concerning the sad state of the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church in Berlin, which was largely destroyed in a Bomber Command raid on the night of 22nd Nov. 1943. The Bell Tower however survived, although badly damaged (shades of Coventry Cathedral). After the war, when rebuilding started, the citizens of Berlin decided that the tower must remain, like a giant hollow tooth, a potent reminder of the futility of war. The Times reported ”The bombed out bell tower is crumbling fast and needs urgent restoration work if it is to survive.”

They went on to quote the Chairman of the Church Council that they could not afford the cost, and that the tower would have to be left to decay, or be demolished.

I wrote immediately to the Chairman to say that although I had not taken part in that particular raid which did the damage I did indeed take part in subsequent attacks as a member of a Lancaster Squadron of the RAF. I suggested they open an international restoration fund and why not ask the guys who did the damage to contribute? To this end I offered a contribution of £500 to set the ball rolling.

There was a short delay before the Chairman replied to say ”We read your letter with great joy and deep emotion at the same time. In the name of the Presbyterian of our

Page 132! Collected Articles parish and the Council of the Emperor Wilhelm Memorial Foundation I thank you for your generous offer. We share your view that the tower of the old church has to be conserved as an internationally recognised sign of reconciliation.”

And so it came about, in November, that my wife and I, escorted by our second son and his wife, arrived in Berlin to attend a gala concert and formally open the fund. The Berlin newspapers carried an exclusive and the proprietor immediately pledged a million euros. Not to be outdone the local government Senate pledged one and a half million. The Berlin football team came on board, they would raise money at their matches selling football tat. We did the city bus tour in pouring rain, then added a visit to the beautifully kept British Cemetery where some two thousand of my compatriots lie, and headed home.

Back home the fund raising went badly. I had hoped that the various Squadron Associations with their numbers dwindling would welcome a good note to end on, and that the Bomber Command Association, hanging on in a sort of grace and favour office in the RAF museum at Hendon, would be only too pleased to help. Instead they were engrossed in one more attempt to raise money for a London memorial to recognise the part the bombers had played in the war. No help there. Belatedly I wrote to the Queen to see if she or her government might support the cause. A polite but firm reply put paid to that.

In Nov 2008 I wrote again to the Chairman to confess to failure. He replied, charming as ever, to tell me the fund raising had gone well in Germany. The church itself had raised six hundred thousand euros, the National Memorial Foundation another two hundred and twenty thousand and the Berlin Lottery promised a million. “We are quite sure now that work will be able to start” he said. He thanked me again for the original letter which had such positive consequences.

It was time for us to bow out. My wife confessed to a disappointment. There in Berlin she had come upon a dress shop which stocked just the kind of clothes she favoured and another gala concert would be nice.

For my part, the citizens of Berlin have my admiration. They survived the bombing and the Russian invasion and all that followed. They rebuilt their city. If they determine that the ‘Hollow Tooth’ will continue to stand as a symbol of defiance or of reconciliation or whatever, then who could doubt it.

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