Monthly Archives: June 2009

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[Cross-posted at Cliopatria.]

Or, Australia strides onto the world stage.

Today is the 90th anniversary of the signing of the Versailles Treaty and thus of the Covenant of the League of Nations (which formed the first thirty articles of the Treaty). This was a fateful moment, with heavy consequences for those who lived through the next quarter-century. But as all of that is well-known (and still debated), I want to draw attention to something that isn't: Australia's role in the Paris Peace Conference, which formulated both the Treaty and the Covenant. While Australia had existed as an independent nation since 1901, most Australians would consider the ANZAC participation in the Dardanelles campaign in 1915 to be its true coming of age. Australian forces went on to serve with great distinction on the Western Front, Palestine and elsewhere, a shedding of blood which earned Australia a place among the peacemakers in Paris. But what use did Australia make of its first opportunity to influence the future of the world?
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The National Archives have released a couple of files (here and here) relating to mustard gas in the Second World War. I'm too cheap to pay to download them from TNA so I'm relying on news reports -- luckily this is a blog and not a refereed publication!

The first is about a series of seminars held in 1943 by the Ministry of Food and the Ministry of Home Security. Their purpose was to inform 'civilians' -- just who exactly is not clear from the article, but I'm guessing civil defence personnel rather than people pulled off the street -- about the effects of mustard gas on food, by way of practical demonstrations. The overall conclusion seems to have been that it was more of a nuisance than anything else, as most things could be decontaminated. (Cheese is particularly resistant, apparently.) This would have been a relief to a number of prewar writers, who predicted that that food supplies were vulnerable to gas attack. Two points. One is that I'm glad that I don't go to the kind of seminars which involve a risk of mustard gas exposure (22 civilians suffered 'side-effects', according The Times, along with 3 officials.) The second is the question of why 1943? Early in that year Allied victory was sealed in North Africa and a German army surrendered at Stalingrad. Perhaps the worry was that with Germany now on the retreat, Hitler might try something desperate to regain the initiative. Or, if the seminars were organised after the devastating raids on Hamburg in July, perhaps it was thought that the Luftwaffe might retaliate. (It did still have this capability, as the Baby Blitz the following year showed -- though this was conventional, not chemical.)

The second story is that in May 1944, Britain 'considered' (as the headline in The Times has it) using mustard gas against Tokyo. But it would be easy to read too much into this. The report in question -- entitled 'Attack on Tokyo with gas bombs' -- clearly isn't any sort of operational plan but simply an intellectual exercise designed to provide the top brass with the basis for informed decision-making. (One giveaway is that the author was a boffin, a Professor D. Brunt, who I'd guess was the meteorologist David Brunt.) Still, it's always a bit confronting to ponder the thinking behind statements like 'In the densely built areas of Japanese-type buildings, where the streets are narrow, the flow of a gas cloud would be hindered by the narrowness of the streets'. Phosgene could also be used, which would cause large civilian casualties, but the conclusion was that incendiaries would be best, perhaps followed up a few days later with mustard as an area-denial weapon. (Another suggestion was gas first to cause civilians to flee, then incendiaries, though there's no suggestion in the article that this was in order to minimise casualties.) Again, why 1944? It's not like Bomber Command was about to start operations against Japan. But the invasion of France was imminent, and with it the prospect of a heavy toll of British military casualties. At this stage of the war manpower was starting to run out. So the eventual need to provide forces for the invasion of Japan must have been daunting for British planners; and for that reason, using technology to substitute for manpower would have been attractive.1 And in fact, later in the year Churchill committed a large contingent of heavy bombers to the war against Japan, Tiger Force -- which didn't go in action because it was trumped by another labour-saving device, the atomic bomb. (Well, that and the Soviet Union's still relatively ample reserves of manpower.)

  1. Just as it had been in a similar stage in the First World War: see Eric Ash, Sir Frederick Sykes and the Air Revolution, 1912-1918 (London and Portland: Frank Cass, 1999). []

Sarah Caro. How to Publish Your PhD. London: SAGE Publications, 2009. Might come in handy one day.

P. D. Smith. Doomsday Men: The Real Dr Strangelove and the Dream of the Superweapon. London: Penguin, 2008. Nice to see I'm not the only one with such dreams. NB: the author has a blog which often contains items of interest.

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Kate Darian-Smith. On the Home Front: Melbourne in Wartime: 1939-1945. Carlton: Melbourne University Press, 2009. 2nd edition. Actually, I bought this last week but I don't suppose anybody cares but me! An excellent survey of life in wartime Melbourne -- the phoney war period, the fear of invasion and bombing in early 1942, the arrival of the Americans, rationing, moral panics about resident aliens and promiscuous women. It could almost be contemporary London.

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Oliver Stewart, Air Power and the Expanding Community

I've said before that Giulio Douhet's influence on British ideas about airpower has been greatly overestimated. Nobody was talking about him before the mid-1930s, by which time the knock-out blow paradigm was firmly established. Much the same could be said of Billy Mitchell (although the sinking of the Ostfriesland was certainly noticed, and at least he wrote in English). The only British name mentioned alongside these two is usually Hugh Trenchard's. So the writers who really set the agenda in Britain as far as bomber propaganda is concerned, such as P. R. C. Groves and L. E. O. Charlton, are forgotten nowadays (except by specialists).

I'm not sure when this forgetting started -- I'd have to read more memoirs and histories written in the two or three decades after 1945 -- but I've found one surprising instance from the Second World War. It's so surprising that it must be a case of wanting to forget, because there's no way the author was not fully aware of British writing on airpower between the wars. I speak of Oliver Stewart, who was a fighter ace in the First World War, a test pilot after it, the aviation correspondent of (inter alia) the Morning Post from 1926 to 1937 (and then other newspapers, including briefly The Times), and the author of several books on aviation. In short, he was a highly-experienced and well-informed observer of the British aviation scene.
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Alan Allport has a new website, which has information about his forthcoming book, Demobbed: Coming Home After World War Two. (Very spiffy cover too, I must say.) As a companion to the book, he will also be post-blogging the British demobilisation experience from June 1945 to June 1946. That's right -- a whole year's worth of post-blogging! I am awestruck (though not envious! :) The first entry is up, for 18 June 1945, the first day of demobilisation -- even though British forces are still fighting in the Far East. I will be following the return of millions of ex-servicemen and -women to Civvy Street with interest!

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Here are a couple of interesting but spurious claims about new weapons from 1939, which I've come across in my recent reading.

The first is from the Melbourne Argus of 19 January 1939. It's very brief, no more than a simple statement that the Soviet Union has announced that it has developed a death ray. This prompted a response on 20 January (p. 10) from T. H. Laby, Professor of Natural Philosophy at the University of Melbourne. (I attended many a physics seminar in the Laby Theatre, back in the day.)

"Over and over again claims have been made to the discovery of a death-ray, and there has never been any substance in them," he said. The whole electromagnetic spectrum, from the longest wireless waves to the shortest X-rays, is known to physicists, and none of them could be used as death-rays at any intensity at which it is possible to produce them.

Laby allowed that X-rays and sound rays (the latter not, of course, electromagnetic waves but pressure waves) could in theory be used to kill, but not in practice. He was right to be sceptical of the Soviet claim, although there is always the possibility of something new coming along to confound elderly but distinguished scientists (as actually happened with the laser in 1960). And the report from Moscow was so sketchy that all he has to go on is the term 'death ray', which as I've said before doesn't mean its primary effect was to kill directly. As for the report itself, who knows whether the Soviets actually made this claim officially, or whether it was garbled or not. But in such uncertain times, a little misdirection about defence capabilities couldn't hurt a friendless country.

The second dubious claim was made by H. G. Wells in an article for the London Daily Chronicle of 6 March 1939, which was reprinted in his Travels of a Republican Radical in Search of Hot Water. Having returned to Britain from a visit to Australia, Wells notes that

War does not come. That is due to the spreading realisation that the catastrophic anticipations of London, Paris, Berlin and indeed most places, being turned into gigantic holocausts, shambles, heaps of ruin and so forth have been much exaggerated.1

I'd agree with Wells that there was such a 'spreading realisation', but the main reason he gives for this is surprising: it's the invention of the 'air-mine', which seems to be carried by balloon:

The air-mine is a small, unobtrusive floater carrying a high explosive charge, detonators and suitable entanglements, that can be set to drift at any height. And it just drifts about with the wind. It is not merely unobtrusive but, as armaments go today, relatively inexpensive. You can send these things up in shoals, in clouds, in curtains, and aerial mine-sweepers have yet to be invented.2

I don't know where Wells got this from. As far as I know, the British had no such device (although experiments were carried out with something similar during the war, at Frederick Lindemann's insistence). Maybe it was a rumour put about by somebody official in order to boost confidence in air defence? If so, it looked like it worked on Wells, though it hardly made him look on the government with favour:

The fact remains that it is possible to cancel out the air, and that this present waste on excavations, tin-pot shelters and the like is either bare-faced jobbery or patent imbecility ....3

So there are two odd claims, both false and (maybe) both propaganda. Both certainly forgotten today.

  1. H. G. Wells, Travels of a Republican Radical in Search of Hot Water (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1939), 68-9. []
  2. Ibid., 69. []
  3. Ibid. []

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Wokingham Whale, 1910

Nobody commented on the Wokingham Whale. Above is a photograph of this unlikely beast, dating from 1910 or so. All I know about it is from the Globe and this site, which has several other photos as well.

The Whale was not an airship, although that word was used to describe it. Despite the shape, that's not a gasbag but a fuselage. A 80hp engine was to drive a 1200rpm 'rotoscope' (presumably meaning a propeller, which Patrick Alexander apparently designed). The 'portholes' are actually to slide poles through, to support canvas wings. The fuselage was 66 feet long, and was designed to extend 'telescopically' to 140 feet in length. It would be fitted for long-distance overseas flights, with seats, electric lights, hammocks and toilets.

It's clearly an example of reach exceeding grasp: there's no way something that big and solid could be made to fly with the technologies of 1910. I don't understand what the point of a telescoping fuselage would be, either. But we do travel overseas today in long enclosed tubes with the amenities mentioned (minus the hammocks!), so the Whale's inventor, A. M. Farbrother (owner of a Wokingham joinery), did have some insight into the future of aviation.
Unfortunately, Farbrother sold his own cottage to fund his flying machine. He and the locals who also contributed must have been bitterly disappointed when money ran out and the fuselage broken up.

Supposedly Flight had some contemporary articles about the Whale but a quick search didn't turn up anything.

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Last year I wrote a post in which I tried to work out the identity of Neon, the author of an eccentric but popular diatribe against aviation entitled The Great Delusion (1928). I concluded it was 'probably' Bernard Acworth, and not his third cousin (by marriage) Marion Acworth, as is usually suggested. Giles Camplin kindly offered to reprint my post in Dirigible, the journal of the Airship Heritage Trust which he edits. I took the opportunity to do some more research and reflection, which just confused the issue! To cut a long story short, I still think Bernard was Neon, but suggest that Marion did have input to or at least influence on The Great Delusion. And if you do want the long story, see the Summer 2009 edition of Dirigible!

Not surprisingly, there are a number of articles on interesting subjects in this issue: an obscure airship built in Staffordshire in 1909 by a Mr Deakin; the almost-equally-obscure story of the Britannia Airship Committee, an attempt to fund and build a rigid airship for the Navy in 1913-4; Zeppelin raids on England; sound detectors of the north-east coast; and more! Well worth a read.