He went on to fight in the Battle of Arnhem during the Second World War. Of the 10,000 men who landed at Arnhem, 1,400 were killed and more than 6,000 were captured – a bloody disaster in more ways than one. Arnhem Lift is Hagen’s breathtaking and frank account of what it was like in the air and on the ground, including his daring escape from the German Army by swimming the Rhine.

‘I crawled right under the brushwood and saw and heard the bullets splashing the ground and hitting the branches and tree stumps all round me. I was sure this was going to be the end and kicked myself for doing such an idiotic thing; trying to take a strong German position on my own. I swore that if ever I got out of this hopeless position I would never again be such a bloody fool. I lay completely still, bullets whizzing about me. I wondered if I wanted to pray; that is what everybody is supposed to do in a position like this; but I just did not feel like it, and to calm and steady myself I watched a colony of ants go about their well-planned and systematic business.’

Louis Hagen

This quote describes my Father’s attitude to life; brave , reckless and amusing which hopefully the reader will understand from his newly published autobiography Suddenly An Englishman and Arnhem Lift.

By Caroline Hagen Hall

The post To all who fell at Arnhem – Allied and German appeared first on The History Press.

Designed and developed by a team of far sighted British and French engineers, Concorde was one of the greatest technical achievements of all time. There are even some at NASA who share that view. That first Concorde flight on 2nd March 1969 was viewed by millions around the world on small grainy black and white televisions. Why? Because colour ‘telly’ had only just been invented.

Before Concorde, humans had only managed to break through the ‘sound barrier’ in military or experimental test aircraft. Now here was an airliner that could not just get through the barrier, but carry on to twice the speed of sound with 100 passengers in shirt sleeves sipping the finest wines and champagnes and dining on the finest cuisine akin to that being served in the best restaurants over 11 miles below.

I was one of only 134 pilots to ever fly Concorde for British Airways in the whole 27 years that she was in service, a privilege beyond belief. Five times as many people have been into space.

My ‘day job’ was to leave Heathrow at 10.30 in the morning, fly at Mach 2, 1350mph, faster than the earth was rotating and deliver 100 passengers safely to New York, just over 3 hours later, at 09.30 in the morning. An hour before they’ve left!

You could see the curvature of the earth, the sky inky black above you and feel the window frames in the flight deck too hot to touch. The aircraft skin temperature up front reached 127deg centigrade. The aircraft grew 8 inches in flight as a result. It’s minus 60 outside.

The acceleration on take off was phenomenal and the ride in the cruise above all the world’s weather systems, as smooth as silk. The passengers felt nothing, apart from two nudges in their backs as the reheats kicked in, going through the sound barrier.

Supersonic commercial services commenced on 21st January 1976 with British Airways flying to Bahrain and Air France to Rio de Janeiro (via Dakar to refuel.) I was a schoolboy clinging to the chain link fence at Heathrow, along with thousands of others, watching in absolute amazement. If someone had bet me a million pounds standing there, that I’d end up flying that very aeroplane, I would have laughed and not taken the bet. But I did.

The following year flights commenced to the USA, Washington initially, and then New York. Barbados was another most successful route. Leaving Heathrow at 09.30 every Saturday, after breakfast, passengers could enjoy another exquisite breakfast in flight before landing in the early morning sunshine in the Caribbean at 08.30. Just in time for their 3rd breakfast of the day. Those on subsonic craft would arrive in time for a cocktail at sunset.

The training to become a Concorde pilot was the toughest training course in aviation. At six months long it was three times as long and complex than any other airliner. I nearly quit on day 1 when the instructor explained that “Concorde has 13 fuel tanks. And they’re numbered 1 to 11!”

Cabin crew were also ‘hand picked’ and had to be the finest BA had. 80% of passengers were business executives and flew regularly. Many were on first name terms with the crew who soon got used to their personal idiosyncrasies. 10% were people who were having a ‘trip of a lifetime’, perhaps celebrating a special wedding anniversary (Sir Michael Parkinson joined us on the flight deck for take off from New York having been there with his wife, Mary, on their 40th) or having saved up for years. The final 10% were the rich and famous, the pop stars and film actors. In the intimacy of the Concorde cabin, helped along perhaps by some of the finest champagne, they were all fun to be with. A few tales for another day perhaps?

A customer once said to me upon disembarking from his first Concorde flight, “That was all rather disappointing, a non-event going supersonic.” I said “That’s the whole point sir. That’s the clever bit.”

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In 1906 a UK newspaper offered £10,000 to the first aviator to fly from London to Manchester. Pilots rubbed their chins: if this was for Manchester, how much would they get to go to Scunthorpe?

The brave pilots had to cover the 185 miles in 24 hours. They could only land twice for petrol and Ginsters, and the aircraft had to land within five miles of the destination. With aircraft not being that reliable or safe the newspaper’s money was safe until in 1910 two competitors had a go in what was the world’s first-ever cross-country aerial race.

The Briton Claude ‘Grahame’ White (no moustache, but he did wear a bow-tie) took off in a Farman biplane. He flew 115 miles and then suffered an accident that dealt a blow to his hopes of pocketing the cash. Unusually his plane didn’t crash while in the air but while parked on the ground, being damaged by high winds. Hangars weren’t really a thing back then.

The bold Claude wasn’t put off. He tried again. This time he had a direct competitor. Louis ‘Competitor’ Paulhan was like many other pioneers of the early 20th Century in being French and moustached. He became known as the ‘King of the Air’ when he set an altitude record of 4,165 feet in America. Would he become king of the London to Manchester air route? Time would tell.

The two agreed to a gentleperson’s agreement. They would tell each other when they were about to set off, in order to make a competition of it. However, Claude was resting in a hotel when he heard Paulhan had taken off. Paulhan later said he had instructed somebody to tell somebody else to inform so-and-so and they didn’t but they told their mate Pierre who thought he wasn’t to tell and so it just didn’t get done.

Claude raced to his machine, an hour behind. Louis and Claude raced through the skies at speeds approaching 40 miles an hour, determined to gain fame and more importantly: the cheque. The two gallant gentlepersons flew on through the darkening evening until both landed for the night.

Claude then did something that would echo down the aviational decades: he decided to fly at night. He reasoned this would solve any fear of height issues. If you can’t see the ground, how do you know how high you are? His back-up team looked at each other. Some blew through their cheeks. It was his little pink body that would be connecting with any unseen solid ground so it was up to him.

The two intrepid pilots’ endeavours captured the imagination with great attention from the public on when they would crash. No! When they would reach the finishing line. Punters would wave and cheer as the flimsy craft passed overhead. There had never been excitement like this.

Disaster almost struck when Claude accidently hit the ignition switch with his coat and turned the engine off. Doh! But he recovered and intrepidly flew on trying to see those car lights. Then his attempt ran into trouble: up ahead lay high ground and his aircraft was under powered.

• Who would win – the gallant Frenchperson or the gallant Briton?

• Who would be the victor? The one who had sneakily taken off first or the brave and upstanding fine citizen who hadn’t?

• Who was going home disappointed from Strictly Come Flying?

The nation awaited, open-mouthed and agog. Those gathered at Manchester saw a small aircraft approach. It got closer (and bigger) until it got to full-size. The punters moved closer.

Who had won?

WHO WAS IT!? – Ed.

It was the Frenchperson. Paulhan had done it! He arrived 12 hours after leaving London, in a time looked on with envy by present-day M6 motorists. Claude stood waving his clenched fist at the skies, the holder of his now-broken dreams.

Extracted from From Wax Wings to Flying Drones: A Very Unreliable History of Aviation by Norman Ferguson

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Pauline Gower’s convent school years helped form her character, fuelling her drive and determination, and establishing her interests and future potential. Sir Robert Gower chose her school with the ‘same degree of determination’ he did most things. His daughter inherited this characteristic, revealed in her ability to push herself and others to achieve results, despite the challenges and obstacles along the way. She brought her ready smile to most situations, smoothing the path of resistance at just the right moment. Pauline also inherited a strong political awareness and drive from her father but brought her own skills and sensitivity to issues and circumstances as required. Robert Gower wanted both his daughters to have a solid education, unusual for the time, and chose Beechwood Sacred Heart School in Tunbridge Wells, Kent. Pauline climbed every tree in the grounds and made the most of all it had to offer. If she had felt constrained within the convent structure and stone walls at times, she found her own ways of quiet rebellion.

After leaving school and enduring a London season which ‘bored her to tears’, Pauline knew she wanted to direct her own future:

‘I am still interested in mythology, photography, riding to hounds – in fact, in everything, but at 19 my thoughts turned to flying and I decided to do it seriously. I was convinced that aviation was a profession with a future and determined to earn my living and make my career a paying proposition.’

Pauline Gower

Pauline gave violin lessons to ‘unsuspecting’ pupils to pay for flying lessons and met Amy Johnson and Dorothy Spicer at Stag Lane Aero Club in north London – she and Dorothy soon formed a successful partnership, as pilot and ground-breaking engineer, and set up the first all-women taxi business. Six summers and 33,000 passengers later, as part of the Crimson Fleet, Campbell Black’s British Empire Air Display, British Hospitals’ Air Pageant show and their own Air Trips Ltd joy-riding business, Pauline had clocked up more than 2,000 hours. By 1939 and the looming prospect of war, she was the perfect person to lead the inaugural section of the Women’s Section of the Air Transport Auxiliary (ATA).

This then is her legacy during the Second World War and to women in aviation – she truly believed that every woman should learn to fly. Pauline Gower MBE certainly enabled the ATA women pilots to fly Anything to Anywhere, from Tiger Moths to Wellingtons, Hurricanes to their firm favourite, the Spitfire.

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In late October 1940, the Blenheims of 18 Squadron were out over Germany and as F/O J. A. Douch groped his way to the marshalling yards at Hamm, he could find little polite to say about the flying conditions. Cruising high above the plateau of cloud in clear, moonlit air, he warned his crew to keep an eye out for night fighters which were now found regularly over frequently visited targets. Following the instructions given by the Observer Sgt Parr, Douch began a gradual descent through the clouds towards the estimated location of the target. With his eyes firmly fixed on the unwinding altimeter, Sgts Parr and Barrett peered out into the murk enveloping them, scanning all around for any sign of flak, fire, the ground or, indeed, anything.

Douch was down to just 1,000ft before the Blenheim poked its nose out of the cloud, leaving scant seconds as a margin of error. The rain lashing the aircraft did little to help things and Parr had a terrible job attempting to match what he could see of the ground flashing by with the map in front of him. Suddenly, Barrett reported that a deadly layer of ice was rapidly forming all over the surfaces and estimated it to already be a half an inch thick on his turret. Almost simultaneously, Parr identified a railway line and called for Douch to turn right to follow it. He did so only to discover that there was nothing he could do to stop the Blenheim from going into a steeper and steeper turn, eventually flipping right over and heading earthwards only a few seconds air time beneath them.

Just as suddenly, the controls became responsive as the ice broke off and the Blenheim lurched back onto an even keel. With the interior a shambles as the loose articles settled randomly in accordance with gravity, Douch made a gentle climb to gain vital height but ran straight back into ice-bearing cloud which reduced visibility to nil as it latched on to his windscreen. The aircraft alternately sank and rose as it became coated with and then shed its white and lethal blanket. It took quite some time before the aircraft broke out into the clear air above the cloud and when it did, Douch decided to give it up as a bad job and headed home, his bombload intact.

No glory, no fanfare and precious little appreciation. Just gut-wrenching terror and a courageous determination to do one’s duty in the face of terrible danger, both man-made and natural. Hardly worth even shooting a line at the bar.

The post Upside down and nothing on the clock in the Battle of Britain appeared first on The History Press.

She, herself, described her childhood playing with Meccano, building wireless sets and investing pocket money in penknives and simple hand tools. At this time opposition to women entering engineering was widespread in both its trade unions and professional associations. In 1926 Tilly began a three year apprenticeship as an electrical engineer with a company run by Margaret Partridge, who was also closely involved with the fledgling Women’s Engineering Society. Partridge encouraged her to take a degree in electrical engineering at Manchester University and arranged for an interest free loan from the WES to support her tuition. She enrolled in 1929 as one of only two women students in the first year that women took the course. At Manchester her love of motor cycles continued when she took up racing with the University club. She graduated with honours in 1932 and stayed on for a further year to take an MSc. in mechanical engineering. In 1934 while working as a Research Assistant she began racing her Norton 500cc. motorcycle at Brooklands where she became only the second woman to lap its rough concrete track at over 100 mph, gaining a gold star in the process. She went on to be the first woman entered at scratch in a race open to both men and women.

In 1936 she was accepted as a member of staff at the prestigious Royal Aircraft Establishment, the national centre for aeronautical research. Three years later she had become a specialist in aircraft carburettors and had met her future husband George Naylor, a mathematician who worked in the RAE’s mechanical test department. He was a burley six footer to Tilly’s five feet and a quarter inches and he also raced motor cycles. Tradition has it that Tilly refused to marry him until he got his own Brookland’s Gold Star, following which they married at Aldershot’s Registry Office on July 21st 1938. The start of the war ended motor cycle racing and Tilly’s Norton was detuned to become her normal form of transport.

By 1940 during the Battle of Britain a serious problem arose with the carburettors of Rolls Royce Merlin engines in Hurricanes and Spitfires. When they dived the negative G-force flooded their carburettors thus causing the engines to stall. More important still the problem was not shared by the German Bf 109 and 110 fighters with their fuel injection engines. In consequence Tilly rapidly developed a simple device to solve the problem in the form of a small metal disc with a hole in the middle that restricted and regulated the flow of fuel. By March 1941 she led a small team that toured RAF fighter bases and installed the devices. Arriving on her Norton her brusque manner and bag of tools became something of a legend. Tilly’s modification dubbed by the pilots as ‘Miss Shilling’s orifice’ remained standard until a modified carburettor was ready for service in 1943. In 1949 she was awarded an OBE for her wartime contributions, including her fuel restrictor.

During the war George served as a bomber pilot before rejoining Tilly at Farnborough where they continued motor racing. By 1947 the emphasis at the RAE turned to jet propulsion and Tilly led the Ramjet section of the guided weapons department where she became an expert in the dynamics of heat transfer. However, her further promotion prospects were not helped when she refused to move to nearby Pyestock that took over the RAE’s Ramjet work. In fairness she herself acknowledged that she was not good at being pleasant to superiors, especially if she thought they did not merit their superiority and she was no fan of what she saw as unnecessary bureaucracy. There was also the question of her carelessness with her appearance, she usually dressed in a well-used jacket and corduroy trousers with the jacket’s pockets invariably full of pens, with her hair dragged back in a bun and more than one tooth missing as a result of an earlier racing accident. In fairness for official group photographs Tilly was always smart in a dress and matching jacket.

Transferred to the Mechanical Engineering department she took part in major accident investigations and among other programmes worked on life support for crews at high altitude. Her final task was to help make airfields safer by researching the effects of a wet runway on aircraft braking during take-off and landing. In 1969 she retired as a senior principal scientific officer rather than a departmental head that someone of her ability surely deserved. Her technical achievements for instance, had been recognised during her retirement year by the award of an Honorary Doctorate from the University of Surrey.

Tilly, however, was not only a woman in a predominantly male world but a highly unorthodox one operating in a strictly graduated work environment. She undoubtedly lived and worked to her own standards; while able and highly committed she was a chain smoker who was unconcerned with small talk to put people at their ease and fond of cryptic, humorous one liners that tended to silence normal conversation.

This said her unquestioned engineering ability, distinctiveness and rare courage made her one of the Royal Aircraft Establishment’s most memorable employees during the war and beyond.

At Farnborough her memory lives on to this day in the name of its J D Wetherspoon pub, ‘The Tilly Shilling’.

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1. The first astronauts to fly in a Saturn V went to the Moon

Apollo 8 was intended to be a flight that didn’t leave Earth orbit. However, NASA were worried the USSR might launch their own attempt to reach the Moon and so changed the mission. It launched in December 1968 and its audacious goal was to fly to the Moon. It was the first time astronauts had flown in the mighty Saturn V. The 363-feet-high rocket took humans out of Earth’s environs for the first time and three days after lift-off the crew of Frank Borman, Bill Anders and Jim Lovell gazed down on the lunar surface. They orbited the Moon ten times and were the first humans to see the Moon’s far side and, in the most remembered moment of the flight, saw Earth rise above the lunar horizon.

2. It might not have been Neil Armstrong #1

It is often thought that Neil Armstrong was specifically chosen to be the First Man to step onto the lunar surface. However, it was more as a result of the rotational system that determined which astronauts would fly on each mission and a crew who acted as back-up to a mission could expect to fly three missions later. In November 1967 Pete Conrad and his crew were assigned to be back-up to Jim McDivitt’s planned Lunar Module test flight. This was to be Apollo 8. When the missions were re-arranged and Apollo 8 was to fly to the Moon without the Lunar Module, McDivitt turned it down. As a result his crew moved one position back in the flight schedule. Conrad’s crew moved back with them and so lost the chance of being the first to walk on the Moon, as Apollo 8’s back-up crew was commanded by Neil Armstrong.

3. It might not have been Neil Armstrong #2

There was much attention on who would be first to walk on the Moon. Initial plans indicated the Lunar Module Pilot (LMP) would be first out, as in Gemini where the spacecraft commander remained inside. Astronaut Bill Anders later revealed he and Alan Bean, who as LMPs were given the job of preparing Lunar Module checklists, cheekily wrote ‘LMP Egress’ before ‘Commander Egress’.

For Apollo 11 this would mean Buzz Aldrin would be first. However, management felt Armstrong would be a better candidate for being the figure to make history. The reason given was the Lunar Module’s hatch door opened towards where Aldrin stood and there was no room for him to get around the door and egress first while wearing a bulky spacesuit. However, Alan Bean later said that this could be gotten around easily by the astronauts swapping places before suiting up.

Aldrin, who was more conversant with the experiments to be carried out on the lunar surface, and had thought he would be first, was disappointed and lobbied to change the procedure. He was unsuccessful and so Armstrong would be first.

4. Sinus Medii Base here?

Neil Armstrong alerted the world to Apollo 11’s success by saying “Tranquility Base here, the Eagle has landed,” – the Lunar Module Eagle had touched down in the Sea of Tranquility. However the famous announcement may have been different, due to factors occurring days before.

Lift-off from Earth had to take place at certain times during ‘launch windows’. This was so the spacecraft would arrive at the Moon at the right time in the lunar morning with the Sun low above the horizon. The long shadows helped astronauts differentiate surface features for the landing. If a lift-off time was missed, alternative landing sites could be aimed for later. Had Apollo 11’s launch been delayed, Eagle would have landed in Sinus Medii (Bay of the Centre) or Oceanus Procellarum (Ocean of Storms).

5. The Haystack has landed?

As well as the landing site possibly being different, so too were the spacecraft involved. On Apollo 11 the Lunar Module carrying Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin was named Eagle and the Command Module, orbiting the Moon with Mike Collins on board, was Columbia. However, as close as a month before launch the spacecraft had different names: Snowcone for the Command Module and Haystack for the Lunar Module. Other names considered by the crew included:

• Antony and Cleopatra

• Romeo and Juliet

• Chloe and Daphnis

• Amos and Andy

• Castor and Pollux

• David and Goliath

• Owl and Pussycat

• Majestic and Moon Dancer

6. Apollo 12 was hit by lightning

The second flight intending to land on the Moon was almost over soon after it had begun. Just over half a minute after launch a bright flash was seen by the crew of Apollo 12, and the Command Module’s control panel lit up with warning lights. As the Saturn continued to fly those on the ground in Mission Control tried to work out what had happened. A controller called John Aaron suggested a switch on the spacecraft’s control panel was moved from ‘SCE to Aux’. Few knew what this referred to. Astronaut Alan Bean was the only crew member who knew where the switch for SCE – the Signal Conditioning Equipment – was and when he moved it to ‘Auxiliary’ telemetry returned, sending information down to the controllers on the ground. The flight controllers were then able to diagnose the problem and issue instructions to continue the mission.

It was later determined the Saturn had been struck by lightning, the electrically charged clouds around it being triggered by the rocket’s metallic composition and exhaust plume.

7. Astronauts chose their own first words

There was much speculation over what Neil Armstrong would say when he first stepped on the lunar surface. It was thought by many that NASA controlled what was to be said but astronauts were trusted to say something appropriate of their own choosing. Armstrong’s own first words were, famously:

“That’s one small step for [a] man, one giant leap for mankind.”

Apollo 12’s Pete Conrad, known for his sense of humour, said on descending the Lunar Module ladder, “Whoopie! Man, that may have been a small one for Neil, but that’s a long one for me.” He won a bet with a journalist that his first words were his own.

8. Trees went to the Moon

Astronauts took many items to the Moon, including personal items such as medallions and jewellery. An unusual item on the inventory was a consignment of 500 tree seeds, taken by Stuart Roosa on Apollo 14. It was part of an experiment to see if they would survive being subjected to the radiation and zero gravity experienced throughout the nine-day flight. The experiment was conducted in conjunction with the US Forestry Service in which Roosa had served as a smoke jumper. When the seeds were brought back they were planted and many ‘Moon trees’ still exist on Earth; a ‘Moon’ sycamore was planted beside Roosa’s grave in Arlington Cemetery in Washington.

9. Astronauts did space walks on the way back from the Moon

The SIM (Scientific Instrument Module) bay was installed in a section of the Command and Service Module. The SIM bay contained mapping and panoramic cameras and to retrieve the film canisters, the Command Module Pilot would don a spacesuit, open the hatch and clamber along the outside of the spacecraft.

Apollo 15’s Al Worden entered the Guinness Book of Records for the first deep-space extra-vehicular activity when he recovered film cassettes from the SIM bay while almost 200,000 miles (321,869 km) from Earth. He spent 38 minutes outside and was afforded a unique view of Earth and the Moon. Apollo 16’s Ken Mattingly and Apollo 17’s Ron Evans also performed space walks. Evans was the first to greet his family while in space, saying, “Hello, mom. Hello, Jan. Hi, Jon. How are you doing? Hi, Jaime!”.

10. They went

Despite the overwhelming evidence of photographs, film, testimonies, returned physical objects and scientific experimental data, some believe the landings were did not take place and that Apollo was a giant hoax for mankind instead of a leap. It is thought by some that a huge cover-up was organised to include the 400,000 people who worked on the project. Astronaut John Young, who travelled to the Moon with Apollo 10 and then landed as commander of Apollo 16, said “I have the grey hairs and so does Charlie Duke that prove we went!”

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Bennachie is of course a magnet for walkers, cyclists and hill climbers since it is relatively close to Aberdeen. Much of the Bennachie range is managed by Forest Enterprise which maintains a network of paths on and around the hill along with several car parks to allow easy public access.

A long-established volunteer society, the Bailies of Bennachie, works tirelessly to encourage and stimulate public interest in the hill by promoting its geology, literature, ballads, poetry, art and music through publications, talks and events.

Amongst the folklore associated with Bennachie is the story of two ploughmen who had the misfortune to meet in with some particularly malevolent Fairies. McConnachie, a Victorian writer, tells us that although ‘Brownies, Spunkies and Kelpies were not unknown … Faeries were to be found and their music was to be heard everywhere about the hill and, as in other places, they were spoken of with respect by the inhabitants of the district.’

Seemingly the mischievous Fairies were particularly fond of playing sad tricks with the local rustics. The two young ploughmen were on their way to the smiddy one day when they came upon a group of Fairies dancing and singing. Entranced at the sight, one of the young lads became transfixed and simply could not tear himself away. His companion however quickly left the scene assuming that his friend would follow on later. However, the transfixed ploughman failed to appear and was not seen again for an entire year and a day.

McConnachie records that ‘when his friend, passing by the same place, had his eyes so far opened as to see him standing, mouth open, intently watching something. On being asked to come along, he replied, as though he had only been there for a few minutes, that he would rather wait a little longer yet!’ And there, seemingly, he still stands watching a Faerie Dance which no one else can see.

Legend also insists that the Bennachie of old was guarded by a giant known as Jock o’ Bennachie. Proof of the existence of this giant exists to this day in the form of the man’s enormous bed. Perhaps best known as Little Johns Length, a plot of land to the east of the Bennachie peak of Craigshannoch, Jock’s bed measures some 600ft from head to foot and indicates that he was pretty tall even for a giant.

The hill has seen two 20th century air crashes. The most recent in 1952 when an RAF Gloster Meteor jet fighter on a training flight from RAF Leuchars crashed during a snowstorm into Oxen Craig on 12 February 1952. The pilot, Yorkshireman Brian Lightfoot died instantly on impact and wreckage was scattered over a wide area. One of the aircraft’s cannon was retrieved by souvenir hunters and was for a time stashed in a barn over at Oyne before being re-discovered in the 1980’s.

The RAF fleet of Gloster Meteors jet-aircraft had what can only be described as a horrendous safety record and records indicate that there were 436 fatal accidents between 1944 and 1986. Some 890 of these aeroplanes were lost during that period over the entire UK including one piloted by the son of the headmaster of Oyne Primary school. Local writer and Bailie of Bennachie James Mackay records in a 2012 article in Leopard Magazine that, ‘In the early 1950’s fifty Meteor pilots died when their planes dived inexplicably into the ground’ and that in 1952 ‘a Meteor was written off every two days on average and a Meteor pilot was killed every four days.’ In some ways the RAF Meteor fleet rivalled the early de Havilland DH 106 Comet in terms of poor design and inherent safety issues. Metal fatigue was eventually identified as the cause of the Comet crashes. ‘Skin wrinkling’ and ‘overstressing of the mainframe’ plus pilot error were often put down as the cause of Meteor crashes. On top of structural failures, pilots often suffered from poorly heated cockpits and the threat of hypothermia was never far away at high altitude.

Known amongst military flyers as a ‘meat box’, the Meteor was renowned for a quirky phenomenon known as the ‘phantom dive’ that used to kill quite a lot of pilots, both experienced and in training.

A lesser known 1939 air crash on the hill came to prominence in September 2012 when a commemorative cairn was unveiled near the peak of Oxen Craig to commemorate the Meteor pilot along with the crew of an RAF Westland Wallace biplane which had crashed on nearby Bruntwood Tap on 3 September 1939.

Around 80 folk attended the ceremony, including relatives from both Yorkshire and Canada. As local Air Cadets formed an honour guard, an RAF Padre led the service of remembrance and the relatives were guided to the respective crash sites to pay their respects.

The Westland Wallace biplane had been equipped to operate as an air-target tug and had been on its way from the Air Observers School at RAF Wigton to an airfield in Easter Ross. On the Dyce to Easter Ross leg of the flight the pilot had obviously misjudged his height and, in thick mist had failed to clear the peak.

Both crew, air-gunner Alexander Stewart from Paisley and Canadian pilot Ellard Cummings, were found by the search parties still strapped into the cockpit leading to speculation that PO Cummings had stalled the plane in the midst of an effort to pull up at the very last moment. The tail-plane was broken off indicating that the rear of the aeroplane had probably struck the ground first. Both fliers were thought to have died instantly, probably from broken necks and debris from the crash is still visible on the hillside.

In the 1960’s walkers on the lower portion of the hill often passed by the rusting nine-cylinder engine from the Westland Wallace wreck which had been rolled down the slopes of the hill by souvenir hunters. When a local firm of timber contractors removed it to their premises over at Tillyfourie intending to sell it for scrap, the RAF got involved and re-took possession of the artefact with the intention of restoring it for display at the RAF Museum at Cosford.

The Wallace aircrew were of course taken off the hill for burial. The Canadian pilot, PO Cummings, lies buried in the Grove Cemetery in Aberdeen and gunner Alexander Stewart was interred at Hawkhead Cemetery in his native Paisley.

The ‘Find-a-Grave’ digital record relating to PO Cummings records that ‘Ellard was one of the first casualties of WWII, having been killed on the day Great Britain declared war on Germany. He was a Canadian national serving with British forces, namely the Royal Air Force in which he held the rank of Pilot Officer (Pilot) Service No: 40803. He was 23 and the son of James Victor and Edith Fanny Ellard Cummings of Ottawa, Ontario, Canada. Westland Wallace K6028 of 1 AOS, on a ferry flight to 9 AOS flew into hills in bad visibility at Bennachie, near Aberdeen two members of the crew being killed.’

Seemingly Alexander’s father visited the crash site just after the tragic event. He is said to have removed a small section of the aircraft’s wooden propeller intending to carve a two scale models of the Westland Wallace airplane in memory of the airmen who are to this day officially recorded as being the very first UK military casualties of the Second World War.

Images and words © Duncan Harley

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The flight lasted just 27 minutes, but it flew Concorde into history as surely the most iconic airliner of all time – as beloved by the fortunate travellers on board as by the masses who regularly gathered below, casting eyes upwards hoping for a glimpse of that famous profile. These stunning photographs from the Mirrorpix archives look back over the career of a marvellous aircraft:

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“I rushed outside to investigate. I was just in time to see this greyish-coloured machine swooping over the main street. Its two propellers were whizzing around and its huge wings nearly touched the top of the church. I was amazed. I had heard of flying ’planes but I had never seen one before. I watched as it roared away towards the bog under the low cloud, its wings swaying up and down. The noise was very loud, I could hear it for a long time. It must have been awful for the men inside. Where had the machine come from, where was it going?”

Harry did not know it, but he had witnessed the conclusion of one of the most significant and dramatic flights in aviation history. The pilot of the Vickers Vimy aeroplane was John Alcock, his navigator was Arthur Whitten Brown. Eight minutes after the youngster saw them, the two Englishmen landed beside the Marconi radio station in nearby Derrygimla bog. Deafened by a broken engine exhaust, they had lost their radio and endured iced-up controls and a near-fatal stall. Completely exposed to the elements in their open-cockpit biplane, they had survived fog, snow and virtually continuous cloud to become the first persons to fly the Atlantic Ocean non-stop. Yet, navigating blind for most of the way, they landed just 20 miles off target after their 16hr marathon of 1,880 miles, the longest distance ever flown by man.

Staff from the Marconi station struggled across the swampy ground to rescue them. At first they did not believe that the fliers had crossed the Atlantic. ‘Yesterday we were in America,’ John Alcock vainly reiterated. It took a sealed mailbag from St John’s, Newfoundland, to convince the Marconi men. Their cheers rang across the infinity of greeny scrub and boggy pools as they escorted the fliers to their warm station. But this was nothing to the acclaim that greeted Alcock and Brown on their triumphant return home via Galway, Dublin, and Holyhead. A quarter of a million people lined their train route and the streets of London, to welcome the men who a short time previously had languished in prisoner-of-war camps. Within a week of wading through Derrygimla, they braved the carpets of Windsor Castle to be knighted by King George V.

Alcock and Brown’s achievement had a major psychological impact. It helped war-weary Britons turn a corner from the recent catastrophic conflict and the world’s most devastating epidemic, the Spanish flu of 1918–19. Emerging triumphant from an Irish bog, the fliers had made a giant step out of the shadow of war and pestilence to reassert man’s potential. Their success redirected attention to the future and opened a window to previously unconsidered possibilities. It inspired hope that man and technology could combine to build a brighter more secure world. That world had suddenly become a much smaller and, hopefully, safer place. Brown himself optimistically wrote: ‘The aeroplane may well become a greater influence towards internationalisation than a signed covenant of the League of nations.’

Similar adulation greeted the epic solo ocean crossings by Charles Lindbergh in 1927 and Amelia Earhart in 1932. But, courageous as these aviators were, their flights were made in enclosed cockpits, with the advantage of superior navigational and meteorological aids. They had the benefit of lighter, more reliable and more efficient engines. Lindbergh carried little over half of Alcock and Brown’s enormous handicap of 865gal of fuel.

Eschewing heroics and hype, Alcock and Brown had braved the unknown in a comparatively primitive machine wide open to the elements. Their success against the odds in completing the world’s first epic aerial voyage was the most notable aviation feat after the Wright Brothers’ earliest powered flights. First to bridge the Atlantic non-stop, the Vimy pair laid the foundations of worldwide travel for everyman a mere sixteen years after the Wrights first staggered into the air in a powered aeroplane. They are arguably two of the greatest and most unsung heroes of the early 20th century.

The philosopher Socrates insisted, ‘Man must rise above the Earth – to the top of the atmosphere and beyond – for only thus will he fully understand the world in which he lives.’ Two thousand years later Arthur Whitten Brown reiterated the dream of flight:

“I believe that ever since man, but recently conscious of his own existence, saw the birds, he has desired to emulate them. Among the myths and fables of every race are tales of human flight. The paradise of most religions is reached through the air, and through the air many gods and prophets have passed from earth to their respective heavens.”

Extracted from Yesterday We Were In America by Brendan Lynch

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