I've recently begun some research at the National Archives of Australia (the Melbourne reading room of which is conveniently only about half a kilometre from my house) into the 1918 mystery aeroplane scare. It's always exciting to get to work on a new set of primary sources; and this is my first time working in a state archive so it's doubly interesting. I can already see that there's a lot of useful material, and my original idea of a short, simple case study is already starting to seem optimistic.

The main file I've looked at so far is NAA: MP367/1, 512/3/1319, 'Reports from 2nd M D during War Period on lights, aeroplanes, signals etc.', a big fat dossier of reports from the public and the results of military and police investigations into them. 2nd Military District seems to have covered New South Wales, so it's actually not what I ultimately want: most of the 1918 sightings took place in Victoria, i.e. 3rd Military District. But as NSW was the other big state (somewhat more people, more important industrially and commercially; but Victoria had the seat of government and defence headquarters) it'll be useful as a control.

There are three main types of reports: signalling, wireless, and aeroplanes. The first is easily the largest, and consists of people seeing lights flashed from houses, from a hill top, on the coast, etc, and reporting them as suspected lights from German agents. For example, in May 1918 Mrs Clara A. Woollard of Pambula wrote that

I think it is my duty to inform you that flashlight signals were being displayed in the sky, to the west, at about eight o'clock last night.

She had seen this light on several previous occasions, and thought that it was 'as if someone were telegraphing messages by that means'. Virtually all of these reports seem to have turned out to be false alarms, often caused by people carrying hurricane lamps late at night so they could see where they were going. Most of the suspect houses turned out to be inhabited by good, solid 'Britishers'.

Nationality and ethnicity was also important in the wireless cases. These were suspected wireless installations, with a big antenna and associated plant, potentially capable of sending and receiving messages to and from -- where? Other secret agents? Ships off the coast? The Fatherland? As with the signals, it's not always clear just what the suspicion was, only that they were suspicious. But who needs something like that, anyway? Conveniently, unauthorised possession of such wireless installations was already prohibited under pre-war legislation, as was pointed out in press notices in September 1914. This led to a rash of reports from the public, which continued at a fairly steady rate until the end of the war. As late as September 1918, for example, the Provost Marshal Office of 2nd Military District investigated the concerns of Mrs Caroline H. Scott of Darlinghurst, who

is of the opinion that there is a Wireless Plant in the vicinity of her residence as she has noticed flashes & also heard the tick tacking [sic] similar to those produced by a Wireless Plant. These noises & flashes occurred about between 3 & 4.o.clock in the mornings & she considered it her duty to inform the Authorities of same.

Often there was a suspicious foreigner involved. Sometimes the wireless installations were real enough (one man was using his to carry out research into the effect of radio waves on plant growth!) but none seem to have been to have been used in espionage or subversion.

And then there were the aeroplanes. This is the smallest category in 2nd Military District's files, nineteen cases for the whole war: seven in 1914, when you might expect some war jitters, and another seven in 1918, mostly after the Hindenburg offensive on the Western Front and the reports of raiders off the coast. A very few were actual aeroplanes, generally sitting in somebody's workshop somewhere. At Hay in November 1914, V. B. Sylvander's activities were investigated by a police detective. Sylvander and his son had already built one aeroplane, which had been damaged in testing; a second one was being built but lacked an engine. Sylvander wisely proposed to give this to the government when it was finished, which perhaps influenced the detective's judgement that he was 'a loyal Britisher' despite being a 'naturalised Russian Finn'. Most others were the more usual lights in the night sky, as seen over Britain, New Zealand and Australia in 1909 and elsewhere/when.

Some were more substantial and unusual: in June 1918, Miss McCann of Beckom was sitting in her room at 1am when she 'heard the buzzing noise of an aeroplane and a ray of light shot across her bed like a searchlight and seem to be going south'. She said that it didn't sound like a motor car (though later she admitted that it might have been just that). In this case, it wasn't just the sound and the light: McCann seems to have suspected a local family of disloyalty. She mentioned to the policeman interviewing her that a 'strange man' had visited the Groth farm nearby, and it turned out that they had recently had a large box of ammunition delivered to them. Three of the family's sons, of age and medically fit, had claimed conscientious objection to military service on religious grounds. The Groth brothers were born in Australia, but their parents were from Germany, and this combined with their 'disloyal' attitude denied them the status of 'Britishers'. A number of followup investigations led to the reluctant conclusion that the Groths weren't up to any mischief (the ammunition was for hunting and pest control), but one suspects the damage to their reputation was done.

One mystery aeroplane stands out because it was actually a phantom airship: a Zeppelin seen at Young in July 1918 by W. G. Rogers, a professional photographer. In a letter to the Minister for Defence, Senator George Pearce, Rogers said that

I saw what appeared to me be [sic] an airship of the Zeppelin type due west from this town in size it appeared to be about 40ft. long but no doubt it was much larger as it was some miles distant. It was steering zig-zag course as though it was having trouble with the heavy wind which was blowing that morning.

It sunk out of sight to the west at around 8am. Just what a Zeppelin would be doing at Young, more than 250 km inland from Sydney, is not clear. Rogers's account was taken seriously, but a police sergeant detailed to investigate reported that nobody else had seen the Zeppelin. Furthermore,

Mr Roger's [sic] is a very respectable resident of Young, but very near sighted and I am of the opinion that he saw a snow cloud, and believed it to be an airship.

About the time mentioned by Mr Roger's [sic] there was a strong wind blowing with rain and snow.

My favourite find, though, is the one that made me laugh inappropriately at the archive. The Captain-in-Charge of His Majesty's Australian Naval Establishments, Sydney, wrote in December 1917 to 2nd Military District's Military Intelligence Officer about a purported illegal wireless installation at St Ignatius College:

I would point out the peculiar merits of this supposed apparatus,

1. Peculiar flashes.
2. Finding imaginary earthquakes.

I would suggest it might also be applied for finding the supposed brains of the Prime Minister's correspondent.

As the writer was John Glossop, formerly commander of HMAS Sydney and victor over the raider SMS Emden in 1914, he probably had good reason to feel his time was being wasted. But scepticism didn't stop the reports of strange signals, illegal aerials, and mystery aeroplanes. Only the end of the war did that.

In the venerable tradition of lazyblogging, here is a storified version of an exchange of tweets today between myself and @TroveAustralia, concerning an apparently forgotten Australian aviation pioneer, W. T. Carter of Williamstown, formerly a member of the Victorian colonial legislature. In the mid-1890s, Carter dabbled in electric motors (with help from A. U. Alcock, who has been credited with inventing an ancestor of the hovercraft) and propellors (later patenting one in Britain), and seems in 1894 to have successfully demonstrated a flying model, a small drum-shaped object with two propellors at each end. Long after his death it was claimed that he had actually built and flown an aeroplane at Maidstone, a western suburb of Melbourne, again in the mid-1890s, but it's hard to believe this could have escaped the attention of the press (especially given his evident interest in self-promotion).

I'm sure everybody has a favourite story about Sir Kingsley Wood. Mine is the one from when he was Air Minister at the start of the Second World War, and he refused to bomb Germany on the grounds that it would damage private property. As A. J. P. Taylor tells it:

Kingsley Wood, secretary for air, met a proposal to set fire to German forests with the agonized cry: 'Are you aware it is private property? Why, you will be asking me to bomb Essen next.'

It's a great anecdote which perfectly sums up the dithering nature of Chamberlain's government during the Bore War, unable or unwilling to fight a total war (it took Churchill to do that), and it's understandable why it appears in so many books and websites. Piers Brendon includes it in a discussion of the weak men Chamberlain surrounded himself with; Martin Gilbert and Richard Gott in The Appeasers. And fair enough; Wood is one of Cato's Guilty Men, after all. The only problem is that it's not clear if it's actually true; or, even if it is true and Wood did say it, whether it accurately reflects British bombing policy before May 1940.

To back up a little, I didn't doubt the veracity of this story, but because I wanted to use it I went looking for a good source to cite for it. But I couldn't find it in any of the histories of Bomber Command I have to hand, which seemed odd. I did find it in histories both more general (like AJP's) and more specific (such as Frederick Taylor's book on Dresden, where he does at least say it may be apocryphal). Trawling through Google and Google Books found many retellings, some quite at variance with other versions (eg that it happened in 1940, not 1939; or that Wood said it in the House of Commons or in Cabinet), some in surprising sources (a book on the ecological impact of transportation, for example). This worried me; the story has such widespread currency and is freighted with such obvious meaning that it deserved to be subjected to a bit more rigour than is possible in the usual throwaway line.

So like any historian I tracked the story back to the primary source. A. J. P. Taylor gives a citation: 'Spears, Prelude to Dunkirk, 32'. This is Major-General Sir Edward Spears' memoir of the period July 1939 to May 1940. For most of the time after the outbreak of war Spears reprised his role in the previous war as a military liaison between the British and French. But since 1931 he had also been a Conservative MP, and latterly an Edenite anti-appeaser, and this is how he comes into the Kingsley Wood story.

After the declaration of war, Spears wrote, many MPs 'were as worried as I was that we were doing nothing by way of air attack on Germany to relieve the intolerable pressure the German Luftwaffe was exerting on Poland', particularly in view of press and diplomatic reports that open towns were being bombed (reports denied, or at least not supported, in the House of Commons). All Britain and France were doing was dropping propaganda leaflets on German cities. Spears, with the support of the Labour leader, Clement Attlee, determined to raise the matter in the House; but was headed off at the pass by Wood himself, who privately and 'in the name of the Chief of the Air Staff begged me not speak'. According to Spears, Wood told him that 'the Service Departments considered no good whatever could be achieved by air interventions and that the Poles would not be helped by it'. Spears got quite angry with the Air Minister:

how could we justify the Prime Minister's pledge that we would go to the support of the Poles immediately with all our forces, when we were not even bombing Germany?

It was ignominious, I told him, to stage a confetti war against an utterly ruthless enemy who was meanwhile destroying a whole nation, and to pretend we were thereby fulfilling our obligations.

In the end, however, Spears gave way to Wood and did not make his speech in the House.

But that's not the bit about private property. That's this bit:

I told Leo Amery of my brush with Kingsley Wood and he gave me an account of his own experience with the Air Minister which threw a really astounding light on the mentality of Munichers at war. Amery knew the Black Forest and was well aware that that vast wooded area was packed full of munitions and warlike stores. He suggested that we should immediately drop incendiary bombs on to it. It had been a very dry summer, he pointed out, and the wood would burn easily, but the rain might come at any moment and a unique opportunity might be lost, probably for ever.

Kingsley Wood turned down the suggestion with some asperity. "Are you aware it is private property?" he said. "Why, you will be asking me to bomb Essen next!"

So it turns out that we have the story only at third hand: Spears saying (after the war) that Wood told Amery that bombing the Black Forest (and Essen) was out because it was private property.

Wood died in 1943, so wasn't able to give his own version when Spears published his memoirs in 1954. Nor does he seem to have kept a diary. Amery was still alive, though; and did keep a diary. In its published form, that diary mentions Amery's discussion with Wood on 5 September about bombing 'Essen or even set[ting] fire to German forests', but says nothing about private property:

In the coffee room I tackled Kingsley Wood on this. He was very stuffy and evidently has been responsible for all this, on some mistaken notion that we are winning American sympathy, and forgetting that we are doing nothing nothing really to help the Poles.... Went away very angry.

Amery's editors discuss the private property story, but without offering an opinion on it. However, they do quote Amery's recollections of the episode in a letter written in 1954 after having read Spears:

I am not sure that Spears has got the wording right. But I did talk to Kingsley Wood in the first two or three days of the war about setting fire to the Black Forest, and I think I also mentioned the fact that they had munition dumps there, though my main argument was to deprive them of timber. I cannot remember whether he spoke about it being private property, but if he did it way well have been in order to put me off the fact that the French were desperately anxious to have nothing to do with bombing till their own anti-aircraft defences were better, while our own people were a bit of the same school of thought. What I do remember was that I was very indignant for it seemed to me essential on moral grounds, if on no others, that we should try and do something to help the Poles.

So, to recap: Amery himself was (in 1954) doubtful about Spears' version (in 1954) of what Amery said (in 1939) that Wood said (in 1939). I think this means we should be doubtful too. The story about Sir Kingsley Wood not wanting to bomb German private property should be retired, or at least have a big warning sign fixed to it.

That it has been floating around for so long, apparently unchallenged, points to the continuing influence of the Churchillians in the historiography of the Second World War (Gilbert, for example, is Churchill's leading biographer; Piers Brendon was Keeper of the Churchill Archives). Wood was one of Chamberlain's men, a 'Municher' as Spears put it, and therefore immediately suspect: once an appeaser, always an appeaser. Never mind that it was during Wood's time as Air Minister that British aircraft production first outstripped Germany's. And never mind that Churchill himself made Wood his Chancellor of the Exchequer, a more important role than Air Minister (or Lord Privy Seal, which Chamberlain had moved him to), and kept him there during the war's darkest years (he was responsible for PAYE, by the way). The story is just too good not to repeat: it affirms what we 'know' about the Chamberlainites and their purported inability and/or unwillingness to fight Germany.

But, given that historians of Bomber Command and/or British strategy during the Bore War don't seem to like the story, presumably there's no evidence for any similar arguments being made by Wood or anyone else in Cabinet or the Air Ministry. On the contrary, it is well-established that at the outbreak of war, Bomber Command was ordered not to attack targets inside Germany, partly for fear of provoking reprisal air raids against Britain, partly to conserve Bomber Command's limited resources, but mostly because of concerns about the effect on neutral, and more particularly American, opinion, should the RAF start killing civilians.

Guilty Men never die; only their reputations.

Image source: Test & Research Pilots, Flight Test Engineers (Wood is in the middle of the group standing in front of the Blenheim).

A common complaint about this blog is that it doesn't feature nearly enough pictures of airships. So here's one, a 27-metre long non-rigid which belonged to Henry Spencer, scion of a remarkably airminded family (sixteen aeronauts across four generations). Indeed, he built it with his brothers. The photograph was taken on 16 February 1909 and apparently shows the first ever powered flight from Hendon aerodrome, though neither Spencer nor his airship are mentioned in David Oliver's Hendon Aerodrome: A History (Shrewsbury: Airlife Publishing, 1994).

But much more interesting than the airship itself, it must be said, is what it was used for. The clue is the slogan emblazoned on the side of the envelope: 'VOTES FOR WOMEN'. Spencer had hired his airship out as a propaganda platform to Muriel Matters, an Australian-born suffragette who was very active in the Women's Freedom League (a non-violent breakaway from the better-known WPSU). Matters had won some publicity the previous year by chaining herself to the grille of the Ladies' Gallery of the House of Commons. Her airship flight was also designed to make Parliament take notice of the suffragist cause: the new session was opening that very day and it was her intention to fly over Westminster and drop Votes For Women leaflets on it. In the end Spencer and Matters didn't make it there, having been blown off course into a tree in Coulsden, well to the south. Three decades later, Matters herself gave a wonderful account of her flight to the BBC, which can be heard online here. (Ignore the photo there, which is of the Army airship Baby.)

The photograph above is from a scrapbook belonging to an American women's suffrage organisation, so the message did travel quite some distance, albeit to a receptive audience; I couldn't find any mention of Matters' flight in a quick search of the British press. It took nearly a decade for the WFL's demand to be partially fulfilled. And it's nice to see that the part Matters played in using airpower for progressive causes is still remembered in her native South Australia.

While researching a possible British mystery aeroplane in 1936, which turned out to be nothing interesting, I came across a genuine mystery aeroplane scare which I'd never heard of before, from Australia and New Zealand in March and April 1918. I'm sure somebody else must have noticed it before now, as it was trivial to find using Trove and Papers Past. But I haven't been able to find mention of it in my usual sources, so here's what I've got so far.

Firstly, some context. In March 1918, it was getting on for four years since the start of the Great War. The soldiers of Australia and New Zealand had been engaged in combat for just under three of those years, two of them on the Western Front. The armies there seemed to be in a deadlock. All that can be done is to keep the two ANZAC corps supplied with men and munitions; but in Australia it is only a few months since the public rejected conscription for a second time, in a bitterly divisive plebiscite. If victory seemed to be a long way off, at least so did defeat.

On 16 March, most of Australia's big daily newspapers featured prominently a story that an officer of the German commerce raider Wolf, which had been terrorising merchant vessels in the south-west Pacific, had boasted that its 'seaplane flew over Sydney Harbour early one morning and that they knew the disposition of shipping there'. (The Wolf's seaplane, a Friedrichshafen FF.33 nicknamed Wölfchen, 'little wolf', is shown above.) If true, this would have taken place in July 1917 and would be the first time a hostile aircraft had reached Australian skies. The Minister for the Navy, Joseph Cook -- a former prime minister and an ardent pro-conscriptionist -- was dubious however, noting that 'the German, throughout the course of this war, had proved himself a frightful liar'. He did venture, however, that it might be a good thing if the Germans came back in greater force:

Perhaps a few planes over Sydney dropping bombs would help Sydney to visualise the actualities of war, and stimulate recruiting [...] At the present time, it was humbug to talk of peace. We must wait until Germany was soundly beaten. We should be acting war, thinking war, and dreaming war.

But just a few days later the German armies launched a massive offensive in France. The Allied lines sagged under the strain. All of a sudden, far from Germany being soundly beaten it looked like it might actually win the war.

Now, it would be convenient for my narrative if, after the news about the Wolf's seaplane flying over Sydney and the dramatic change in Allied fortunes in Europe, people began to imagine hostile aircraft in the sky. Reports of mystery aircraft did increase greatly after then, but there were in fact a few earlier ones from New Zealand (and possibly some from Australia, much earlier; see below).

The first was reported in the Nelson Colonist on 2 March. At 7am the previous day, 'A lady who was bathing at Tahuna [...] saw two seaplanes quite distinctly', over Tasman Bay.

They were flying together near the surface of the water, and then separated, one going in the direction of the eastern hills. She watched this one until it was lost in the clouds. She then endeavoured to locate the other, but it had disappeared.

Also noted was a rumour that 'a few days ago [...] a seaplane had been seen in the Sounds, but the story was scouted', i.e. dismissed. The 'Canterbury headquarters office of the Defence Department of the group commander at Nelson' investigated these reports of 'enemy seaplanes', but 'seriously discounted the story as improbable'.

On 6 March, the Christchurch Press said that

What appeared to be an aeroplane with lights was seen by several people in the city yesterday evening between 7 o'clock and 7.15. It seemed to be travelling in a south-westerly direction, at a rate estimated at something like 20 miles an hour, and was at a considerable height. To some, at first sight, it looked like a planet, but its fairly rapid movement dispelled that idea. Others surmised that it was a fire balloon, but to other observers it looked like an aircraft under control. It seemed to pass along the edge of a dark bank of cloud in the southern sky, and was finally lost to sight.

The Aviation School at Sockburn said it that it was not one of their machines, which anyway were not used for night flying. This prompted a reader to write in to the Press to ask

if your readers have seen the occasional visit of a well-lighted aeroplane late at night south-west of Christchurch? Repeatedly, during the moonlight cloudless nights lately, the members of our household have watched this visitor, and towards morning apparently as far south as the Ninety-mile beach it was seen distinctly. If not a Sockburn aeroplane, what was it?

At this point the mystery aeroplanes disappeared for a few weeks, or at least I can't find any reference to them. They next turn up on 21 March, across the Tasman in Victoria:

While on duty near Nyang on Thursday, Constable Wright, while awaiting assistance to get a car out of the stiff sand, observed two aeroplanes flying very high pass almost due westwards over the route of the railway line from Ouyen to Adelaide. No notification had been received of any projected flight. The day was very clear, and the constable says that he distinctly saw the glint of the machines in the sunshine.

(Note that this is a daylight sighting, quite unusual for mystery aircraft.) A few days later, another mystery aeroplane was seen back in New Zealand:

Reports were received in Whakatane last night [26 March] that an aeroplane had been seen during the day hovering over Taneatua, nine miles from Whakatane, and the vicinity. Mr. McGougan, of Opouriao, is said to have observed the flight of the aeroplane, which is said to have lifted from the direction of Whale Island, and to have taken a westerly course over the township of Taneatua, towards the Urewera Country. Two other men, employed on Mr. P. Keegan's station, have stated that their attention was drawn by a buzzing noise, such as would be made by the flight of a powerful aeroplane. The report of the appearance of the machine was sent round by telephoned to the inhabitants of the district.

However, this was apparently a hoax:

The Hon. T. M. Wilford, Minister of Justice, told the Christchurch Sun that the Commissioner of Police had reported to him that enquiries had been made into the story. The particular individuals who were supposed to have seen an aeroplane had been interviewed, and not one of them had heard or seen the alleged aeroplane.

If nothing else, that the police and the military both investigated mystery aeroplane sightings in New Zealand shows that the government, at some level, thought they were plausible and credible.

As I started this post with Cook's scepticism about the Wolf's seaplane over Sydney Harbour, I'll end it with some scepticism of his, er, scepticism. The Poverty Bay Herald in New Zealand actually printed this story on 30 March, filed at Melbourne on 19 March, but as no attribution is given and I can't find it elsewhere, this seems the appropriate place for it. Intriguingly, it notes rumours of mystery aeroplanes seen in Victoria late in 1917:

One Victorian member of the House of Representatives stated to-day that during the conscription campaign it was stated several times from the platform in the east end of Victoria that a coach-driver in Gippsland and some other persons had seen an aeroplane circling over the country at a great height.

The implication was that the story of the Wolf's seaplane and the Gippsland reports of a mystery aeroplane somehow reinforced each other. In fact, Wolf had been in Gippsland waters at the beginning of July 1917, when it laid mines off Gabo Island, but that was several months before the conscription campaign began, so Wölfchen couldn't have been responsible.

There's more to come. Next I'll look at April, which is when the real fun begins: Victoria has a rash of mystery aeroplane sightings, Australia has an invasion (?) scare, and New Zealanders poke gentle fun at their bigger neighbour.

Image source: Wikipedia.

In 1935, the Emperor of Abyssinia, Haile Selassie, tried to buy the Airspeed Viceroy, an aeroplane which had been built to order for the London-Melbourne air race the year before. The Viceroy (above) was a one-off, customised version of Airspeed's successful Envoy, a twin-engined civil transport which could carry six passengers in addition to its pilot. Improvements included more powerful engines, an auxiliary fuel tank and a higher take-off weight. But it failed to complete the air race, pulling out at Athens due to mechanical troubles. Still, it would have made a nice plaything for an emperor, you might think; but that's not why he wanted it. He wanted it for a bomber.

Nevil Shute, then managing director of Airspeed, tells the story in his autobiography, Slide Rule. In autumn 1935 he was approached by 'Jack Norman' (a pseudonym chosen by Shute) wishing to purchase the Viceroy on behalf of a client, Yellow Flame Distributors, Ltd, 'whose business was the rapid transport of cinema films between the various capital cities of Europe'. As the Viceroy had just been sitting in a hangar for months after being recovered from its former owner (who had refused to pay for it and indeed sued Airspeed for their troubles), Shute was very glad to shift it and so set his men to work getting it ready for flight. But then Norman came back and told Shute that Yellow Flame were worried about the inflammable nature of celluloid and asked, 'Could we fit bomb racks underneath the wings to carry to films on?'

This was where Shute got suspicious. Italy was by then embarked on its invasion of Abyssinia, and Shute told Norman that he was selling a civil aircraft to a British company, not a bomber to a foreign concern. Norman asked if Airspeed could instead fit 'certain lugs' under the wings, to which Yellow Flame could attach whatever they wished. To this Shute agreed, though the distinction seems a fine one to me.

Then Norman asked if Yellow Flame's pilot could test fly the Viceroy. This pilot, who Shute calls 'Ernst Schrader' (again, not his real name), turned out to be a stateless ex-Luft Hansa pilot who was on the run from the Gestapo after having 'spoken disrespectfully of Adolf Hitler in a beer tavern'. Or perhaps he was, as Airspeed's own test pilot, Percy Colman, claimed, 'one of the most famous German pilots of the day', who Colman had recently met in Berlin and who Shute again gives a pseudonym, Weiss. At this point Shute had had enough and demanded that Norman tell him what was really going on. Norman admitted that Yellow Flame was just a cover story and that the real buyer was Abyssinia:

The army of Haile Selassie had no hope of standing up against the Italian invaders of their country unless modern arms and equipment could reach them. The Emperor had the pitiful sum of £16,000 to spend on modern aircraft with which to defend his country. With this he was buying our Viceroy for £5,000 and the remainder was to be spent on three fighters, Gloster Gladiators I think, to shoot down the Italian planes that were harrassing his troops. All four machines would, of course, be flown by soldiers of fortune from Europe.

The Abyssinians had a specific mission in mind for the Viceroy:

The job of the Viceroy was to bomb the Italian oil storage tanks at Massawa and so halt their mechanised advance. The Viceroy was a good deal faster than any aircraft the Italians had in Abyssinia, and this mission was well within the capabilities of the machine. It was, however, vital to maintain complete secrecy, because if the Italians were to get to know about the Viceroy they would move a squadron of first-class fighters from Italy to defend Massawa, with the result that the Viceroy would almost certainly be shot down.

This bold plan came to nothing in the end: Abyssinia fell to the Italians before the Viceroy (and its weaponry) could get there.

But the whole story, colourful as it may be, illustrates the idea of the commercial bomber, a civil transport aeroplane converted into a military bomber. This was a cheap and usually desperate way of creating airpower. Abyssinia wasn't the only country doing it, either; Airspeed's history provides several other examples. Early in 1936, for example, a more formal conversion was carried out on seven Envoys for the South African State Railways:

It reflected the condition of the world at that time, that these were civil aeroplanes for use on an airline but they were to be readily convertible to military purposes. Bomb racks and release gear were to be provided, a mounting for a forward firing gun, and the roof of the lavatory was detachable and replaceable by another roof which carried a gun turret.

Shute notes that when the Spanish Civil War broke out, demand for such ersatz bombers surged: 'by August [1936] agents for one side or the other were buying up every civil aeroplane that would fly' In fact, thanks to the war Airspeed sold off all of its old stock of Couriers and Envoys in one go. Even its very first Envoy, a test machine with a lot of miles on it, was sold -- for £6,000 in cash -- to the Spanish Nationalists. (We know this because it later flew into the side of a mountain while carrying General Mola, one of Franco's best generals.)

And the Viceroy itself ended up in Spain too, this time flying in Republican colours. After the Abyssinian episode, Airspeed sold the Viceroy to two airmen planning to compete in an air race from London to Johannesburg. They were once again approached by a middleman, who bought it from them for £9,500. Shute says only that they 'handed over the Viceroy, which left for France without delay and was never seen again'. But here is a very grainy photograph of it in Republican service:

What uses the Viceroy was put to in Spain is unclear. What is clear is that this piece of advanced civilian technology had a double life as an object of military desire. And that it was not alone.

Image source: airwar.ru.

The remarkable flight to Scotland of Rudolf Hess still dominates the headlines today, though much more so in the Manchester Guardian (5) than in The Times, it must be said. More details are emerging. It now seems that Hess was trying to meet with one specific person, the Duke of Hamilton, whose seat is at Dungavel, just a few miles from where Hess landed by parachute.

The Duke is on active service, and was not at Dungavel on Saturday night. The Duke, who is the premier peer of Scotland, is 38, and succeeded to his title last year on the death of his father. He is best remembered for his boxing and flying achievements as Marquis of Douglas and Clydesdale, and he has met Hess through his sporting interests.

The line from Berlin, that Hess was on an unofficial peace mission, seems to support this:

He knew that Britain had made false statements not only about the military but also about economic conditions in Germany [says a semi-official German statement].

From his notes it is indisputably established that in his opinion the continuation of the war by Britain was entirely due to public opinion being misled by Churchill and his gang, who, he wrote, are alone responsible for preventing peace being established, which must mean terrible consequences for the people living on the island.

Hess apparently thought that Hamilton, who he had met at the 1936 Olympics and to whom he had recently sent a letter (passed on to the British government at the time), 'had the necessary influence' to persuade other Britons 'of the insane attitude of her leaders'. Admittedly, the these letters may have been made up by Germany. But, says the Guardian's diplomatic correspondent,

if he fled from Germany in danger of his life he might, since he had to leave his wife and child behind, have attempted to provide evidence that he had gone with good intentions, believing that it would mitigate the consequences to his wife of his absence.

The Prime Minister's statement, expected shortly, will 'doubtless' clear everything up. But the political correspondent says that 'Hess has been talking freely', although 'it does not follow that the Government will tell the world what he has been saying'. While the 'considerable elation' at Hess's flight is justified to the extent 'that it reveals the first and probably not the last breach in Nazi unity at the top', there is also the danger of 'making Hess into a film hero or "glamour boy," as I have heard it put'. Finally, an air correspondent notes that it is clear that Hess did not steal his Me 110 with the intention 'to use it for raiding or for combat, for when used as a bomber it requires a bomb-aimer':

Hess flew solo, and, moreover, the twin 20mm. shell guns and four machine-guns were all unloaded and the bomb racks were empty.

Just in case you were wondering.

It was 'another quiet night' for bombing last night:

The only reports of activity by the Luftwaffe over Britain last night were that enemy 'planes were near two towns on the East Coast of Scotland. No incidents were reported. It was London's fourth successive quiet night.

That doesn't mean that civil defence workers can relax, of course. Ellen Wilkinson MP has been touring the country talking to fire-watchers: 'We cannot let Britain burn down', she told 'a parade of women's services' (6) at Longford Park. She is helping her minister, Herbert Morrison, organise his 'people's fire army', and trained women will play a large part in this thanks to the 'calling up and compulsion' of so many men:

"I believe we are going to find that among those women who were considered on the shelf we shall find a great reserve of just sheer toughness when it comes to keeping fit to fight Hitler."

Gas is another danger which must be guarded against, although according to a special correspondent to the Guardian the public's 'lethargic mind has obviously not grasped the fact that a gas attack is possible and that if it comes there is danger for the unguarded' (6).

Constant scoldings of those who do not carry their masks, vague threats of penalties if they continue the misdemeanour, references to the terrible effects of gas, melodramatic broadcasts from the inside of gas-vans, and bald statements that the gas masks gives perfect protection do not inspire people in the desired way.

To tackle this problem, an '"open" gas shed' has been set up at Altrincham. This actually consists of two wooden sheds, placed at right angles, through which civilians can walk through while wearing their gas masks. As they pass through they are exposed to a 'lachrymatory' (or tear) gas, by they are only 'mildly affected' (out of seven thousand people who have passed through in total, only two were 'excessively' affected, while a third exhibited 'mild hysteria'). It was found that only ten per cent had practiced wearing their masks before, sixty per cent 'adjusted their masks, but failed to anti-dim them', twenty-five per cent had ill-fitting masks, and another five per cent had faulty masks.

A lengthy report from Liverpool deals with how that city is coping with the aftermath of its heavy air raids:

What has happened at certain other heavily raided towns is now happening at Liverpool. Each evening, long before darkness falls, many people leave the city for what they consider the greater security of the countryside.

Liverpool's authorities 'in no way countenance or encourage these movements', even though they are seen to be a somewhat 'more healthy inversion of the older and somewhat wearying "trek" into the city to the nightly refuge of the big shelters. At the same time the shelters are being used for sleeping more than ever' (that is to say, presumably, regardless of whether there is a raid alert on or not). As well, 'normal evacuation -- that is, of mothers and children, expectant mothers, the aged, &c.' has removed a further 'large percentage' of 'eligible evacuees' from the city. Even so, Liverpool 'is for the policy of "stay put" on Merseyside, where there is so much vital work to do".

A leading article in the same paper (4) reflects an interesting light on this discussion of evacuation:

There is some slight satisfaction in knowing that our air attacks on Germany produce as great social dislocation as the German attacks on us. They have compelled large-scale evacuation of children from the German North and West to Czecho-Slovakia, to Poland, and to Austria.

German parents were apparently reluctant to send their children away, but then there was a great rush from the major British targets, even before 'the last series of heavy British raids'. At the end of December 1940, for example, some 15,000 children from Berlin had been evacuated to the Polish Warthegau; by 20 February this figure had increased to 100,000.

The general inference is that German evacuation has been a hurried affair for which no adequate preparation had been made. It has now been extended on a huge scale [...] it is a side of the war that must have had its effect on the confidence of the ordinary people.

I wonder if the author of the above would say the same of British evacuation?

This is enough for today, I feel, even though I haven't dealt with the RAF in Iraq, the endgame in Abyssinia, the defence of Tobruk, the raid on Heligoland, or Henry Lloyd's A Political and Military Rhapsody on the Invasion and Defence of Great Britain and Ireland (1779).

A recent post at Ptak Science Books alerted me to the existence of page 363 of the Illustrated London News for 6 September 1913. Not that I was surprised by this in general terms, but I was unaware of what was on it: an artist's impression of a both a flying aircraft carrier -- which idea I've discussed before -- and an airship drone -- which I haven't.

As the images above and below show, the idea was that the 'parent dirigible' (which looks very much like a Zeppelin) would carry several of these 40-foot long 'crewless, miniature air-ships' slung underneath it, and then launch them when in range of a target (here a fortification). The smaller airship would then be controlled by radio to fly drop its bombs 'on any desired spot'.


The artist is W. B. Robinson, but it was drawn from 'material supplied by Mr. Raymond Phillips'. In 1910 Phillips, a consulting engineer from Liverpool, gave a demonstration of a 20-foot version of his 'aerial torpedo' at the London Hippodrome. Here, according to a report in the New York Times, he impressed an audience which included Claude Grahame-White, who only weeks earlier had become famous for undertaking the world's first night flight. Here, too, the purpose of Phillips's airship drone was war:

"Now," said he [Phillips], "just imagine that row of seats is a row of houses, and that instead of a model, with paper toys in its hold, in its hold, I am controlling a full-sized airship carrying a cargo of dynamite bombs. Watch!"

He pressed another key. There was a faint click from the framework of the airship, and the bottom of the box that hung amidships fell like a trapdoor, releasing, not bombs, but a flight of paper birds, that fluttered gracefully down on the seats beneath. "There!" said the inventor, with a note of finality, and he turned away to answer a shower of questions.

Phillips claimed that 'for £300 I can make, equip, and dispatch to any distance three wirelessly controlled airships carrying huge quantities of explosives' -- and unlike a naval torpedo, his aerial torpedos were reusable, making them very cost effective.

"I offer my invention to the British Government, whose official representatives will inspect it in a day or two, because I want England to have command of the air just as she has command of the sea."

Although he gave further public demonstrations of his aerial torpedo in 1913 (and despite getting a free plug in the Illustrated News) the government seems to have declined to reward Phillips for his patriotism. This is reminiscent of Harry Grindell-Matthews' attempts a decade later to sell his death ray to the Air Ministry. In fact, even more so than death rays, pilotless or robot aircraft (though usually aeroplanes rather than airships!) represent a thread in the early discourse of flight which has barely been recognised by historians.

Want some examples? Okay, here are just a few of the ones I've found, all of them from before the first V-1 pilotless bombs fell on London. The year before Phillips appeared at the Hippodrome with his aerial torpedo, T. Donovan Bailey's short story 'When the sea failed her' had already depicted a long-range remote-controlled aeroplane destroying the cities of Europe and their inhabitants.

After the war, the aircraft designer Anthony Fokker revealed that

In 1916 the [German] Army authorities asked me if I could make a very cheap aeroplane with a very cheap engine, capable of flying about four hours, which could be steered through the air by wireless waves. They intended to load each one of these aeroplanes which a huge bomb and send them into the air under the control of one flying man, who would herd them through the sky by wireless like a flock of sheep. He would be able to steer them as he pleased, and send them down to earth in just exactly the spot he selected.

Just what spots would have been selected, Fokker didn't say. He claimed that he was about to start churning out these flying bombs when the Armistice was declared. And indeed, one of the conditions imposed on Germany under the Versailles treaty was a ban on the manufacture of 'air machines which can fly without a pilot'.

In 1930, the Labour MP J. M. Kenworthy (a former RN lieutenant-commander, and later Lord Strabolgi), wrote a book called New Wars: New Weapons. In it he claimed that:

Aeroplanes can now be flown without a pilot at all, directed by wireless -- taking off, cruising, manoeuvring in the air, returning and landing -- and all the time perfectly under control a hundred and more miles away from the station [...] Robot aeroplanes, controlled by wireless and each carrying half a ton of explosives, could be flown into the heart of London, there to deposit their high-explosive T.N.T., mustard gas or disease germs.

Later in the decade, this was portrayed in fictional form by Joseph O'Neill in Day of Wrath (1936). Here, London is annihilated by Germany using unmanned aircraft. 'Every single bomber a robot', says a British airman. 'They haven’t lost a man yet and won’t need to, as long as they’re only going for the fixed targets, towns, main roads, railways'.

Even a novelist so fundamentally uninterested in technological details as Rex Warner in The Aerodrome (1941) uses robotic aeroplanes. The protagonist Roy, who believes himself to be one of a new caste of superior men, a technological elite, is shocked when he discovers that his hero, the Air Vice-Marshal, is planning to replace all of his airmen with aircraft that don't need them. He is shown a display of formation aerobatic flying which is so daring and flawless that only machines and machines alone could carry it out.

And that right there was the reason for the dream of unmanned flight. Taking people out of the loop as far as possible promised to reduce error from human weakness, whether it be due to physical incapacity or moral capacity. Depending on your point of view, this could be a good thing or a bad thing; but in popular discourse it usually seems to have been thought of as the latter. Normal moral judgements are overturned in wartime, of course, but robots threatened to do away with them entirely, with no sense of pity, instincts for self-preservation, or even feelings of remorse. This is an idea which we are familiar with today (think The Terminator). But it's not a new one by any means. We have combat drones now; and we have histories of combat drones; and now here we have a prehistory of combat drones.

The big news today is that the latest Italian offensive against Greek forces in the Tepelini sector has been a disaster. War correspondents estimate 10,000 Italian casualties, including 2000 dead; yet 'it was stated in authoritative circles in London yesterday that the Italians do not appear to have made any perceptible progress' (5). This is despite (perhaps there's a hint of because of) Mussolini's presence at the front lines over the last few days, 'leading or encouraging the Italian troops'. Greek spirits are understandably high. Looking at the bigger picture in the Mediterranean, the Herald's military correspondent suggests that the Germans

are not over-anxious to commit their forces to an attack on Greece while Russia is dissatisfied. Turkey threatens to become actively hostile, and Yugoslavia is, at least, very restless.

The reported presence of three German divisions (or elements thereof) in Tripoli is puzzling. It will certainly bolster Italian morale in Libya after recent defeats there.

It is not likely that an offensive against the Army of the Nile is planned. But it may well be necessary in German interests to safeguard a buffer between British troops and those of the French African Empire.

The bomber offensive against Germany continues. Big (for the Herald) headlines scream 'NAZIS GIVEN HEAVIEST NIGHT OF BOMBS':

R.A.F. bombers on Wednesday night carried out the heaviest raid yet launched on Germany, bombing Berlin, Hamburg, and Bremen.

While nine of the Luftwaffe raiders over Britain were being destroyed, the R.A.F. were attacking the enemy from Berlin to Boulogne. A Nazi destroyer was torpedoed by a Beaufort aircraft of the Coastal Command, the flash from the explosion being "as big as a house."

An aerodrome in Southern Norway and shipping and docks at Ostend, Ymuiden, and Boulogne were bombed. Several of our new and powerful types of aircraft were in action over Germany. By the light of the moon many large fires were started near Berlin railway yards.

This was Berlin's 37th raid, though its first since December.

The 'nine raiders destroyed over Britain' mentioned above made Wednesday the air defence's most successful night of the whole war so far (the previous record being seven on 18 June 1940). Three were shot down by anti-aircraft guns, five by night fighters -- including two Ju 88s by the new 'Beau fighters' [sic], and two He 111s 'by Defiants of the squadron which, at Dunkirk, destroyed 37 Nazi 'planes in one day without loss to themselves'. Mysteriously, '"other devices"' (the Herald puts this in quotation marks) are also credited with at least one kill. This is, it is claimed, the first time the Air Ministry has mentioned 'other devices':

What these "other devices" are the Luftwaffe may soon know to their cost. They represent another stage in the scientific research which is constantly going on in the hope of finding the solution to night bombing.

It's all very hush-hush, but apparently senior RAF officers made 'indirect reference' to experimental work on these 'other devices' over the winter. So perhaps for those paying attention the 'other devices' are not such a surprise.

As for the air raids themselves, Merseyside was the main target on Wednesday night.

[It was] the longest raid by German bombers on England this year, but yesterday the city and neighbouring towns looked much as usual, and transport was normal.

A group of auxiliary firemen were killed by a bomb; and 'policemen, fire-watchers, and wardens are missing' after a bomb exploded in the roof of a school. If it weren't for 'one major incident in a working-class area', casualties would have been considered light for such a heavy raid. As far as Scotland is concerned, no damage has been reported from Wednesday night or yesterday, although the German News Agency claims that the Luftwaffe 'badly damaged' an aluminium works at Fort William in Inverness-shire.

All of that is 'straight' war news, but much of the rest of the news is related to the war one way or another. An article on recent London fashion shows is subtitled 'Fashion's peace plans' (6), as they were showing off 'the kinds of floral and pastel cloths which will adorn women after the war is over'. The leading article today commends a deal being offered to Glasgow dockers of a 'by no means ungenerous' (4) minimum wage in return for '11 turns of four hours each' every week. This will 'make Glasgow Harbour play an even more important part than hitherto in defeating HITLER's U-boats'. The annual report of the Aberdeen Royal Mental Hospital claims that the war has had surprisingly little effect on the mental health of civilians: 'it has increased their courage, morale, and faith, and it has lessened fear' (3). And an ad on page 7 orders householders, retailers, millowners and farmers to 'KILL THAT RAT!' - 'TRAP 'EM, POISON 'EM, GAS 'EM, HUNT 'EM'. Why? Because 'IT'S DOING HITLER'S WORK'.

Let's see how Reid is doing with those peace aims. Today he considers another possible model for collective security after the war: the British Empire. It is 'not a federation [...] not an economic union [but] is, however, a military union' (4).

Britain and the Dominions form the one group of States whose union is firm enough to stand the full strain of war while each one of its members is free to follow its own policy in peace time.

(Reid has very deliberately referred to Dominions here, not colonies.) The strength of this union is based on loyalty between its members, and the knowledge that 'in any real crisis they could count on support that would be instantaneous and automatic':

the Dominions have known that if they ever had to face actual aggression the Navy and other Imperial Forces would come to their aid at once.

Reid's conclusion is that there is no need for any 'supra-national Government controlling political, economic, and social affairs [...] The share of sovereignty to be given up need only be military'. As the basis for this 'European Union' he proposes 'an International Air Force':

An air force of overwhelming power in the hands of the Council of the Union would be, perhaps, the most formidable of all possible safeguards against aggression. The nucleus of such a force may seem to exist already in this island, where British, Polish, Czech, French, Dutch, and Belgian airmen act in conjunction with men from the Dominions, and there is no hint of friction or rivalry between them.

Hmmm. Seems to me I've heard this one before.

The Glasgow Herald, like many early-twentieth-century 'provincial' newspapers, made a serious effort to cover war and other international news, as well as reporting on national and local issues. (In fact, it almost seems more interested in what's happening overseas than it is in London or even Edinburgh.) Its highmindedness is also evident in its lack of interest in trivialities (no sports section today!) and in its rather staid appearance, with the outside pages taken up with classified ads, and the news and editorials at the centre of its twelve page. The Herald might be excused for its old-fashioned look: it was first published in 1783, making it two years older than The Times. (Though admittedly the Daily Mail, a jaunty newcomer, was like this too until the start of the war).

Above is the lead item in today's Herald, President Roosevelt's signing into law of the Lease-and-Lend Bill. This will allow (7)

the President to supply Britain and her Allies with almost unlimited supplies of guns, tanks, aeroplanes, ships, and all other war materials and goods.

In fact, he has already begun to do so, approving the transfer to Britain of 'the first allotment of Army and Navy material'. What this consists of was not revealed, but information from 'Well-informed circles in Washington' suggests that it may include 'Army and Navy 'planes, flying fortresses, and patrol bombers' as well as 'ships, tanks, and machine-guns'. And Roosevelt is asking Congress for another $7 billion to buy more weapons for Britain after that.

This is certainly timely news (though that would probably have been true whenever it came), for the Air Minister, Sir Archibald Sinclair, announced yesterday that while the RAF is already stronger 'now than when the Battle of Britain began last August', its growth will be 'enormously accelerated' over the next year.He also revealed the existence of two new British aeroplanes, the Beaufighter, 'for long-range fighter operations and for night-fighting', and the Halifax bomber, which joins the Stirling and the Manchester as Britain's heavy bombers:

All three of these have already proved their worth, the first [Stirling] against enemy targets.

Bomber Command has so far conducted 300 raids on docks and shipping in Germany, 470 [?] on railways and communications (ditto), and 430 on industrial targets (ditto). In his speech before the House of Commons, he also commented on the enemy's offensive (8):

I will not be optimistic about this menace of the night bomber. I have warned the country, and I repeat the warning, that attacks more severe than any that have yet been experienced may well come upon us. But I know that our methods of defence and counter-attack are gradually improving. Last night we destroyed by fighters and anti-aircraft fire four enemy aircraft and damaged two. As our equipment on the ground and in the air is developed and multiplied, and as our training progresses, we shall extract from the night bombers -- as we have already begun to extract from them -- an increasing toll.

Sinclair goes on to say that

I will not conceal from the House my own belief that the war is about to enter a grimmer phase. It will be no easy task to defeat Nazi Germany, but it can and it will be done.

Sinclair doesn't explain why he believes the war will enter a 'grimmer phase'. His belief in ultimate victory, however, seems to be shared by the Herald, which has begun publishing a series of articles by J. M. Reid on peace aims. Today, in the second of the series, he writes about 'The gospel of federation' (6), defined as:

Federal Union -- The formation of a super State by the junction of a number of peaceable nations

Reid's aim is to test this (and in forthcoming articles, other proposals for the post-war order) to see whether, if it were adopted by Britain, it would 'help us to victory?' Would it prevent war in future? Would it be welcome 'to other free peoples as well?' He notes the basic argument:

If a large number of highly civilised States were united, with a common citizenship, a common army, navy, and air force, a common financial system, and a common government that could deal with their joint affairs, the vast federation would be too strong to be attacked, and it would be impossible for the countries belonging to it to part company with one another when danger threatened, as the League Powers did.

Such a federation would tend to grow over time, accreting other nations until it encompassed the whole world. Not incidentally, this would also lead to global free trade.

But Reid is sceptical of the historical arguments used to justify the idea of federation. The collapse of the Roman Empire shows that it's not necessarily true that 'as men become more civilised political units grow larger'.

History suggests that there is a sort of rhythm in such matters, that huge States of conglomerations of States come into existence and break up again, and that civilisation is by no means always at its best when political divisions are fewest.

Germany itself was disunited when it produced Bach, Goethe, Kant et al; united Germany produced Goering and Goebbels (as well as, admittedly, Einstein). Also, Reid argues that the League was not doomed to failure because of the speed of modern warfare.

In fact, preparations for aggressive war on a large scale take months if not years -- there was ample warning of Germany's aggressive policy and even of Italy's movement against Abyssinia.

So formal federation was not needed then; if the nations had upheld the League's Covenant, it could have worked.

Lord Rosebery, Regional Commissioner for Civil Defence in Scotland has warned that 'Objects washed up on the beaches at this time are capable of killing those who handle them' (5). Anything unusual which is found on the shore should be reported to authorities.