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Aviation History
1972
1972 - 3392.PDF
By Sir Peter Masefield m LTHOHGH THEY OCCURRED almost 20 years ago, and some M\ of them 50 years before that, the events which I now "•relate are as clear to me as if they had happened yesterday. One of the significant dates—Monday, May 27, 1963—is written down in my flying log book. The strangest entry I have ever made, or hope to make. It was as chill and murky a summer's evening as even the Scottish Highlands can provide. We sat around a blazing fire in that most comfortable, but prosaic, of places, the Station Hotel in Inverness. I had flown up to Dalcross two days before in my Chip munk, Tango Mike. After lunch at Farnborough and a refuelling stop at Rearsby I had flown straight up to Inverness in glorious weather and a following wind. Now, on the Sunday evening, after a talk on early aviation to a band of local air enthusiasts—some of them from the Kinloss and Lossiemouth Air Stations nearby— and after an excellent dinner, those who had not gone home were gathered round the fireside. Memories came up. "I remember the old Montrose Aerodrome well," said one lean and grizzled veteran with an RFC tie. He sucked at his pipe. "Early in 1913, No 2 Squadron—the senior squadron in the Military Wing— flew up to Montrose from Farnborough. A pretty hairy operation it was for those days in bad winter weather. It took about two weeks in all to get the three Maurice Parmans, Longhorns they were, and the two BEL2s all the way to Montrose. "No 2 was commanded by that wonderful chap Col Charles Burke, then a Major. He was a sad loss to the Service when he was killed on the first day of the Battle of Arras in April 1917. But Charlie had been lucky not to have been killed four years before." Apparently a new BE.2 which he flew up to Montrose from Farnborough in May of 1913 had something radically wrong. It broke up in the air over Montrose a short time afterwards, and killed a young officer who was flying it. "I heard that story, and a lot more besides," said another veteran, settling himself deeper in his chair with a reminiscent look. "It went all round the RFC in 1917—even to France." It was a terrible shock, because BE.2s were supposed to be the strongest and safest machines going. Yes, it was being flown by a young officer. Lt Desmond Arthur was his name. His seat-belt broke and he fell out before the aircraft hit the ground. But it wasn't just as simple as that. When the Royal Aero Club's Accident Investigation Committee got on the job (it reported on all accidents then) it found something most disturbing. It reported in June 1913 that young Desmond Arthur (who had been trained at Brooklands at the Bristol School in 1912, and was a first-rate pilot) had been killed as a result of a criminally negligent repair made to one of the mainplane spars. It had been broken, patched up and then re-covered so that no one could see. The repair failed when Arthur was doing some steep turns, descending through about 2,500ft over the aerodrome. At least it wasn't pilot error. And the Royal Aero Club's report showed that poor old Desmond Arthur's flying was exonerated. But that wasn't the end of the story—not by any means. The war came, and with it a spate of accidents in the RFC and to aircraft built at the Royal Aircraft Factory. So much so that an official Committee of Inquiry was set up, in May 1916. It was chaired by a learned judge. In August 1916 (note that date) this committee issued an interim report. And however good it was it contained one grievous error. Harking back over the years, it even came to Desmond Arthur's accident in May 1913. And, without looking at the Royal Aero Club's report, it said that there was no evidence of previous damage to the BE.2 and that Desmond Arthur felj out through his own foolishness. And then it started to happen. By 1916, Montrose Aero drome had become the base of No 18 (Reserve) Squadron RFC, a training squadron. Late one August evening, just after the publication of that interim report, Major Cyril Foggin was walking up the path to the Old Mess, which had originally been taken over for No 2 Squadron in 1912. He was brooding over the problems of a flying instructor in the middle of a great war. As he walked, deep in thought, he became conscious— in the half dark of a Scottish summer's night—of a figure walking up the path ahead of him. He could just see that the figure was wearing flying kit, with a sort of knitted helmet on his head. They had almost reached the door of the old mansion which was the Mess, when Foggin paused for a moment to glance up at a tree where an owl hooted. When he turned his head back the door was still shut. But the figure had vanished. He thought nothing of it at the time. Clearly the man ahead of him had gone round the house to another door. Two nights later, when Foggin came out of a hangar just after midnight, he saw the same figure, still in flying kit but this time swinging his helmet, striding up towards the Old Mess. Foggin hurried after him. The figure turned a bend in the path, and was gone. Cyril Foggin saw this strange figure five or six times during the next couple of weeks, always at night and once
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