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Aviation History
1937
1937 - 0928.PDF
h FLIGHT. APRIL 8, 1937. BREAKING POINT Or the Nature of the Beast By " NAVIATOR " I WAS present from first to last at the extraordinary affair following an accident to Lt. David Rigby, R.N. (F/O., R.A.F.), and I have come to the opinion that it is really a matter for psychologists. The facts are enough for me. It was about eleven o'clock in the morning when the first news arrived. His Majesty's Aircraft carrier Spurious was three days out on the autumn cruise to Scapa, and we were doing the usual exercises. That is to say, six aircraft were doing deck landings, and the remainder of the ship were concerning themselves diligently with those little wardroom pastimes for which the Spurious bears an enviable reputation. Suddenly the loud speaker grated. Although nobody could normally understand what was being broadcast, one could make a shrewd guess by looking at the clock and estimating what ought to be said at that time. But now the clock showed 10.53!, so a waiter was sent to listen closely to the broadcast. The wardroom lackadaisically awaited his return. He came hurrying in. " Crash, sir! " he cried with that mix ture of awe and thrill which makes a good marine. " It's Lootenant Rigby," he added, disappointed that his dramatic announcement had not created much of a stir. "He would," remarked the Commander grimly. The Wing Commander said nothing, and the Stores Officer eyed him anxiously. Then, with one accord, they departed the wardroom and made their way to the nearest hangar lift. Most of the wardroom followed, for it is one thing to be a Wing Commander and order the lift to descend to take you "upstairs," and another to chase up eighty- nine steps to the flight deck. Full Speed Ahead As the lift rose flush with the top deck a gale howled across the flat expanse and made us all catch our breaths. Battling against it we hurried forward, and in a few moments stood in the lee of the funnel. Already the story was known ; Rigby had landed in the sea some fifteen miles away, and the ship was "hitting it up" in an effort to save him and his aircraft. Already the attendant destroyer was ploughing through the sea ahead at a fantastic speed, a curved white serpent snaking magnificently from its bows. Fifteen miles at thirty knots was a sum most of us could solve. We sat around morosely smoking cigarettes which were tasteless in the gale. Afar off we could see five air craft circling in the sky, obviously over the scene of the accident. In a very short time we thought we could see a glint of silver in the sea, and soon afterwards the de stroyer's screws were reversed and a mighty churning of ocean creamed the sea for half a cable. We brought our glasses to bear. Rigby was all right. We could see his soaked and unkempt figure on board the destroyer, now curiously quiescent. The Spurious approached with caution, and after the captain had skil fully manoeuvred his craft a boat was lowered. We saw the Squadron-Leader (E) sitting unhappily in the bows, and the boat seemed to take an inordinately long time over the passage. There followed an aggravating delay. Mess call sounded, and a few blase diehards went below to feed their faces. We others remained to watch. Only the tail of the aircraft was visible. Someone called out that a line had been passed round the wreck, but the destroyer was drifting over her. There was a possibility that her back would be broken. Finally, a decision was taken to salve her. This called for an expert manoeuvring of the mammoth carrier, but with unbelievable skill this was effected so that a hoist was swung out from the Spurious and the swivel hook was attached to the tail of the ruined aircraft. "Can't see what it's for," grumbled someone at my side. "She's a write-off, all right. They'll never let her fly with all that sea water in her. Still, they might salve the Watches, Aircraft, One," he concluded ironically. After a prolonged delay the pathetic wreck was landed on the flying-off deck, where it lay crumpled, dripping, and grotesquely twisted like a swotted bluebottle. By this time most of the sightseers had departed for lunch, and an apathetic few remained to see the last rites. There was a consultation. Flight-sergeants, W.O.s, officers: whisperings, pointings, deprecations, agreements. The wreck, so they said, was a total write-off, and all that could be done now they had salved it was to take out the engine and throw the rest back in the sea:. "But," cautioned the Wing Commander, "we don't want any spars and so on floating about to be picked up by fisher men in their nets. Break her up properly." He, also, went to lunch. Did I detect a malicious gleam in the eyes of those around me? The airmen of the flight to which the crashed aircraft belonged were sent off quickly. In a very short time they returned armed with implements from hacksaws to trolleys, from pickaxes to choppers. The engine was removed with a few dexterous blows, and then the senior N.C.O.s seemed to lose interest. "Get on with it," barked one, and, with the superiority of a trained camel, hoofed it away. The Rot Sets In Now, I was but an onlooker to this scene. I knew many of the airmen by sight if not by name. I am at pains to describe them as excellent craftsmen, given to their work, whose care and maintenance I would willingly trust a thousand times again. But the sight of this broken aero plane seemed to infect them with an unknown germ. Have you ever noticed what wonderful destroying agents the best men are? Gladstone, Bernard Shaw, any first- class dramatic critic, cartoonist Low, any first-class game shot, and so on : are they not all in their work model men to whom comes a period of destruction, demolition, icono- clasm? Have you not seen on Guest Nights the wilful destruction of property? Have you not seen the parson slash the heads off flowers with a cane? Or small boys torturing a beetle? Or fat magistrates racking an im poverished delinquent? If you have, you will understand the attitude of these men, who, after years of self-discip line and restraint, after years of building and making, were at long last given an outlet for their passion for pulverisation. In less time than it takes to tell, I saw reliable airmen and steadfast sailors whacking well and truly into wings, fuselage, empennage. An axe flashed in the air; an horrific rending answered its blow against a wing; a look of beserk delight spread across the amiable features of the wielder. A chopper sank to its hilt in a strut, and a.1- it could not easily be dislodged the striker put his foof on the wood and crushed it with savagery. A sailor had
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