1916 to 1934
I was born in the midst of that other dreadful war. In 1917 the news of the horrors of Ypres and the Somme were being received at home with incredulity and despair. The frightening casualties suffered during the taking of Paschendaele Ridge brought home the horrors of the war in the trenches in France, and now, at home, rumours were rife that the German airships had dropped bombs on British soil. Indeed, it was revealed that for months the Zeppelins had freely roamed the night skies of England unchallenged, and on one night alone as many as fourteen had been reported over the home counties. The physical damage and casualties they inflicted were comparatively slight, but there was something uniquely horrible about these great dark menacing craft cruising almost silently above the English countryside. I was spared that feeling of terror, for I was only one year old at the time, but in later years any mention of Zeppelins encouraged me to tell an amusing family story in which I jokingly used to claim that I was a casualty of the First World War.
Old Eckits, the loyal and willing family retainer, although getting on and a bit slow, was only too glad to do anything that was asked of her. One Sunday morning, my parents had gone to church, asking Eckits to put the Sunday roast in the oven at noon, and at the same time keep an eye on the two baby boys. On returning home, as they approached the gate they heard a loud explosion, and to their horror were met by the sight of Eckits, her face blackened, her hair singed and in disarray, rushing out of the back door with a screaming child, equally be-sooted, clutched under each arm. ‘The Zeppelins have come, the Zeppelins have come!’, her hysterical shouts setting the dogs off barking. While Mother tried to calm the victims and settle the dogs, Father rushed into the house to turn off the gas oven before there was another explosion.
I was the baby of the family, and as well as the other casualty, my young brother, there was an older son and three girls in the family. Father had founded, and now ran, a small builders’ merchant firm in Gloucester. It was a hard struggle in the Depression following the war, but through considerable personal efforts he managed to keep the Firm alive, and in later years he was able to hand over to his eldest son a thriving company with excellent prospects. My second brother Mike was the brainy one, and understandably was favoured by my parents to go to university. Even in his schooldays he showed considerable interest and ability in electronics and physics, and he graduated later with a doctorate in electronic engineering. He became Director of the AEI Research Laboratory at Harlow and was Director of their Laboratory at Aldermaston, from where he visited the United States of America during the Second World War in connection with the current experimentation with nuclear physics. Back at Harlow he worked with a colleague in his laboratory and became the co-inventor of the electron microscope, an example of which can now be seen in the London Science Museum. His outstanding abilities were clearly a hard act to follow, but fortunately I, his younger brother, had no aspirations in the field of either business or electronics, and my preordained course was clearly defined in my mind. I was going to fly, and this ambition transcended all else. In those early days I must admit I would not have believed, even in my wildest dreams, that one day I would be one of the Few in the Battle of Britain, would be shot down in Holland and would return to England with a Queen, and at the end of my flying career would have flown more than a hundred different types of aircraft.
The three girls in the family were kind and considerate sisters to me, being the baby of the family. My mother spoilt me madly and my father was a most kind and generous man who never failed to support me in my ambitions. I suffered the inevitable mild bullying and ribbing of my elder brothers and their friends, but survived to relatively happy days of youth. To fly was my obsession, and all my efforts and energy were directed along this well-defined course. I spent many hours at home in my shed making aircraft models, and Christmas and birthdays brought more model aeroplanes, which I would fly with great enthusiasm, on their elastic power, around the tennis court. But there were also school exams to get through, the growing pains of early adulthood and the agony of first love affairs to suffer. There were several girls whom we shared among ourselves and our friends, and it was seldom that a weekend passed without an expedition into Wales or touring the Cotswolds.
We had learned to drive at an early age, and Father was always generous in letting us have the use of his large Buick or one of the firm’s cars. The girls were usually enthusiastic spectators on the touchline for our rugby matches, and all our escapades together were always the greatest fun. As these happy relationships developed I began to realize that there was only one girl for me. Suzette became the love in my life, and we were constant companions, sharing a love of sport and outdoor life. Those early days together were some of the happiest that I can remember, full of innocent comradeship and fun. But even Suzette took second place to the achievement of my ambition to fly. My father, ever mindful of my interests, took me out to a field at Higham where Alan Cobham had arrived one weekend with his flying circus. My father soon parted with the princely sum of five shillings, and I was clambering into that amazing old biplane, an Avro 504K G-EBIZ. As we taxied out I became very aware of the way the Gnome Monosoupape rotary engine was blipped on and off to regulate the aircraft’s speed: no throttle on this aeroplane. We turned into wind in the far corner of the field, and by this time I was completely captivated and mad with excitement. The Gnome’s tick-over changed to a mighty roar, and the whole aircraft shook alarmingly as it accelerated across the field. But the awkward, trundling gait soon became a blissful smoothness as the aircraft was borne on the air into its natural element, and at last I experienced for the first time the magic of flight. The slipstream tearing at my hair in the open cockpit, the unforgettable smell of hot castor oil and the view of the captured countryside below were always to remain in my memory. As we climbed up out of the field we saw below Churcham Court, my father’s old home, and the church in whose graveyard he would one day be buried and where I would later be married.
As we turned I saw below us the curve of the Severn and beyond it the whole city of Gloucester, with its lovely old cathedral, and the backdrop of the Birdlip hills behind. Turning further I could see May Hill with its crown of Scotch Pine and the Malverns dimly in the misty distance. I twisted around in the cramped cockpit with some effort to see if I could get a glimpse of our home at the foot of Robinswood Hill, but all too soon we began to lose height and were turning over the river on our landing approach. The rotary was now just ticking over, with the occasional blip as the pilot adjusted his speed. And as we straightened up we slipped between the great elms that then lined the road, touched down gently in the long grass and lumbered awkwardly back to where Dad awaited with a glad smile as he saw that my face was a picture of gleeful happiness. My obvious pleasure was probably a source of some encouragement to the rather apprehensive-looking queue awaiting the next flight!
A few weeks later, my mother, not to be outdone and also mindful of my passion, drove me down in the sidecar of her Douglas motorbike to Filton, where she had made arrangements for a tour of the Bristol Aircraft Factory. Again I was in a state of excited expectation. I was not disappointed as we were escorted through the workshops to the sound of turning machinery, screeching lathes and pounding hammers. I was fascinated by the work in the wing and tail assembly shop where girls were busy stitching sturdy linen to the assembled framework with uncanny skill and dexterity. The completed wings were stacked against the far wall waiting to go into the paint shop, whence came the all-pervading and exciting smell of aircraft dope. But the ultimate thrill was, of course, when we came to the final assembly hangar. The wings and tail had now been sprayed and stood in their silver glory ready for assembly. As we moved on down through the sheds, the shape of real aeroplanes began to emerge. Finally, my heart gave a leap as the hangar doors were swung open and a completed machine was rolled out. God made beautiful birds, but surely this wondrous product of man’s and woman’s skills that now stood for the first time, its silver wings shimmering in the sunlight like a newly-born butterfly emerging from its chrysalis, was a worthy prototype. But no gentle, docile butterfly was this; with its blunt, pugnacious Jupiter engine it looked every inch just what it was: a ‘Bulldog’. Born in the mid-1920s, it was probably one of the most perfectly proportioned fighters to enter the service, and very much a product of its age. I was amazed to learn later on that the Bulldog had flown against the Russians in Finland with some success in 1939/40.
On the tarmac apron at Filton mechanics fussed around the Bulldog, and a Hucks starter was driven to the front of the aeroplane and preparations were made to start the Jupiter engine. The Hucks was an extraordinary machine, a Model ‘T’ Ford modified with a gantry affair carrying a long drive-shaft projecting over its front. This shaft fitted into a claw on the propeller boss of the aircraft, and as the Ford was persuaded into life, the shaft was engaged and the propeller was turned. After the odd preliminary puff of blue smoke the Jupiter came to life in a thrilling roar, and the Hucks backed away in a hurry, anxious to get clear of that whirling propeller. Only someone with a name like Cyril Uwins could possibly fly this wonderful machine, and as we watched, the chief test pilot, already in the cockpit, taxied out to get into wind and took off over the houses of Patchway. To a young boy it was a breathtaking experience to witness this splendid fighter aircraft with Royal Air Force tricoloured roundels on its silver wings, shaking off its earthly ties and climbing up into the blue. With impatient expectation we waited for the Bulldog to reappear, and after a few minutes it flew in low from the south, and we were thrilled by a display of superb aerobatics over the airfields until Captain Uwins with admirable judgement slipped in over the downwind hedge and set the aircraft down as lightly as any bird. He taxied the Bulldog briskly back to the apron, and as he climbed from the cockpit my mother, as bold and self-assured as always, hurried across the tarmac and thanked him, as though his thrilling display was all for our exclusive benefit. He was very kind and shook me by the hand and wished me success in my endeavours. So ended a most wonderful day. I never dreamed that in a few years’ time I too would be bringing in an aircraft over that same hedge to a gentle landing on Filton’s field.