Oswald Mosley - 16th Lancer

[Mark Crame]

At the back of my mind it occurred to me that British Union of Fascists leader Oswald Mosley was a Lieutenant in my Great Grandfathers Regiment, the 16th Lancers. I wonder if he knew Mosley. Which begs the question when, and with which squadon did our fascist (but clearly patriotic) friend serve before he went to the RFC as an observer? I wonder if my father knows anything on the subject, because the opinion pre and post WW2 may well have been different - bearing in mind that England in the 1930's was not the most tolerant of places. Anyone have any info?

MIC details:

Description Medal card of Mosley, Oswald E

Corps Regiment No Rank

Royal Flying Corps Observer

Lancers Second Lieutenant

Date 1914-1920

Catalogue reference WO 372/14

Dept Records created or inherited by the War Office, Armed Forces, Judge Advocate General, and related bodies

Series War Office: Service Medal and Award Rolls Index, First World War

Piece Mill J - Nolan P

Image contains 1 medal card of many for this collection

[Mark Crame]

Perhaps they didn't meet, perhaps he wasn't actually a Lancer?:

"When in 1914 the War began he was a Sandhurst cadet of seventeen. He immediately joined his regiment, the 16th Lancers, but as it was stationed at the Curragh in Ireland rather than in France, he got permission to join the Flying Corps, was sent to France, and was flying over the German lines as an observer before he was eighteen. He went to Shoreham to train as a pilot and had just got his wings and was flying solo when the wind changed, but owing to negligence on the ground the wind signal had not been changed so that when he landed he crashed and broke his leg badly. His regiment, which by now had suffered heavy losses of young officers, recalled him to France before the leg had completely healed; in the flooded trenches as time went on it swelled so that he could not get his boot on and was obliged to crawl or hop. This was discovered, and he was sent back to England where he had two operations. Surgeons saved his leg, but it was two inches shorter than the other one and for the rest of his life he wore a surgical shoe, built up to match the sound leg. He was then put on light duty and at the end of the war was sent to work in the Foreign Office."

[De Petrowski Alexander]

Perhaps they didn't meet, perhaps he wasn't actually a Lancer?:

"When in 1914 the War began he was a Sandhurst cadet of seventeen. He immediately joined his regiment, the 16th Lancers, but as it was stationed at the Curragh in Ireland rather than in France, he got permission to join the Flying Corps, was sent to France, and was flying over the German lines as an observer before he was eighteen. He went to Shoreham to train as a pilot and had just got his wings and was flying solo when the wind changed, but owing to negligence on the ground the wind signal had not been changed so that when he landed he crashed and broke his leg badly. His regiment, which by now had suffered heavy losses of young officers, recalled him to France before the leg had completely healed; in the flooded trenches as time went on it swelled so that he could not get his boot on and was obliged to crawl or hop. This was discovered, and he was sent back to England where he had two operations. Surgeons saved his leg, but it was two inches shorter than the other one and for the rest of his life he wore a surgical shoe, built up to match the sound leg. He was then put on light duty and at the end of the war was sent to work in the Foreign Office."

1914 - 1918 is an entirely different period from 1939 - 1945, despite the fact that many have served during both periods, it seems from your info, Mosley had a most unremarkable career during WW I, just a face like millions of others, a good chance you great grandfather would never have remembered him if not for his later political life.

[DamienB]

Sounds like he was only ever a 'Lancer' in name only, and for the briefest of periods.

[Mark Crame]

Sounds like he was only ever a 'Lancer' in name only, and for the briefest of periods.

Yes and no:

"His regiment, which by now had suffered heavy losses of young officers, recalled him to France before the leg had completely healed; in the flooded trenches as time went on it swelled so that he could not get his boot on and was obliged to crawl or hop"

Indicates he was back with the Lancers then, but dismounted. Now, I may be wrong but I thought that Wuperts, ahem, Sandhurst Cadets, were with their parent Regiment when out of term time, kind of like a modern day sandwich course?

[Guest]

Mosely could not have been a fascist in WWI, because until fascism was "invented" by Mussolini after the war, the term did not exist. Of course, some of what it stood for did, but not codified into a set of ideas called fascism.

But, before Mosely made his journed into fascism, he had a time when he shone in mainstream politics, rising to prominence in the Labour Party and briefly attracting a range of well known Labour figures such as Nye Bevan.

[ianw]

Difficult to see how he could have recovered from a badly broken leg and then returned to action with the 16th Lancers in the trenches. Without doing any detailed research would the 16th Lancers have served in any trenches after Spring 1915 ?

[Ciaran Byrne]

Without doing any detailed research would the 16th Lancers have served in any trenches after Spring 1915 ?

Most certainly. As part of 3rd Cavalry Brigade they were in the trenches at Vermelles and Noyelles in early 1916. In late 1917, they were in the front line trenches at Gauche Wood and Hargicout in Januray 1918. They fought against the German Spring Offensive near the Croazat Canal in March 1918 as well.

[Mark Crame]

Seek and ye shall find!

From http://www.globusz.com/ebooks/Mosley/00000013.htm

Service in the First World War

THE outbreak of war in August 1914 brought us all back to Sandhurst in a hurry, several weeks before we were due to return. The purpose was a brief, hard spell of war training before being sent to join our regiments. On the way through London I had a glimpse of the cheering crowds round Buckingham Palace, and sensed the air of general enthusiasm which since the Boer War had been called the Mafeking spirit. Everyone seemed to think it would be all over in a few weeks. The reason for this belief was not quite clear, but we were all gripped by it. Our one great fear was that the war would be over before we got there. A cartoon in Punch or some such journal showed a cavalry subalterns' mess discussing the outbreak of war; there would just be time to beat them between the polo and the hunting—or was it between the polo and the grouse? These brilliant troops had more reason for their optimism in the conditions of 1914 than some of the club experts of 1939, who were remarking that the Polish cavalry would have an easy ride to Berlin because the German tanks were really made of cardboard. There is always much nonsense talked at the outbreak of war, even after experience..

How much tragedy loomed if we could have looked into the future. We had to report to Sandhurst the next day, so in London I went to the Palace Theatre where a young actor called Basil Hallam, a friend of the previous summer, was having an unparalleled success in the company of a glittering actress called Elsie Janis, who was one of the wittiest and most brilliant of the hostesses and entertainers we have welcomed from America. He asked me how long I thought the war would last—a most hopeful question, because I was much less qualified to judge this than the man in the moon. With a crashing lack of tact, a truly wooden-headed display of youthful obtuseness, I indicated that what really mattered was that it should last long enough for us to get into it. His face saddened, and even then I had sensibility enough to realise what a tragedy it was for a young man just at the height of his first success, so recently won, to give it all up and go to the war, as he would feel impelled to do if it went on for long. It was quite soon afterwards that Basil Hallam's parachute failed to open when his observation balloon was shot down by attacking aircraft and he had to jump out in a hurry. It was a rough job, you had to get out fast to avoid the burning balloon coming on top of you. They had parachutes—which we had not in my days in the Royal Flying Corps—but the chivalrous rule of not shooting at a man going down in a parachute was not always observed in the case of someone jumping from an observation balloon; perhaps the German airmen did not regard them as belonging to the same fraternity. Another friend of mine in that corps was followed all the way down by two German aircraft plastering him with machine-gun bullets; he always said that he never gave a thought to being hit himself but had his eyes anxiously glued on the cord by which he was dangling for fear it would be severed.

The Army legend was that Basil Hallam's body hit the ground not far from the Guards band playing his smash-hit song of the 1914 summer, 'Good-bye girls, I'm through'; I do not know if it was true; these rumours and legends always circulate in an army, often in highly romantic form. The British private soldier under his rough exterior is much given to sentiment and imaginative credulity. Some believed that Field-Marshal Mackensen, one of the most distinguished German commanders of the First World War, was in reality Hector Macdonald, a general of the Boer War who was reputed to have committed suicide in time of peace after some dark event. There were no grounds for believing this story.

The tragedy of war was remote from our consciousness as we assembled at Sandhurst, only the excitement was present. The training now was certainly arduous, and most eagerly accepted. Discipline was absolute, everyone was a dedicated soldier. We were at it day and night, on foot and on horse in continual training. Still I never cross the Hartford Flats in the comfort of a modern car without recalling those footsore and saddlesore days. It was soon all over for the happy and hardworking band who were now gathered together as cavalry cadets in the old building. After a few weeks we were dispersed, and sent to our respective regiments.

I arrived at the Curragh Camp some thirty miles from Dublin with a commission in the regular army to join my regiment, the 16th Lancers. The Curragh was a depot for two of the great regiments of the British Army, the 16th and 17th Lancers, which were sister regiments. I had switched my choice between these two at the last moment by persuasion of a grand old figure of the 16th Lancers, Major Sir Lovelace Stamer, who was a neighbour and friend of my mother's family. Previously I had been intended for the 17th Lancers, because some of their officers had stayed at Rolleston for a local polo match during my father's brief sojourn just before the war. Among them was Vivyan Lockett, a member of the British polo team who defeated in America the celebrated American team led by Milburn; he was a distant cousin of ours. They had been good enough to invite me to join them, and apart from the attraction of their company the idea of wearing the famous badge—Death or Glory under a skull and crossbones, won at Balaclava—had a strong appeal. But the immense prestige of the 16th Lancers coupled with the kindness of our old family friend led me on the spur of the moment to state a preference for the 16th.

I arrived at the Curragh with the sense that it was a privilege to be accepted by either of these brilliant regiments, but in some trepidation that my slight change of direction had given offence. However, nothing happened except a little friendly banter, and I quickly felt that the question which regiment I joined was not quite so war-determining as I might have imagined. They were all extremely kind, and the necessary moral deflation was applied with a far gentler hand than that of the British Treasury in any equivalent economic situation.

It was the tradition of the regular army to assume that at Sandhurst we had learned nothing at all. We had to go through the whole business again, barrack square included, exactly like the last recruit who arrived as a private soldier fresh from making hay or from the factory bench. Above all we must take command of nothing until we had 'passed out'. One day we were out on a ride in charge of a rather pliable sergeant, a few simple manoeuvres on horseback which by then I felt I knew from A to Z. With his consent I took charge of the party, as I felt it would do me more good to develop the habit of command than to ride around in the ranks doing things I had learned so well at Sandhurst that I could almost go to sleep on the horse.

Suddenly I was surprised by a stentorian rebuke in front of the whole parade by one of the Rolleston friends who was a senior officer in the 17th Lancers. What was an officer who had not yet 'passed out' doing in charge of a ride? The sudden transformation of an easy, charming friend into a fierce martinet was something of a shock, but half an hour later in the mess he reverted to his usual form and attitude. He was right, for that was the way of the regular army. On parade discipline was absolute, with the most meticulous regard for time-honoured rules vigorously enforced in a fashion quite adequately rough. But in the mess, with the complete relaxation of a club of intimate friends, we were even required at once on joining to call everyone except the Colonel by his Christian name; a habit which the newcomer was inclined to adopt with some diffidence. This way of life had developed over generations, and it worked. The rigours of discipline were tempered and indeed sustained by the warm loyalty of dedicated friends.

The same attitude prevailed with other ranks, although we did not see much of them off duty, except in sport. But every man was made to feel that he was a member of a large family and would in all circumstances be looked after. The most intimate confidence was encouraged and freely given with complete trust. The officer must and would take the utmost trouble to assist any man in his troop or squadron in any difficulty, either in the regiment or in his private life. Not only was this relationship developed by encouragement to make application for assistance in orderly room on official occasions, but every man had the opportunity during the occasions of daily routine in the most casual way to ask an officer's help or advice.

Every morning we had a ceremony called 'stables', which consisted in the grooming, watering and feeding of horses; all performed with minute regard for a formal ritual which must never be varied. I learned there, as much later in such a very different institution as the Foreign Office, that these rigid rules for redressing the carelessness and fallibility of human nature have their considerable practical uses. If doing a thing properly becomes a fixed habit, with dire consequences if it is disregarded, fatal or less serious errors are in practice reduced to a minimum. The stables ceremony, whether in barracks or in the field, had to precede any human care; horses came first, and we could neither look after ourselves nor others until this care was complete. Again without this fixed rule occasions of stress would clearly arise in which the horses would be forgotten, and on them depended not only the success but the very life of the whole corps. There was a natural logic in this business, for the army was composed of practical people whose methods had been evolved in a long experience; there was no question of sentiment.

At this morning ceremony of stables opportunity was provided for the most intimate relationship to be established between officer and men. The horses would be discussed during the work, together with the previous day's events and coming exercises. A man would also discuss with an officer his private affairs and ask advice in the most informal manner. This approach was often tactfully reversed, for the old soldier frequently knew far more about much of the military business than the young officer. His attitude was invariably protective towards his technical superior in a good regiment, and he would never let his young man make a mug of himself if he could possibly help it. Many were the friendly warnings quietly given and gratefully accepted, without the least impairment of the rigid hierarchy of discipline which maintained the whole steel structure. Such advice from an experienced troop sergeant to a young officer in all the intricacies of daily military formalities established between them almost the relationship of a mother and child. But the relations could in some cases be suddenly and sharply reversed when nature replaced ritual and the troop came under heavy fire in a dangerous situation.

The habit of discipline in those circumstances became more than ever valuable. The varying performances of regiments in the supreme test of war could always be traced to their discipline and leadership. Regiments would acquire through this means a collective character so individual that you could almost calculate with precision what in given circumstances they would do. To take an example almost unbelievably crude and simple: it was possible in support trenches in dry conditions to allow everyone to take off their boots if certain regiments were in the front line, because you knew they would hold long enough if attacked to give those in support plenty of time to move up. But this was not advisable in all cases.

This collective character of regiments, this intimate relationship between ranks and these practical working methods, can only be created over a long period of time. It can be found in varying degrees in all the great institutions of this world, where men have slowly evolved a pride in their ways and traditions in the manner of a natural and true aristocracy, the sense of belonging to an elite of service and achievement. The spirit of a regiment or an army always depends greatly on its leadership, and it can be destroyed very quickly - it has sometimes been done in the modern world - but it requires generations, even centuries to create it. And when you have lived with it you realise it is something unique, one of the wonders of human nature.

Those days at the Curragh in the autumn of 1914 confirmed the impression of the regular army which I had originally derived from Sergeant-Major Adam and Sergeant Ryan at school, and I became deeply attached to that way of life. Some years later, in the light duties of convalescence, I was to know very happy and relatively relaxed days at the Curragh. But in those early days of the war all was serious and arduous training. To 'pass out' and become a fully fledged officer did not take long. We new arrivals since the war began were then fully trained and prepared to go to the front. But the war of mobility for the time being was over, and the cavalry in Flanders were held back from the front in reserve. Trench war had begun and there appeared no immediate prospect of the cavalry being used. The casualties were not then occurring which we sadly realised would alone call us to the front as replacements, yet still the idea prevailed that the war would not last long. Impatience grew with the apprehension that we should miss the adventure of a lifetime. Men but a little older than ourselves would be able for ever to address us in some more prosaic English equivalent of Henri IV's gay and gallant words to one of his favourite friends: ‘Pends-toi, brave Crillon, nous avons combattu a Arques et tu n'y etais pas'. Yet our English version was not always quite so prosaic after all:

'And gentlemen in England, now abed,

shall think themselves accursed, they were not here'.

A condition approaching despair began to grip ardent young hearts; never had men appeared more eager to be killed. It was in retrospect perhaps a strange attitude, but it still seems to me healthier than the mood of a few clever young men who on the outbreak of the Second World War reached for the telephone to enquire what was going in Whitehall. Our generation was mad, perhaps, but it was the right kind of madness; some shade of the old George might have wished again these madmen might bite some of their successors.

How to get to the front was the burning question of that hour. One service alone supplied the answer: the Royal Flying Corps. It was prepared to take on completely untrained men as observers and send them straight to fight. I had never been up in an aircraft in my life, but I put in for the job at once. Directly I had sent in my application I remembered that in a gymnasium I had the greatest difficulty in making myself walk across a plank twenty feet above the ground; I had always much disliked heights. There was a considerable doubt about what would happen to me when I found myself several thousand feet above ground. Those were early days and it was not common knowledge that most people who dislike heights have no sensation whatever of that kind in an aircraft. In any case there was nothing for it now but to go and see what happened.

The sense of adventure into the unknown was certainly enhanced during the period of waiting by the most horrific drawings of aircraft being plastered by shell-fire which appeared in the illustrated weeklies. It turned out for once that the imagination of the artist had not greatly exceeded the bounds of fact, for during my time at the front with the R.F.C. I can rarely recall seeing any aircraft returning from crossing the lines without being hit. These early machines were flimsy contraptions, and precisely on that account could stand a lot of stuff going through them without fatality.

At last the wait was over and the order came to report for duty in France. I was joined by another young man from a Lancer regiment whom I had known at Sandhurst, and we understood we were the first two to go from the cavalry to the flying service in response to the appeal for observers. I had always liked him and we became close friends on the way over. I was just past my eighteenth birthday and he was a year or two older. The night before we parted to go to different squadrons he said to me, 'You know, we are much too young to die'. I warmly agreed. A few weeks later I heard he was dead.

My experience on the western front will be an entirely individual story; the reader must expect no history of even a small section of the war. I have always felt a clear choice existed between two states of mind, the writing of history and the making of history. He who is interested in the latter should only be detained by the former just long enough to absorb its lessons. In the case of the First World War a single idea existed for me: always to do my utmost in all circumstances to prevent it ever happening again. This thought was so burned into my consciousness by memory of the fate of my companions that it approached the obsessive far more closely than any other experience of my life. I was at that time too occupied to record anything, and afterwards I was not interested in registering any thought but the determination to prevent the fatal recurrence, if it were humanly possible. Even the colossal errors made during the war became irrelevant if the only task were to stop war in its entirety.

This attitude led me to take little further interest in the science of war, for war became something to be prevented at all costs. It was not until pure science in recent years entered the science of war as its complete determinant that this interest returned. For pure science in modern times offers the decisive choice of the ages, utter destruction or unlimited progress, the abyss or the heights. All politics are in this, and all the future. The problem of war and peace became one with the arrival of science; it was the problem of existence itself, the question of life or death. This was a new world, but from the old world I took one benefit which I shall never deny and always appreciate— a certain attitude of manhood which came from the regular army and helps much in the problems of life.

I am therefore not concerned with the weighty volumes which record the details of these vast events, but only to describe the personal experience of one individual who might have been any other of the millions who fought, and often died. What happened to us in our daily life then, and how did it affect our later life, if we survived? Most of our companions, of course, did not live, particularly in the Royal Flying Corps at that time. Memory is a parade of dead men.

We reckoned during that period at the end of 1914 that about sixty men, pilots and observers, actually flew; I have never checked the figure exactly. We were organised in two wings, the first under the command of Hugh Trenchard, who already had a high reputation and who became famous in later life. I was posted to the other wing which contained No. 6 Squadron, then under the command of Captain Beck; I spent most of my time with them. At the end of 1914 we were at Bailleul, and during most of my service we were either there or at Poperinghe, not far away.

At Bailleul the aerodrome, as we then called it, was alongside the lunatic asylum; a massive building reducing us to quite a narrow field which was awkward in some winds. It was there that my pilot said the day after my arrival, 'Well, let's make a start'. I went up in an aircraft for the first time in my life, and this valuable observer had not the least idea whether he was on his head or his heels, going or coming, for it was rather bumpy. That day we flew along the lines but did not cross them, just to get used to it. The pilot kindly pointed out all the landmarks which later became so familiar. For some time I never had the faintest notion where I was until I caught sight of the triangular pond at Zilibeke; I was never very quick or handy with compasses and map.

It was an odd idea to send completely untrained men to act as observers in the belief that they would see more than the highly-trained pilots. There was something in it, however, because in the degree of fire to which we were subjected on reconnaissance the pilot was usually fully occupied in taking what evasive action he could. All the same, his trained and experienced eye even then often took in more of what was happening on the ground than the unskilled observer. It was some time before the observer flying under actual war conditions became any use at all. Until then he was liable to be a deadweight in the machine, and therefore to handicap rather than assist the pilot. Nevertheless, he probably learned more quickly under these conditions than in peaceful training at home; as Dr. Johnson said of the man who knows he is facing death, 'it concentrates his mind wonderfully'. The authorities were short of men, and naturally wanted to get things going quickly.

On my way to the squadron I met the most experienced airman alive, the holder of Pilot's certificate No.1. I do not remember now whether it was at G.H.Q. or Wing H.Q. that I first met Ivan Moore-Brabazon, who later became a friend in many diverse circumstances. At that time I only saw him briefly, but we entered Parliament together in 1918 and were closely associated in the new members' group. Between the R.F.C. and Westminster I had learned to know him well in the company of mutual friends of his early days, who consequently called him Ivan, which he always remained to me in preference to the later Brab. He was a remarkable character, who combined with the most indolent demeanour an exceptional capacity for action. In his youth he was the first man to fly a mile, and in later life he won the Cresta race at St. Moritz at some incredibly advanced age for such a performance, varying these efforts with first-rate displays in sports as diverse as motor-racing and golf. Stranger still, he added to a continuing athletic capacity a first-rate mind; these gifts may succeed each other but they rarely coincide.

He was serving on the staff when I first met him, having ceased to fly before the war after witnessing the death-crash of his great friend, Charles Rolls. Apart from a pleasant interlude towards the end of the war, the next time I was to have a glimpse of him in effective action was in Parliament soon after my arrival. His immense experience and authority in aviation fitted him perfectly to be Parliamentary Private Secretary to Mr. Churchill when he became Air Minister. Ivan Moore-Brabazon was never a character who sustained easily the restrictive chains of office. During an air debate Mr. Churchill sought a little respite in the smoking-room, and engaged in conversation the circle in which I was sitting. Soon a Whip hurried in and said to him, 'You had better come back to the House, your P.P.S. is up and he is knocking hell out of the Ministry'. The exit from the smoking-room was portentous.

At the end of 1914 the work of the squadron was regular and arduous, and after the first trial flight along the lines I was launched straight into it. We did a reconnaissance at least once a day, and it usually took nearly three hours. It was normally a shallow reconnaissance over Courtrai to observe troop concentrations near the front line, but quite frequently we did a reconnaissance in depth which took us about seventy miles behind the German lines to observe their forces coming up. This further flight was much preferred to the observation sweep of about twenty miles behind the lines, and was regarded as quite a relief from the more exacting daily routine. The reason was that once you got through the first twenty miles you enjoyed relative tranquillity until reaching any of the main towns farther back, where they were again waiting with heavy fire.

The daily reconnaissance at short distance was a different matter. Their fire began directly the machine crossed the lines and did not let up for a moment during the whole flight until the line was recrossed to return home. The German method was to put guns in squares, with eight in each corner. Directly the aircraft was about the centre of the square they would open fire simultaneously, with cross-observation by telephone from each corner to the other corners with the usual gunners' information. The result was that thirty-two shells would be in the air at the first salvo, and they would continue firing at almost the rate of the French '75's, which then operated at greater speed than any other guns in the world. The moment we were out of one square we were into another, and so it continued throughout the convivial three hours. It is therefore not difficult to understand why our aircraft hardly ever crossed the lines without being hit.

The whole danger at that time was from ground-fire, as the fighting between machines had only just begun in a very rudimentary form. But the effect of the fire on aircraft which were flying at seventy to eighty miles an hour at a height of not more than 6,000 feet was naturally considerable. We were flying at that time BE2Cs, which were slow but reliable. They took off, flew and landed at about the same speed. No pilot could coax them much above their 6,ooo-feet ceiling. I was attached at one time to another flight using Morris Farman Shorthorns, the machines on which we used to learn to fly in those days. These machines were just as slow and even more clumsy, but popular with us at that time because they could reach a height of 12,000 feet. This by no means rendered them invulnerable to ground-fire, but at that height it was much less accurate. My pilot on the flight was the most brilliant the R.F.C. had produced in the handling of those machines. But he had two little habits which were highly disconcerting to the newcomer. The first was to zoom the machine on the take-off, which consisted of holding the nose down just above the ground for a considerable distance to get up maximum speed, and then to pull back the stick to send it up as it seemed almost vertically, finally straightening out just before the stall. The second form of playfulness was on returning from a disagreeable stretch of work to arrive 12,000 feet above his own aerodrome and then to stand the machine on one wing-tip and spiral all the way down; in effect, spinning it down like a top. His virtuosity impressed fellow-officers, riggers and mechanics - my word, some bird - but was an unpleasant surprise to his observer, if he had not been notified where to look. For the secret was not to look straight ahead, or at the wing above, but along the wing below towards the ground to which you were spinning; otherwise the experience was a sure emetic.

He was a most charming man, and had the best hands I have ever felt operating one of those early machines; he had the touch of a pianist. Unfortunately he had an imitator in the flight who also had the best of natures but lacked the magic hands. He was the observer's dread, for every time it was anyone's guess whether the initial zoom would stall the machine or not, while extricating it from the final spiral just above the ground required an exquisite delicacy in the handling whose absence could result in a spinning nose-dive, generally fatal at that time. It was all endured with anxiety but without remonstrance, for he was such a good fellow and complaint would have hurt his feelings. He died heroically trying to fly his machine home to save his observer when he was mortally wounded in the chest, but he lost consciousness not far above the ground just before landing; they were both killed.

These machines even more than the BE2Cs sometimes involved a certain difficulty in crossing the lines with a following wind. When you turned to fly back, your progress was your flying speed less wind; say seventy miles per hour less forty. In extreme cases it would be impossible for an aircraft a long way behind the lines to get back without running out of petrol. There was only one way out of it, to put the nose down in a semi-dive and thus gain extra speed. This was impossible in the Morris Farman because it was believed it could not be put into a dive without risking the wings coming off. Consequently they were mostly used for gun-spotting, observing enemy batteries, and directing our fire upon them with morse signals.

The BE2C was a sturdy machine which could be put into a dive, but this had to be done with care. There was at that time a craze in design for what was called automatic stability which was embodied in the BE2C. If you stalled one of these machines it went into a dive from which it recovered automatically and bobbed up like a cork in water. All very excellent but it required elbow room to do it; if you made a mistake near the ground that was that. This capacity to withstand a dive, or rather a powered descent, was however very useful for returning against an adverse wind. The nose could be pushed down to give a speed of over 100 miles an hour, but this process, of course, brought the aircraft continually nearer to the ground, and after a long flight entailed crossing the trench zone very low indeed. Here the partridge on the wing enjoyed another sport. Intensive machine-gun and rifle fire at once began, and gave the bird the sensation of being at the wrong end of a rifle-range without the usual protection, as the bullets zipped through the wings. The only safeguard was the small wooden seat on which you were sitting, and the smack of a partly spent bullet could occasionally be felt upon it. The instinct of manhood in this disturbing situation was carefully to compress treasured possessions within this exiguous area of protection.

A rather similar sensation was afforded by the aerodrome at Poperinghe, because it was bordered by a field of hop-poles with a pond in one corner. In the event of an engine beginning to fail at take-off—which occurred fairly often—the pilot had sometimes to circle over the hop-poles to land against the wind. It was then interesting to look over the side and to speculate which of the hop-poles would strike home if the engine gave up completely. Poperinghe was an aerodrome of many hazards, as the golfers say of their more interesting courses. Returning from reconnaissance in poor visibility we once broke cloud for the first time just over the aerodrome. Immediately a French 75 battery which was stationed there for our protection opened fire and gave us a proper pasting. The pilot very skilfully dived in and pulled out just over the ground to land. The Frenchmen then saw at once we were an allied machine. Justly incensed, I got out of the machine and walked toward the French battery. A figure advanced to meet me, holding some object under his arm. He was the French battery commander; as we approached each other he held out a shell-case and with a completely disarming smile said—'Souvenir'. It was the case of one of the French 75 shells he had fired at us, and to this day I still have it in the form of an old-fashioned dinner-gong. It took the place of the melodious cow-bells at Rolleston which used to be sounded in our childhood to summon us to the happy board.

Our relations with the French gunners, and with their flying squadron which shared the aerodrome with us, were usually of the happiest. Perhaps natural affinity was enhanced by fate's fortunate dispensation that the chauffeur of the French squadron commander, in the genial, democratic forms of French military organisation, was the head of one of the best-known brands of champagne in France. We tended afterwards in their mess to see through a roseate glow even the most trying incidents of the day, as when the two squadrons took a different view of the direction of the wind, with the result that two machines landing from opposite points just managed to avoid meeting head-on in the middle of the aerodrome and escaped with a mutual ripping of wings.

There was much improvisation in those early days among the French, who had that capacity to a degree of genius. But we English were able to make our contribution in the efforts of one of our most gifted members, who later passed into the immortality of heroism. L.G. Hawker was there in his early days with the squadron, very young, very inventive, always trying out new things and new methods. With much raillery we watched him tying onto his aircraft the first loo-lb bomb to reach the squadron (until then we had nothing heavier than I3~lb bombs) with a quaint contraption of string, wire and improvised pulleys to his pilot's seat, before he set out to deliver it to some German target of his particular dislike. We always maintained it had come off long before he reached the German lines, which he stoutly denied with his usual gay humour. However, he managed soon to arrange things as he wanted. He won the D.S.O. for destroying a Zeppelin on the ground with light weapons under very heavy fire and the V.C. for a successful battle against great odds in the air. Finally, he was shot down after a long air fight with the great German ace, Richthofen, who also died in the same way soon afterwards. They rest together in the Pantheon of heroism.

Hawker won his V.C. some time after I left the squadron. Another V.C. of the squadron, by name Liddell, was a very different type; he was as calm as Hawker was highly strung. He died superbly as a result of being mortally wounded in the air and flying back a long distance to save his observer and make his report. He succumbed to his wounds soon afterwards, and his V.C. was posthumous. Will and spirit in such deeds were exalted over the physical in a supreme degree. His was not the only case of men dying of wounds soon after landing, having flown their aircraft back a great distance. It seemed that the will alone held the spark of life until the task was done; it was extinguished as will relaxed.

Hawker was quicksilver compared to the steel of such natures. It would have been difficult to guess from his manner or appearance that he would be a V.C., yet he was one of the greatest of them all. He was very intelligent, nervous, and acutely sensitive to the conditions under which we were living. In the mess he would almost jump from his chair if someone dropped a plate. The continued noise during our daily flights had really affected him as, in different ways and varying degrees, it touched us all. Noise was to my mind the worst part of the war, whether on the ground or in the air. In the trenches the earth naturally received a great deal of the shock of shellfire, while it always seemed to me that explosions in the air were mostly absorbed by the aircraft and its occupants. I do not know if this sensation has any scientific basis; it may simply have been an illusion fostered by the greater loneliness of the air. You were up there by yourself while apparently the whole world shot at you, the hatred of mankind concentrated upon you. Certainly the whoof or crash of shells bursting round us continually during about three hours of the reconnaissance each day affected us all in various ways.

Hawker would never eat or drink before he flew, not even a cup of coffee. He would simply walk up and down while we were waiting in the morning, nerves on edge. This concerned me greatly during the considerable period I was his observer, because there was a belief then current that a pilot might faint in the air if he flew on an empty stomach. It had not much basis in fact, but in the early days of flying we were full of such legends; it was a new subject in a sphere new to man. Yet try as I would, I could never persuade him to eat anything. All was nerves until the take-off; then the man was transformed as the wheels left the ground. He was of all men I knew the boldest, perhaps the most reckless, certainly the most utterly indifferent to personal safety when a sense of duty was involved.

He would not play any of the tricks to avoid heavy fire, like zigzagging within the squares or turning the nose of the machine a point or two off the wind to cause a drift which deceived the gunner. He would go straight across the middle of the square of guns in case any evasive action impeded observation, and, worse still, if visibility was not clear, he would go down in the middle of the square to have a better look, thus presenting a closer and better target. This was one of the most trying operations to his observer, for he would throttle back the engine to descend and in a careless moment would sometimes lose it altogether. There was only one way to start these old engines again, which was to dive and thus make the air-rush swing the propeller. The most likely explanation of this sudden dive to the observer in front was that the pilot had been hit and had fallen forward on the joystick, as we used to call it. The only possible course of action then was to unfasten the seat-belt, struggle round in the narrow cockpit and try to lift the pilot in the rear seat off the stick. The reassuring climax was the grinning face of Hawker as he pulled the machine out of the dive with a triumphant roar of an engine re-started.

Fighting in the air was at that time not much developed because we had not yet got machine-guns and were simply supplied with the old short cavalry carbine. The nightmare of the pilot was that the observer would accidentally shoot through the propeller, so these rather ineffective combats were not very eagerly sought. But Hawker, even on a long reconnaissance, would turn round to engage several German machines at once miles behind the lines, even if to the hazard of the combat was added the risk of running out of petrol on the way back. The bundle of nerves before the take-off became berserk in the air. This contrast between previous nerves and subsequent action is a phenomenon to be observed in outstanding performance in very diverse circumstances; for example, in Lloyd George before a speech.

Hawker would take risks for fun, a rare characteristic in the middle of a war, and was always on the look-out for new sensations and experience of flying. Unfortunately I had spent some time as observer to an experienced pilot who was most expert in the trick then called tail-sliding, to which the BE2C was particularly well adapted. The pilot pulled back the stick as in the beginning of a loop until the machine was vertical with the nose pointing upwards: the aircraft would then slide tail first towards the ground, giving at any rate one occupant the sickening sensation of having left his stomach behind him a long way up in the air. The pilot would then throttle back the engine and the nose would come down, taking the machine into a dive from which the BEaC recovered in 2,000 feet, but not before. My old pilot used occasionally to perform this akwward feat in sheer joie de vivre above the aerodrome to celebrate our return from some trying mission. I always felt that these performances might or might not be all right for the pilot who controlled the situation and had his own life in his hands, but they were not so entertaining for the observer, who had no effective say in the business.

However, I was unwisely persuaded by Hawker one day to go up with him for his first attempt at this trick in order to inform him if he did everything as correctly as the expert had done. Arriving at the necessary altitude, he stood the machine on its tail in proper form and we started the slide, but in his forgetful fashion he omitted to throttle the engine back at the right time. The consequence was that the nose of the BE2C remained in the air and we fell in this way much farther than usual. Again I had to struggle round in the narrow cockpit to indicate that the engine should be throttled back. When this was done we were unpleasantly near the ground, and the question arose acutely whether the BE2C would come out of its protracted dive before we hit it. We emerged just in time, skimming low over the aerodrome hangars. After a moment's pause for reflection I noticed that the aircraft was climbing once more and again I turned round. Hawker indicated that he was going up again to have another go. I equally firmly intimated not with me. He then put me down in the gathering dusk and a developing snowstorm. Nothing daunted, he went off alone, and did it to his own satisfaction. Such is the stuff that V.C.s are made of. Hawker's early death was a tragedy and a continuing loss to his country, for his gifts and qualities would through a long life have given it high and enduring service.

The tragedy was always masked by gaiety. The extreme, almost exaggerated gaiety of those who flew on each side has been noted recently in films which have skilfully reproduced much technical detail but have been less successful in their characterisation. It was perhaps necessary to live with those men to understand why this gaiety was a necessity, sustaining an attitude to life which has never yet been correctly portrayed. In short and crude expression, a dinner-party of intimate friends has to be merry if night after night there is a strong possibility that some of those present will not be there the following evening. In the trenches casualties could, of course, be terribly heavy, but, in a strange sense, death was more natural in those bleak and sinister surroundings. We were like men having dinner together in a country house-party, knowing that some must soon leave us for ever; in the end, nearly all. This experience must also have been familiar to pilots and air crews in the Second World War.

An attitude later became clear to me which was at first incomprehensible and something of a shock. Soon after I arrived with the squadron, we were in a truck just starting a short journey into the town to lunch after the morning reconnaissance, when one of our machines came in to land obviously rather out of control after being badly shot up. It hit the ground, bounced and turned over on its back with a crash which smashed it badly; by a lucky chance it did not then catch fire in the usual fashion. I jumped out and started to run toward the machine to help pull out its occupants. Shouts came from the truck—'Where are you off to?—Come on, jump up—we are late for lunch—The men on duty will see to that lot'. Off we drove. The pilot and observer in the crashed machine were very popular, yet not a word was said about them. Suddenly they appeared in the doorway, very much the worse for wear, but—surprisingly—alive. Roars of laughter resounded through the little room—'Well, well, we thought we had got rid of you that time—never mind, have a drink'. Packets of back-chat ensued. That was the way of it, and it was the only way.

The R.F.C. celebrated the same spirit in its own macabre songs in the lugubrious, humorous tradition of the British army. These men were nearly all officers of the small regular army who had voluntereed to fly in the early days, an elite of a corps d'elite. On a convivial occasion they would break into a long, sad but merry chant whose title was 'The Dying Aviator'. He was expressing his last wishes after a fatal crash, in which he had suffered multifarious mutilations described in bloody detail. A little depressing were some of the melancholy lines enjoining with much technical terminology the careful removal of various engine parts from the more delicate regions of the human frame. In fact, the legendary warrior was particularly fortunate, for he was not burned alive. We had in that period no parachutes, and men had to stay with the machine until it crashed. The flimsy contraption of wood and canvas would then almost invariably catch fire as the petrol exploded from the burst tank. The most fortunate were those killed instantly in the crash, or first shot dead.

My most interesting experience during the whole of this time had nothing directly to do with flying. At the beginning of the second battle of Ypres in April 1915, the Canadian Expeditionary Force had just arrived in the line for the first time, and we were detailed to work with them in spotting enemy guns and directing their fire upon the German batteries by morse signals. I was instructed to make contact with them and to take with me a wireless mast to receive these messages. On a calm spring day I set out in an R.F.C. truck and duly reached the Canadian guns at the usual distance behind the lines without incident. It was our habit to drive about in these trucks, often within enemy range, and as that part of the line happened to be quiet, it was rare for them to spot it or take the trouble to open fire. This had only happened once before, soon after my arrival with the R.F.C. and was the first time I came under fire. I stopped with the truck in a small wood where there were no marks of enemy fire, thinking we would be unnoticed, but we were spotted and heavily shelled. The little wood was in splinters but we escaped unscathed. I remember writing to my mother a delighted letter about the incident, because I experienced the common sensation of a great exhilaration at coming under fire for the first time, a peculiar ecstasy which soon wore off.

I reported to the Canadian guns that there was no particular reason for anticipating trouble that afternoon, although some rather abnormal troop concentrations on the other side had been noted from air reconnaissance. The work was soon finished by the corporal and two men accompanying me who were expert in the job, of which I knew little or nothing. Meantime, I had established genial relations with some of the Canadian officers, and having the rest of the day at my disposal, decided to send the truck home and stay with them a little longer. In these quiet conditions it would not be difficult to get a lift back to Poperinghe before nightfall for my usual work next morning.

All went well in the small, shallow dug-out where I was being generously entertained, until suddenly the Germans opened the heaviest barrage which the war had so far produced. Any movement appeared now to be out of the question; for the time being there was nothing for it but to sit tight in our little hole of earth and hope that we would not stop a direct hit. The barrage went on for what seemed to be an interminable period of time while the whole earth shook. This period of dull, tense waiting was eventually interrupted by something then completely novel. We noticed a curious acrid smell and at the same time a slight feeling of nausea. Someone said gas, and advised us all to urinate on our handkerchiefs and place them over our mouths and noses; above all we must make no movement which required deep breathing. It was the first gas attack of this war or any other. The advice we received was good, for this gas was not very lethal. The consequences were only severe to those who moved and breathed deeply, absorbing much of it into their lungs.

Shortly afterwards it became known that the combination of this exceptionally heavy barrage and the completely new experience of the gas attack had resulted in the entire exposure of our left flank, which had been held by French colonial troops. The Canadian commander was thus confronted with the hard choice of retreating to prevent the turning of his flank, or throwing in his reserve to cover the exposed position on his left; he chose to stand, and the order came to hold our line as it was. At this point it appeared highly probable that we would be encircled, and the commanding officer of our battery ordered me at once to make my way as best I could back to our unit at Poperinghe. It was useless to add fortuitously a Flying Corps officer to the possible loss, and on return to my squadron I could give some account of what had happened; the barrage by this time had rendered all communication very difficult.

I set out on foot, as no transport was available, and in any case it had no chance of survival under a fire of that intensity. From a small rise in the ground in the first stage of my return journey I looked back to see what was happening. It was an unforgettable spectacle. As dusk descended there appeared to our left the blue-grey masses of the Germans advancing steadily behind their lifting curtain of fire, as steadily as if they had been on the parade ground at Potsdam. At that point it appeared there was nothing to stop them. Some of these extraordinary troops were already legendary to all on our side who could appreciate such values because they themselves were members of an outstanding corps d'elite, the British regular army.

We had heard the stories of the first battle of Ypres when the Prussian Guard came out to attack, with the officers in front drawing on their white gloves as if they were walking towards a routine inspection. One of my fellow-officers—an observer of the Royal Flying Corps who had been in command of some British guns in that battle—described to me how some of them had exceeded their objective and came within a few hundred yards of his battery without support of any land. A small party of them passed into a little declivity in the ground where they disappeared from view, but it was clear they were completely isolated and in a hopeless situation. So he sent over a few men with a white flag to require their surrender. They were found lying down in the small hollow. The young officer in charge said they could not surrender as that was against the principles of the Prussian Guard. They were exhausted, but when they recovered they would continue the advance; they were aware they had no chance. After a brief respite, they came out towards the guns, the young officer in front with his sword at the carry and all of them doing the ceremonial goose-step for the last time; they were all killed.

It was a performance utterly useless and incomprehensible to the layman, but the purpose was clear to any practitioner of the science of war; troops of that spirit can and will do things which most troops cannot do, and they did. Capacity to appreciate a great enemy is one of the characteristics of the true soldier, accounting quite simply for the mysterious fraternity of arms which some have regarded as blameworthy. This spirit was evinced when the airmen on each side sometimes dropped wreaths to mourn the death of a great opponent held in honour for his courage and chivalry. It is not to be regarded with suspicion as a sinister emanation of the military mind, but rather welcomed as a spark of hope for Europe, when in some future a transcendent spirit of youth, courage and natural nobility will surmount this period of bitter passions and dark revenges.

It is sad that in recent years it has been left to Russian rather than to Western films to portray the great enemy with truth, as he was; it is also dangerous to the cause which neglects it, because such art can influence in a high degree the minds and spirits of men. The communist state with all its detestation of Western values has often in its cinema approached with something near truth the force which inspires the other side. A notable example is the beginning of the remarkable Soviet film of Tolstoy's War and Peace; another is Eisenstein's extraordinary picture of the Teutonic knights coming out over the snow with the sun behind them to assail the motherland of Russia. When I saw it in later life in all the power of its order, dignity and dedicated purpose, my mind went back to that afternoon when I saw the elite German regiments advancing in the gathering dusk at Ypres. To understand men, and above all the highest motives within them—whether rightly or wrongly applied, that is another question—is to lay a true and durable foundation of the great reconciliation.

The aim now must be to take the noble inspirations which have been used on all sides for dark purposes of destruction and to unite them in the great synthesis which will make possible the creative future. Hegel in his Philosophy of History presents a brilliant image of the vast destructive powers of nature, fire, wind, water being finally harnessed to the purposes of man for creative achievement. So too in the European future the fierce passions which divided and destroyed us can be overcome, and the sublime spirit of duty, sacrifice and high endeavour then imprisoned within them and distorted to the service of war will be released in a union of all high things to make Europe and save mankind. The noble though inarticulate instincts of youth were of this nature, and all the squalor of a life in politics has not yet extinguished the spark which flew from the anvil of 1914.

I had little time for such reflection as I made my way through the barrage towards the Ypres-Menin road, which I knew from our work of reconnaissance was my shortest way home. Very soon on my journey I encountered some other extraordinary troops, the equal in their totally different fashion to the best of the Germans. It was the Canadian reserves moving up to occupy the empty section of the line. They were an astonishing spectacle to a regular soldier, for they were advancing apparently without any discipline at all under a fire so intense that by our standards any advance would have been impossible except by the finest troops under the most rigorous discipline. They were laughing and talking and walking along in any formation, while the heavy shells we called Jack Johnsons—after the Negro boxing champion: they were 5-95 and capable of wiping out a whole platoon with one explosion—were crashing among them in the most severe concentration of artillery fire men had yet known. They seemed not to care a damn, they just came on. Very soon after I passed through them—as we afterwards learned—they went right into the advancing Germans and that event very rare in war occurred, a bayonet fight in which both sides stood firm. Three days later the R.F.C. were engaged in trying to delineate the still indeterminate line after the changes brought about by the failed attack. I reported that the line went through a place called St. Julien where heavy fighting was taking place in what had been the little town. It turned out at that time to be considerably behind the actual line. Some two hundred of the Canadians had forced their way right through, and when surrounded, fought to the last rather than surrender. That spirit lived in both sides.

It was an awkward meeting with them on the way back to report to the squadron, for it was at least peculiar that an officer wearing the badges of the 16th Lancers and saying he was with the Flying Corps should be coming from the direction of the enemy advance. However, the English voice and possibly some incipient flair for politics soon convinced them. They told me that all troop movements through Ypres were forbidden that night, as a concentration of fire on the town had rendered it impossible. I decided to ignore the order, for I was then imbued with the fatalism of war, was dead tired and felt an obligation to rejoin the squadron as quickly as possible. I went straight through Ypres.

Then came the strangest experience. I found myself quite alone in the middle of the great square, spellbound for a moment by the enduring vision. Many of the glories of that architecture were already in ruins, and entirely in flames. Noble buildings collapsed in a sad fatigue born not of centuries but of a moment of bitterness, like a child's house of cards under a wanton hand, as heavy shells descended in direct hits. Too young for full consciousness, I yet felt some premonition of the sorrow: what the Europeans were capable of doing to each other; the waste, the tragic absurdity.

I went on, rejoined the squadron at Poperinghe, made my report and returned to my lodging and to bed, where I fell into the deepest sleep. An hour or two later I woke as a nearby house went up with a heavy explosion. The Germans had already advanced their guns and brought Poperinghe within shelling range. I hurried round to the mess and was told we had to get out at once, as there would soon be little left of the aerodrome or of our aircraft. The pilots flew out the machines at once and the observers were responsible for the loading of the lorries and the evacuation of all stores. I rode out under fairly heavy fire perched on a load of bombs.

Once the second battle of Ypres was over, the attack halted and a new line determined, the normal task of reconnaissance or working with guns was resumed. Boredom interrupted by terror, as someone well put it. The observers with some experience were now offered the opportunity of being trained as pilots. It seemed well worthwhile, for our lives would then at least to some degree be in our own hands. In desperate affairs there is always the desire to take action yourself, however great your confidence in the other man's decision and judgment. It is the natural desire of a back-seat driver to move to the front when it is a matter of life or death.

Another consideration was that by this time I had become quite a bit the worse for wear. During a reconnaissance a partly spent piece of shell had hit me on the head and knocked me unconscious; it had not penetrated my flying-helmet and must have struck flatly rather than with the sharp edge. But the blow was sufficient to leave me with slight concussion, manifest in nothing more serious than recurrent headaches which I never otherwise suffered. On another occasion return in a damaged machine had ended in the pond at the corner of Poperinghe aerodrome with a crash that threw me forward in the cockpit and damaged my knee; I walked with some difficulty. The opportunity to acquire the desired pilot's wings, coupled with these disabilities, decided me to accept the offer of a training course. After a visit to a skilful bone-setter in London who put the knee right, and a short spell of leave and rest at home, I reported for duty at the Flying School at Shoreham, near Brighton.

The aerodrome at Shoreham was small and badly placed, next to the river. A take-off over the river was fairly frequent in the prevailing winds and resulted in a good bump soon after the wheels left the ground, when the nose of the machine was elevated and the flying speed low; the transition from land to water in these slow and clumsy machines always produced this shock. Early aircraft simply wallowed in these air pockets which might push the nose up, tail up, or one wing down, and needed instant correction to prevent a stall, a dive or a side-slip. It was not therefore a good idea to give beginners conditions in which a certain wind direction was bound to produce a severe land-water bump soon after take-off. In this position too an engine failure— which was frequent in early days—meant a descent in the river. However, these were war conditions and everything had to be arranged in a hurry. I noticed that in later years the position of the aerodrome was changed.

We lived in agreeable conditions in a bungalow town near the aerodrome. It was possible to hire a cheap and individual bungalow, and my mother came to stay with me for a time. Training was pushed ahead at a speed incredible to later generations. If I remember rightly, I had only about an hour and a half of instructional flying before my first solo flight. There was an advantage in having been an observer, for this gave one the flying sense. But it cut both ways, as it was liable to make a beginner over-confident. It was better in the early days to be a little nervous and on the look-out for mishaps. It was remarkable even in the case of experienced war pilots how many of them were killed in ordinary flying, apart from the war, through over-confidence and carelessness. You could not take any chances with early aircraft.

My training went smoothly and I took my pilot's test, which consisted of doing figures of eight over the aerodrome, and making a few reasonably good landings. I remember on that day I put up a particularly bad show by making some ill-judged and rough landings. However, I was awarded my certificate, which was marked something over 1200; the precious document was lost in my Irish house fire in the fifties.

Until then I had been in no serious difficulty, except on one occasion on a river take-off when I had forgotten to fasten my seat-belt. This was very foolish as in a bad bump in these machines you could easily be thrown right out, and we were strenuously warned never to forget to fasten ourselves in securely. Consequently, when I arrived over the river just after take-off and encountered the usual bump, I found myself shot from my seat and would have been thrown out if I had not been firmly holding the joy-stick, by which I quickly pulled myself back again. It was lucky that in the struggle the machine was not stalled. That was at least one mistake which I should never make again.

My flying was not bad, though I was weak on the mechanical side. We were not obliged to take it seriously, as there were no difficult exams on the subject, but we had to go through an engine and rigging course. My rather exaggerated pragmatism in never giving my energy to anything which has no practical use and does not interest me, led me to miss the opportunity to acquire some mechanical skill. My argument was that once in the air you could do nothing about it if anything went wrong, and on the ground the machine was looked after by our good friends the mechanics and riggers, who had years of experience and far more knowledge than I should have time to acquire, even if I had the aptitude, which I much doubted. Some of us were perhaps encouraged in this resistance to mechanical knowledge by the example of the most famous pre-war airman, Gustave Hamel, a genius at flying, who boasted his complete ignorance of mechanics.

At Shoreham I gave striking proof of a capacity to make mistakes soon after taking my pilot's certificate—though as usual in our errors in life, chance played its part. It was a day of normal routine flying with a fairly strong, gusty wind. The direction of the wind was indicated not by a wind-funnel sock, but by a T, a wood and canvas frame pivoted on the ground in the shape of a T with the cross-piece facing the wind. I may have been in the mood for some mild exhibition within the narrow limits of my knowledge and capacity as pilot, because my mother had come to watch and was standing at a corner of the hangar with my instructor, who was also a good friend. While I was up the wind changed direction so suddenly that there was not time to shift the T, which was on the far side of the ground and I failed to notice from smoke or other usually discernible signs what had happened. Consequently I made what I thought would be a rather fast, clean landing in the direction of the hangars—a direction which had previously been correct. But owing to the change of wind, the landing speed was considerably greater than I had intended. The machine hit the ground with a bang and was thrown high into the air. It was instantly clear to me that if I continued to attempt a landing I would crash into the hangars, so I opened the engine to full throttle, pulled back the stick and just cleared the hangars. My mother turned to express her admiration to my instructor for the skilful and pretty fashion in which her boy had bounced, but he was missing; for he was, of course, all too well aware of what was happening, and had gone to make ready for a probable disaster.

It was something of a miracle that the engine picked up quickly enough to lift the aircraft over the hangars, but the acute question then arose, what to do next? It was easy sitting out in front of a Morris Farman Longhorn to look down and see that the undercarriage was badly damaged. This meant that a normal landing might entail its collapse, with the result that the nose would enter the ground at speed and the engine would come on top of me; these machines with the engine behind involved this hazard, whereas an aircraft with the engine in front might

[Paul Reed]

When I was an undergraduate, I did part of my BA thesis on 'British ex-servicemen and the British Union of Fascists'. Moseley's politics couldn't be further from mine, but he did serve for some months in the Loos sector, especially in the area of the Hohenzollern Redoubt. Not a cushy number there, that is for sure.

[2ndCMR]

Before he went to Rome and was "hypnotized by marching feet" as one observer put it (more or less) Moseley was widely touted as a future leader of the Labour Party.

[Guest C729LEE]

Forum

Another great thread.

An Aunt of mine worked for the infamous Mr. Moseley. She worked in London, I do believe, at Claridge's where she was recruited to work as a housekeeper [and secretary]. This was between 1934 and 1936, when she married and came back to live in Lincolnshire. I think she was quite socialist in her attitude, remaining on the borders of politics until her death in 1990.

From what I recall, she told us that he was a perfect gentleman and a credit to his family. He wrote a great reference for her and sent cards for her wedding and the birth of her first child. She even had a photograph taken with him. His slight limp was alledgedly from a wound received during WW1. But that of course is open to doubt, reading what so far what has been written. Good propaganda, I suppose you could call it.

You would vote for a man who served his country and could so easily have been killed.

An interesting man all the same.

Lee in Lincs

[DaveBrigg]

I recall seeing in the news recently that the man was nominated as the worst Briton in the twentieth century (joining Jack the Ripper and King John from previous centuries) http://www.mirror.co.uk/news/topstories/tm...-name_page.html

He certainly has more confusion over the spelling of his name than anyone else I know. Mosely/ Moseley/ Mosley?

[harribobs]

and to add my 2d ( and my detest of the man and all he stood for)

i was told, when i was young, that Mosley Street in Manchester was named for a member of his family (NOT him)

Edited 27 December , 2005 by harribobs

[Mark Crame]

and to add my 2d ( and my detest of the man and all he stood for)

i was told, when i was young, that Mosley Street in Manchester was named for a member of his family (NOT him)

I've read a lot more stuff on him, and his time with the 16th Lancers. Regardless of his later politics - which was not in the least uncommon or even 'bad' at that period in time (never judge history through modern eyes) - he was the epitome of gallant cavalry officer.

[truthergw]

I've read a lot more stuff on him, and his time with the 16th Lancers. Regardless of his later politics - which was not in the least uncommon or even 'bad' at that period in time (never judge history through modern eyes) - he was the epitome of gallant cavalry officer.

There was always resistance to the ideas of fascism. Right from the start. The pronounced antisemitism alone would have ensured that. This was also true in Italy and Germany. I try to judge historical events in context but it is inevitably with modern eyes. After all, I know lots of things that people of the time did not. I'd be foolish to ignore that knowledge even if it was possible.

[Mark Crame]

There was always resistance to the ideas of fascism. Right from the start. The pronounced antisemitism alone would have ensured that. This was also true in Italy and Germany. I try to judge historical events in context but it is inevitably with modern eyes. After all, I know lots of things that people of the time did not. I'd be foolish to ignore that knowledge even if it was possible.

That's very true. I just feel that we colour things with hindsight too much, it takes away much objectivism. A friend of mine was researching a relative, a WW2 fighter pilot of some regard and found a hit for him in relation to the BUF/Mosely. Using hindsight myself, I'd say that perhaps these people didn't quite appreciate how far Hitler was going to push things. But how would we in the UK have reacted if we had lost to Germany in WW2? What happened to the Jews, for example, in Jersey? We know what happened in France. Strong anti-semitism was not even uncommon back then in England. We, as victors, have a holier-than-thou attitude. It's like saying that POW camps were like the Great Escape film - no mention of sodomy, thieving or bullying. Saw a great live doocumentary last year where the embarressed presenter moved to another subject when the little old lady mentioned the forming of a lynch mob for the downed German pilot, and somebody taking his watch......... Laugh? i nearly wet myself. Especially when the octogenarian ex-Fighter Command pilot ignored the remains of his hurricane being unearthed and started chatting up the dumb blonde presenter interviewing him!!!! Maybe not quite relevant, but perhaps it is - things aren't as straightforward as in history books.

ps - I don't defend Mosleys views.

[John_Hartley]

i was told, when i was young, that Mosley Street in Manchester was named for a member of his family (NOT him)

I think you're right Chris. Family built Hough End Hall in Chorlton. The following link gives you the story and there is mention of an Oswald Mosley (a predecessor):-

Clickety click

John

[toofatfortakeoff]

Ive done a bit of looking up on his lieutenants a lot of them were a bt loony as it turned out. a few worshipped Adolf as a God. Some had been severely wounded and shell shocked and were medal winners. Other mini dictators included Lt Col Graham S Hutchinson (National Workers Party) *Major*Arnold Spencer Leese (Imperial Fasc.League) and Captain Archibald H Maule Ramsay MP (Dalhousie) the last of whom was tried for helping nick secrets from the US Embassy. There were many others. Some were anti semitic some were peace protesters, or both.

As fo OsMo being gallant he used people to his own political ends and his support wained in the 50s. Interest was still string enough in him in 1968 when he got record viewing figures on Panorama. Whatever can be said about him he was all for the veterans and his protests led to the withdrawal of the black nd tans in Ireland.

[ian turner]

Anyone who commuted on dear old British Railways between Raynes Park and Wimbledon (SW London) would have seen for many years some lineside graffiti, proclaiming: 'Mosley for Britain' and 'Mosley stands for Britain and Europe', accompanied by a 'lightening-strike' letter 'S' within a circle (a la SS motif).

I've no idea when it was painted, (1930's I suspect) but I always mused over the image of some disaffected political activist making a moonlit foray onto the linepath, to daub his slogans for the commuting public to read. I bet he would not have foreseen how long the graffiti lasted (well into the 1980's if I remember well), nor just how irrelevant they were to be.

Ian

[toofatfortakeoff]

, (1930's I suspect) but I always mused over the image of some disaffected political activist making a moonlit foray onto the linepath, to daub his slogans for the commuting public to read. I bet he would not have foreseen how long the graffiti lasted (well into the 1980's if I remember well), nor just how irrelevant they were to be.

Ian

could have been itno the 50s Ian there was some stuff in Ridley Road up the East End as well which athough fant can be spotted.

[truthergw]

could have been itno the 50s Ian there was some stuff in Ridley Road up the East End as well which athough fant can be spotted.

There was a bit of a todo in Ridley Road in 1963. Never knew there were that many Bobbies in the world.

[timhog]

At Shoreham Moseley awarded RAeC certificate 1293 on 2-6-1915.

Tim

[Mostonian]

I think you're right Chris. Family built Hough End Hall in Chorlton. The following link gives you the story and there is mention of an Oswald Mosley (a predecessor):-

Clickety click

John

You are right. It was the Mosley family of the sixteen and seventeen hundreds who the street is named after. The 20th century Mosley was born near Newcastle-under-Lyme.

[Alan Tucker]

and to add my 2d ( and my detest of the man and all he stood for)

i was told, when i was young, that Mosley Street in Manchester was named for a member of his family (NOT him)

Not suprising the Mosleys (his ancestors) were lords of Manchester manor in the 16thC. They later moved to Staffordshire.