1930s

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A Japanese death ray?

24 January 2010 in 1930s, 1940s, Books by Brett Holman | 4 comments

If anyone came close to creating a death ray weapon by the end of the Second World War, it was the Japanese army. It wouldn’t have helped them much, however, as they weren’t at war with rabbits. According to Richard Overy in The Air War 1939-1945 (Washington: Potomac Books, 2005 [1980]), 195:

The lack of satisfactory evaluative machinery led for example to the diversion of considerable resources to the search for a ‘death ray’; a search that Western powers had abandoned in the 1930s. By the end of the war the Japanese ‘ray’ could kill a rabbit after five minutes at a distance of 1,000 yards.

The reference Overy gives for this is the U.S. Strategic Bombing Survey, report 15, appendix XX, but this appears to be in error as that’s online and has only ten appendices. According to this site, report 63 (Japanese Air Weapons and Tactics) does in fact discuss the death ray. Unfortunately I can’t find that one (not for free, any way).
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The rise of ‘Luftwaffe’

20 January 2010 in 1930s, 1940s, Words by Brett Holman | 23 comments

Because I’m too lazy to write a proper post, here are some of my recent tweets:

The 1st use of the word “Luftwaffe” in The Times was on 24 May 1939, as the owner of 2 yachts entered in a race to Germany.

The 1st use of the word “Luftwaffe” in the Manchester Guardian was on 30 Nov 1939, in a commentary on the different national air forces.

The 1st use of the word “Luftwaffe” in the Observer was on 5 June 1938, again in reference to a yacht race.

The 1st use of the word “Luftwaffe” in Parliament may have been on 21 Feb 1940, in a question about air strengths: http://bit.ly/6yQL6d

It seems that “Luftwaffe” was not in wide circulation in English before c. 1939. It’s somewhat anachronistic then, to use it for the 1930s.

… at least when talking about Britain and its fear of the German air force. But “Luftwaffe” is entrenched, and so much handier!

I can add some other data points. The first use in the New York Times was on 17 February 1940, as part of the name of a German propaganda film (D III 88, Die neue deutsche Luftwaffe greift an). Less authoritatively (because incomplete), the first mention in the Google Newspaper Archive is from 15 January 1939 in the Chicago Daily Tribune (in an article entitled ‘The Nazi air force’).

As might be expected, aviation periodicals were onto the word ‘Luftwaffe’ earlier. Flight first used it on 11 March 1937, in an article about a visit to a German squadron. Aeroplane used it as early as 1 April 1936, in the title of a German-language book being reviewed (Die deutsche Luftwaffe by Kürbs), but there could easily be an earlier use. Oddly, the OED gives The Times in 1935 as the earliest cite, although I can’t find it in the online version:

1935 Times 23 May 15/1 The armed forces are henceforth known collectively as the Wehrmacht (Defence Force) and consist of the Army (Heer), Navy (Kriegsmarine), and the Air Arm (Luftwaffe).

But I stand by the conclusion I originally tweeted, i.e. that ‘Luftwaffe’ was not a widely used term in English before around 1939 (in fact, more like 1940). Between 1935, when the Luftwaffe was officially founded, and the start of the war, it generally seems to have been referred to as ‘the German Air Force’ or some variation thereof (as I noted in response to a query from @clioandme).

Well, so what, one might ask? Not very much, I’d have to answer. I’m fairly pedantic about avoiding anachronistic words — I consciously nearly always write ‘aeroplane’, for example, instead of ‘airplane’ (an Americanism, I think, in my period at least) or ‘plane’ (only common from the late 1930s, at least in written British English). But although the man on the Clapham omnibus might have looked confused if asked in 1935 or 1938 if he was afraid of the Luftwaffe, it was a term used by some English speakers at the time (and presumably all German speakers), it was widely used in the somewhat important period 1939-45, it’s an accepted term today (that it’s in the OED is significant), and it’s precise and concise. It’s too useful to discard, even if it were possible to do so. So all I hope for is that just pointing out the slight anachronicity of ‘Luftwaffe’ for the years 1935 to 1939 will satisfy my inner pedant.

It’s alive!

18 January 2010 in 1920s, 1930s, After 1950, Air control, Blogging, Contemporary by Brett Holman | 8 comments

After a long hiatus, a new Military History Carnival has appeared, at The Edge of the American West and H-War. (Thanks, David Silbey!) A post on combat drones at Legal History Blog caught my eye. It suggests that drones are part of a process in America, post-Vietnam, whereby the need for public support for military adventurism is minimised by the increasing use of high technology, particularly airpower, since they minimise American casualties and hence political resistance. I’d argue it goes back much further than that. Air control between the wars — as practiced by the RAF in Iraq and the US Marine Corps in Nicaragua — had much the same purpose. And then there’s the (alleged) American preference for security through superweapons. Still, the conversations we are now having about the ethical and political ramifications of drones are interesting; the prospect of robotic warfare in the interwar period didn’t lead to the same debates. We have different interests now, it seems, even with respect to the same subjects.

To-day and to-morrow

10 January 2010 in 1920s, 1930s, Books, International air force, Nuclear, biological, chemical, Space by Brett Holman | 5 comments

[Cross-posted at Cliopatria.]

‘To-day and To-morrow’ was a series of over a hundred essays on ‘the future’ of a diverse range of subjects, which were published in pamphlet form by Kegan Paul, Trench, Trubner & Co. between 1924 and 1931. The authors are equally varied: some were acknowledge experts in their fields, others seem to have been chosen for their ability to provoke. Some of the ‘To-day and To-morrow’ essays have since attained classic status; most have been forgotten. But as a whole they are an impressive testimony to a vibrant, wideranging (and idiosyncatic) kind of British futurism, and I think they deserve more attention. Some of them have been reprinted from time to time, and if you’re rich you can both nearly all of them in collected volumes through Routledge, but otherwise there are so many they are are hard to track down. So I’ve tried to compile a definitive list of the series’ titles (which are mostly classical allusions) with links to online sources for the texts and some sort of author biography, where available. Google Books has many of them, but only snippets or previews, so I’ve linked to other sources where possible. Additions and corrections are welcome.

Physically, they were very small books (pott octavo, to be precise), easy to slip into a pocket, and numbered only a hundred pages or so, in large type and generous margins. Their price was 2/6, about the same price as a cheap novel, but five times the price of the later, hugely successful Penguins. So they did not attract a mass readership, but do seem to have been much read by the chattering classes. (See Peter J. Bowler, Science for All: The Popularization of Science in Early Twentieth-Century Britain (Chicago and London: Chicago University Press, 2009), 139.) Many of the titles went through multiple impressions. And at least one was discussed in the House of Commons.
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The field marshal and the ghost rockets

20 December 2009 in 1930s, 1940s, After 1950, Cold War, Collective security, Nuclear, biological, chemical, Phantom airships and other panics, Radio by Brett Holman | 8 comments

Field Marshal Jan Smuts, prime minister of South Africa, broadcast a speech on the BBC on 29 September 1946. He talked about the prospects for peace in the post-war world, a subject on which he could claim some authority, since he had helped unify Anglophones and Afrikaners after the Boer War, and was involved in the Paris peace conferences after both world wars. The speech was mainly about the United Nations (or as he quaintly called it, ‘Uno’) and the growing signs of friction between the former Allies on the Security Council. And we all know how that turned out. (Churchill had given his ‘Iron Curtain’ speech in March.) But one section is somewhat confusing for modern readers:

The United States may not long continue to enjoy the sole secret of the atom bomb, and this and other no less deadly weapons will at no distant date be in the possession of other nations also. The flying bombs, now seen nightly in the west, are indications of what is going on behind the curtain. It is highly doubtful whether any new weapons, or indeed any mechanical inventions, could ever be relied on to remove the danger of war. A peaceful world order could only be safely based on a new spirit and outlook widely spread and actively practised among the nations.1

Flying bombs seen nightly in the west? What flying bombs?

Smuts was referring to reports which had been coming out of Sweden since May, and more recently from Denmark and Greece. Fast moving objects, sometimes with wings, sometimes without, were seen flashing across the sky. Some had flames shooting out the rear; others appeared to manoeuvre. Some of them crashed; residents of Malmö reported that windows were broken when a rocket ‘exploded’ over their town.2 They were sometimes even tracked on radar. A photo was even taken of one. They were seen by military personnel as well as by ordinary people. An example:

One of the mysterious bombs which in recent weeks have been passing across Sweden was seen last night by an officer of the Air Defence Department of the Defence Staff. He reports that the bomb looked like a fireball with a clear yellow flame passing at an estimated height of between 1,500 and 3,000 feet and at a considerable but quite measurable speed.3

The term now given to these objects is ghost rockets.
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  1. The Times, 30 September 1946, 5. Emphasis added.
  2. Manchester Guardian, 17 August 1946, 6.
  3. Ibid., 8 August 1946, 6.

Air men of The Times

16 December 2009 in 1900s, 1910s, 1920s, 1930s, 1940s, After 1950, Periodicals by Brett Holman | No comments

I’ve just had a go at working out who held the influential position of aeronautical correspondent (or air correspondent, in later years) for The Times for its first third of a century or so. No names were used in the articles themselves, so the easiest way to find them seems to be through the obituary columns of The Times. Here’s what I’ve managed to come up with, along with their years of service and the date of their obituary:

  • Harry Delacombe, 1907-1910. Obituary: 21 January 1959.
  • Hubert Walter, at least 1915-1916, perhaps 1914-1917. Obituary: 22 December 1933.
  • Colin Cooper, 1919? Obituary: 30 March 1938.
  • Ronald Carton, c.1919-1923. Obituary: 11 July 1960.
  • C.G. Colebrook, 1923-1930. Obituary: 30 August 1930.
  • E. Colston Shepherd, 1929-1939. Obituary: 2 August 1976.
  • [Edit: Oliver Stewart, 1939-1940. Obituary: 23 December 1976. See below.]
  • Arthur Narracott, 1940-1967. Obituary: 17 May 1967.

There are some gaps and contradictions here. There could be a gap between Shepherd and Narracott of a year or two, enough for somebody else to do the job. Colebrook was air correspondent until 1930, but Shepherd started in 1929. That may be because Colebrook was ill towards the end and died in harness, so perhaps Shepherd started to take over some of the workload before then. Cooper seems to have been air correspondent for only a short time, as he resigned from the RAF in 1919, when Northcliffe gave him the job, but Ronald Carton (better known as the crossword compiler!) did the job for four years from 1919 (he covered Alcock and Brown). The job was said to be vacant when Colebrook started, so there may be another short gap there. All I know of Walter (a scion of the family which founded The Times) is that he there in 1915-6. He was in Berlin until (perhaps) 1914 and went overseas again in 1917, so presumably those years represent the endpoints of his occupancy. And I don’t know who held the job in the crucial years between 1910 and 1914. Oddly, according to their obituaries, three men had the honour of being the first aeronautical correspondent of The Times: Walter, Cooper and Carton. Which is odd, since Delacombe predated all of them!

My main reason for doing this to work out whether P. R. C. Groves was ever The Times’s aeronautical correspondent, as both Barry Powers and Uri Bialer have written (without giving any more information). As far as I can tell, he was not. There’s no mention of this in his personal archive or publications, and as the above shows, no gap for him to fit into. He didn’t retire from the RAF until 1922, and there was no vacancy until 1923. Groves did write some articles for The Times in 1922 and 1923, but they appeared under his own name – except for one article early in 1922, which used a phrase which was highly characteristic of Groves and appeared only days before the first of his official articles. But it wasn’t bylined ‘Our aeronautical correspondent’ as would be usual, but ‘An aeronautical correspondent’. It was an anonymous, freelance contribution, not from somebody on staff. So I can’t see how Groves could have been the aeronautical correspondent for The Times.

Edit: thanks to Rose Wild of the Times Archive Blog, who picked up my post on Twitter, I can now fill in one of the gaps: Oliver Stewart, previously a long-serving air correspondent for the Morning Post, helped out at The Times in 1939-1940.

The superweapon and the Anglo-American imagination — IV

6 December 2009 in 1900s, 1910s, 1920s, 1930s, 1940s, Books by Brett Holman | 98 comments

So we’ve seen American claims of a British secret air defence weapon in the Battle of Britain; American claims of British secret air defence weapons in the mid-1930s; and American ideas for superweapons to break the deadlock of the First World War. What do I mean suggest by these examples? Why have I called these posts ‘The superweapon and the Anglo-American imagination’?

Actually, the phrase ‘Anglo-American imagination’ is misleading, because I think the British and the American imaginations were significantly different, at least when it comes to technology and war. And the difference is this: at least in the period of the two world wars, Americans found it much easier to imagine that technology could help them win wars than the British, who were more pessimistic and tended to see new technologies as a threat. It’s easy to get into trouble with big generalisations like this, and I definitely can’t quantify it in any useful way. But I don’t think it’s accidental that it American journalists imagined British superweapons more readily than British journalists, or that American science magazines had superweapons on their covers, and British ones didn’t.
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The superweapon and the Anglo-American imagination — II

20 November 2009 in 1930s, Aircraft, Periodicals by Brett Holman | 10 comments

In June 1935, the Daily Express ran a story about three ’secret British air devices’. The source was a story in the Chicago Tribune by that paper’s London correspondent, John Steele:

The devices are declared to be a new “mirage” smoke screen, a new seventeen-foot long anti-aircraft rifle, and a robot airplane which, controlled by wireless, can charge an enemy formation.1.

The bare descriptions perhaps don’t sound so improbable, but the details … well, judge for yourself. ‘Mirage’ was composed of different coloured smokes which created a decoy townscape:

“Brick red, yellow, grey, brown, and black smoke fumes, spreading across the landscape horizontally at different heights from the ground, or, as in the case of the black smoke, rising vertically in columns, create a complete illusion of houses, factory chimney stacks, streets, rivers, and gardens.2

This level of detail and control over smoke seems improbable to me. But supposedly Mirage had been tested in exercises, and had completely fooled some RAF bombers which had been ordered to ‘bomb’ Croydon; instead they dropped their bombs twenty miles away on open fields!

How about the AA rifle? According to Steele, it was 17 feet long, had a range of 20,000 feet and fired cartridges weighing 39 ounces (2.4 pounds). Again, this isn’t too implausible, on the face of it. But wait:

It is precisely like a giant Lee-Enfield with similar sighting apparatus.

“There is an artificial shoulder for the rifle made of rubber, while the rifleman lies on a small platform above the weapon and takes sight. No human frame could support the recoil.3

It doesn’t sound like any AA gun I’ve heard of, but I suppose it could be a garbled description of some predecessor to the 3.75 inch QF. It’s a bizarre mental image though; and iron sights wouldn’t be much use at 20,000 feet.

As for the robotic Drake:

This airplane, rising above a bombing squadron flying in formation, can keep up a perpetual hail of machine-gun fire, the firing being done automatically under remote control.

“The robot can be heavily loaded with high explosive and from below made to charge like a bull into a formation, and then be exploded by wireless.

“The explosives, projecting inflammable bullets, would fire the [fuel] tanks of the enemy, or even, if close enough, turn the enemy turtle.4

No robot fighter aircraft like this existed in 1935 (although the the DH.82B Queen Bee, a radio-controlled variant of the Tiger Moth, was in use by then as a target tug, and became public around then). It does sound something like Ram, a project under development by the Air Ministry in the late 1920s but which was cancelled in 1930. Ram was briefly under reconsideration in 1935, due to advances in radio technology, but nothing came of it.5

My point here is not so much that these secret weapons didn’t exist (though clearly that’s what I do think), but that the British press was not interested in the possibility that they did: the Express was the only national daily which relayed the Tribune report (well, nearly all: there are a couple I haven’t been able to check). This was only a few months after the existence of the German air force was revealed and the government announced a trebling of the RAF’s strength at home in order to maintain air parity. Why was there so little interest in claims that British ingenuity was coming up with clever responses to the bomber threat?

  1. Daily Express, 14 June 1935, 8
  2. Ibid.
  3. Ibid.
  4. Ibid.
  5. See John Farquharson, ‘Britain and the flying bomb: the research programme between the two World Wars’, War in History 13 (2006), 363-79.

The great air race

23 October 2009 in 1930s, Aircraft, Australia, Blogging, Civil aviation, Periodicals by Brett Holman | 7 comments

The air power race. Great Britain also ran. Saturday Review, 15 December 1934, 514

It’s the 75th anniversary of the MacRobertson Trophy Air Race. More specifically, it’s the 75th anniversary of the day the race was won, 23 October 1934. The winners were C. W. A. Scott and Tom Campbell Black of Britain, who took just two days and twenty-three hours to cover the 18200 km from London to Melbourne. They flew in a de Havilland DH.88 Comet, named Grosvenor House, a beautifully streamlined twin-engined monoplane which was specially designed for the race. So a triumph for British aviation, then?

Well, if you’ve been reading the debate on a recent comments thread, you’ll know it’s not quite as straightforward as that. Scott and Black did win, but in second place was the Dutch-owned, US-designed Uiver, flown by K. D. Parmentier and J. J. Moll. True, it took 19 hours longer to fly the race route (albeit with an emergency stop at Albury, on the NSW-Victoria border). But that’s pretty impressive when you consider that Uiver was a Douglas DC-2 — an airliner, not designed for speed but for economy and payload. It even carried passengers for most of the race, and made many more stops than required by the race rules, as it was also blazing an air route for KLM. The Dutch actually won the race on handicap. Third was another American airliner, a Boeing 247D. The fastest British equivalent in the race was a New Zealand-owned DH.89 Dragon Rapide, which took nearly two weeks to complete the course.
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Imperial Airways: now with extra airmail

18 October 2009 in 1930s, Aircraft, Civil aviation, Ephemera, Periodicals, Pictures by Brett Holman | 20 comments

Daily Telegraph

An advertisement for Imperial Airways from the Daily Telegraph, 30 January 1935, emphasising its role in delivering airmail to the Empire: twice weekly to ‘the East’ (presumably India, Singapore, Hong Kong), once a week to Australia (a service which had only just begun the previous month), and twice weekly to Cape Town. A lot of effort went into selling the idea of air mail to the public, as this post at The British Postal Museum & Archive shows. Here, the modern lines of the Imperial A.W. 15 Atalanta is contrasted with the traditional garb of the imperial subjects in the background. The message is that technology will modernise the running of the Empire and help bind it together.

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