It was also a College rule that everyone had to attend a minimum of 24 chapels per term. This meant that, on three evenings of every week, I had to attend the evening Chapel Service in College from 7.00 to 7.30 pm. These very simple and short services gave me great pleasure and comfort, for in the early days I felt as lonely as a stranger in a foreign land. This chapel rule was revoked during my time at BNC. Like many others, I seldom went again, mainly because time did not seem to permit. The half-hour before dinner was thrown away in idle chatter or other inconsequential things, and the custom of going to chapel before dinner — which had been going on for centuries, and gave so much ease to my mind at least — was thrown away, as I now know many other customs at BNC have been, all for nothing more than the so-called ‘march of progress’.
Dinner was at 7.30 pm, and since the Hall was not large enough to seat everybody, the ‘freshers’ had to dine in one of the lecture theatres. Thus, all the new boys were thrown together, and this proved to be a great boon to me, for it was at dinner that I began to make new friends. Soon I was being invited to their rooms for coffee after dinner, to play cards, or even just to talk. Bridge was one of the passions of my life, and I shall never forget the many winter evenings spent playing with such pleasant companions. The mellowed rooms, panelled with ancient oak and warmed by a blazing coal fire, gave a feeling of immunity from the world at large, and conjured up a sense of belonging to a family which was directly descended from those who had lived and studied in these peaceful and graceful surroundings for centuries before.
After the impersonal life of Imperial College, where one attended lectures or studied from 9.30 am until 5.00 pm, after which everyone went their separate ways, I found the communal life at BNC very much more to my taste. I never cease to be thrilled when I walk through the massive doors at the lodge into the old quad, and into another world.
My contemporaries lived in College for the first two years, during which I enjoyed their hospitality. In the third year I opted to live in College, while they were in digs, and so returned their hospitality. My rooms became a focal point for many people and ‘open house’ for them all — so much so, that I never attempted to do any work in my rooms, but always went back to my little office in the laboratory.
Life at Oxford was governed by many rules and regulations, none of which I found irksome, and none that prevented us all from enjoying ourselves. It was permitted to lunch or dine in the town, but not to visit any of the pubs or go to any of the local dances. We were required to wear a cap and gown after dark in the town, although this rule was not strictly enforced, and one never bothered with a mortar-board and used to use one’s gown as a muffler. One was not permitted to have ladies in BNC before 1.00 pm, and they were required to leave by 7.00 pm — not a great hardship.
The lodge gate was closed at 9.00 pm but one could demand admittance free until 10.00 pm, after which the fine was one shilling (5p) until midnight. Admittance after midnight was reported to the Proctors, who dealt with the matter by a fine of £1, provided one had an adequate excuse.
Despite the restrictions outside College, inside parties and celebrations could go on ad-lib. If they were too noisy the Dons would telephone the Porter and ask him to call on the offending party to request less noise. Thus, the restrictions on the town’s facilities were more than made up for by the freedom inside College — except, of course for female company.
Excursions to London were allowed at week-ends, although one always had to be back in College or digs before midnight. This entailed catching the ‘Flying Fornicator’ from Paddington, which arrived at Oxford about 11.40 pm, and left barely enough time to get to College before midnight.
Today, all is changed, and it is sad for me to go back and see men dressed in any old clothes, lounging around in mixed company at all hours. This so-called freedom is at the expense of that happy though mildly disciplined life which had been going on for centuries, and was, to me, a part of Oxford’s great contribution to the moulding of character.
Brasenose was primarily a Law College. The Vice-Principal was W. T. S. Stallybrass, an authority on law of world renown. He was ‘Sonners’ to us all, and combined with law, a love of cricket and athletics. As a consequence, BNC was replete with ‘blues’ in cricket, athletics, rowing, rugger and so-forth — some of international fame, such as Mitchell Innes who played cricket for England; Sean Wade, the Irish international rugger player; Bob Cherry, the Olympic oarsman, and Alex Obolensky, whose rugger will never be forgotten, and who was killed early in the War while training to be an RAF pilot.
BNC was not short of stars. Two of my best friends were John and Paul Bradbury, whose sister I married in 1937. Unhappily, this marriage was to end in divorce after the war. On the scholastic side, there was Leslie Scarman, now Lord Justice Scarman; John Freeman, who became Ambassador to the USA; John Profumo, so likeable and charming; Val Duncan, destined to be Chairman of Rio Tinto-Zinc; John Gorton, who turned up as Prime Minister of Australia; and, interwoven with the story that follows, Reginald Verdon Smith, who had the great distinction of winning the Vinerian Prize for Law.
Part of the ritual of life was that every afternoon should be spent playing games or taking exercise to keep fit or to sublimate other desires by sheer physical tiredness. With the memories of broken limbs still fresh, this was not to my liking, so that in the afternoon, I would go to my little office in the Lab to work. Thus, my evenings would be free for the ‘flicks’, bridge, or any other form of entertainment that happened to be going.
The cinema was very popular. I remember the occasion when Sanders of the River was showing, and the scene came of the natives paddling Sanders ferociously down-river. Suddenly a voice in the audience rang out, ‘Well rowed, Balliol’, and pandemonium followed. Balliol had the reputation, probably unfairly, of having more coloured students, as well as budding prime ministers, than any other college.
The servants, known as ‘scouts’, were all male, and each had a staircase to look after with about six or so rooms and occupants. They arrived early in the morning, lit the fires and generally tidied up before producing hot water for shaving and washing. They stayed on duty until after lunch and then returned again in the evening to serve dinner in Hall. A very friendly relationship existed between us, and I never knew a surly one.
The cost of rooms varied from £10 to £20 per term, according to size and position. Dinner in Hall cost 3/6d (17½p) and one was required to dine in Hall at least three times per week or be charged accordingly. Drink in Hall was confined to beer served in splendid silver mugs, but there were two varieties: one of normal strength, and the other, called Audit Ale, which was very potent indeed. It was dark with a peculiar flavour, and was brewed specially for the College. He was a tough man, indeed, who could drink more than two pints (just over one litre).
There were certain subjects that were taboo at table. If anyone transgressed, an application could be made to the High Table, at which the Dons dined in style, always in black ties, for permission to “sconce” the offender. If granted, a magnificent two-handled, heavily embossed silver mug would be brought in by the scouts, and filled with at least two pints of Audit Ale. The accused then had to rise and empty the mug in one drink. If he failed he had to buy ale for all, but I never saw anyone fail; struggle hard perhaps, but fail — never.
If one lived in College, then three breakfasts per week had to be eaten in Hall. This was to get the slackers out of bed, and not only was one charged for the breakfasts, but fined to boot if one failed to appear the necessary number of times. My friend Dick Wilkins could never face breakfast, and only made it on one occasion five minutes before service ended. His astonished scout took his order of bacon and eggs and came back a few minutes later saying there was no more bacon, only sausages. Dick said he would have those and away went Albert, the scout, only to return to say that they also were gone now. Dick said he didn’t care, he would have anything, so away went Albert, and never came back at all, because a practice
fire alarm was staged, and he was in the Brigade. Dick never tried again, but just paid his fines.
Lunch was taken in one’s rooms, and one ordered in advance either rolls and butter, still called ‘commons’, or a bowl of soup for a few pence, or chop and chips at one shilling (5p). Guests could be entertained for lunch, and a special menu ordered from the chef. Each room was equipped with a reasonably sized table, and chairs would be conjured up by the scouts. Sherry decanters, cigarette boxes, flowers, and so forth, would appear like magic, borrowed by the scouts from other rooms on the staircase, such was the communal life. For a small fee the College silver could be hired to decorate the table, and there was no end to the sophistication that could be lavished on the entertainment of guests of standing from outside the College.
A speciality of the chef was Hare Pie. This was hare in aspic, and it sat on its dish looking like a yellow translucent half rugger ball filled with gravel. I do not remember anybody ever eating it, but as it was the pièce de résistance of the chef, it had to be ordered as one of the courses. The other speciality of the College was hot mulled claret which was exceptionally good, both in winter and summer. For special occasions it would be served in silver carafes, but normally it came in the jugs that were in the bedrooms for hot water, since mulled-claret parties were apt to get a trifle rumbustious.
On one occasion Cecil Borland, who aspired to be an athletics blue, borrowed my room to give lunch to the President and Secretary of the University Athletic Club. He ordered a splendid lunch and returned to College just before 1.00 p.m. to find that other of my friends had arrived earlier and had, uninvited, set to on the lunch. The smiles left their faces when they heard the gravity of the situation, but the scouts rose magnificently to the task, and the debris was swept away with a new lunch arriving at high speed. The great men were intercepted at the Lodge and taken to other rooms for sherry, and never knew how close to a débâcle the occasion had been.
One summer, my friend Douglas Swan invited me to his father’s box for a day at Ascot. This meant hiring full morning dress from Moss Bros. Rather self-conscious, I left my rooms in the corner of the Old Quad, resplendent in a grey topper, to run the gauntlet to the Lodge. Alas, I did not pass inspection. Pat Swire ran to his rooms to return with a red carnation for my buttonhole, and another produced a pair of racing binoculars, complete with a bunch of tags from Tattersalls. With cheers of encouragement and a number of betting commissions, we set forth. Pat Swire gave me £1 and a list of horses on which to bet the proceeds of each race. To my amazement, he picked the winners of the first four races, and the pound had then become more than £100. I was instructed to bet the whole lot on the fifth race, but caution prevailed and I only put one-half on it. The horse lost, but I was still able to bring back over £50 to the grateful Pat.
I was not much of a betting man, since it was against all my mathematical training to gamble on such unreliable data. Dick Wilkins and John Body were always keen on a flutter, and used to place their bets with the local bookmaker, an honest man called West. Because I was a post-graduate student, I was allowed to have a car at Oxford and was, therefore, in demand to take them to sundry race meetings. On one occasion they both wanted to go to Warwick races but, unfortunately, I was going to Southampton for some reason. They tried to persuade me to go to Warwick, but I refused and, finally John said ‘All right, Stanley, you go South and we will go North’. ‘And your money will go West’, I replied.
Body and Wilkins were particular friends of mine. They both came from wealthy backgrounds, and both were reading Law, John seriously and Dick reluctantly; Dick left after two years to become a very successful jobber on the Stock Exchange. John Body’s ambition was to own a Derby winner, but, alas, he was killed in the RAF in the early days of the War. He was an atrocious car driver, and I have no doubt an equally atrocious pilot. I tried hard to persuade him to transfer to the Army or the Navy where he would not have to depend so much on individual, co-ordinated mechanical skill, and where his undoubted gifts of leadership could be used to equal advantage. When I heard of his death I cabled his father, ‘It could just as likely have been the V.C. . . .’.
The activities of the Oxford Union Debating Society were never very popular in BNC. No one seemed to aspire to be a politician. I attended a few of the debates, and was present when the famous motion — ‘That this House would not fight for its King and Country’ was carried. This anachronistic result was due entirely to the facile philosophical verbiage with which Professor C. E. M. Joad, the proposer of the motion, hypnotised the young audience. I remember him telling the story of Lytton Strachey, who was a Conscientious Objector in World War I, being cross-examined by the committee for such affairs. Colonel Blimp said, ‘Well now, tell me what would you do, Strachey, if you came home to find a German Officer raping your sister?’. (A German Officer, mark you, there was nothing peculiar about our Colonel!) Strachey replied, in his squeaky voice, quoth Joad, ‘Well, I suppose I would try to get between them’. But this House did fight for its King and Country most heroically and generously in the hour of need of the whole world.
So far as my work was concerned, nobody in BNC had the slightest idea what I did. I had a moral tutor, who was supposed to look after my behaviour, but I never saw him, and I went my own way unrestricted. This suited me well, because I had reached a stage in my studies and research where I was quite independent. I concentrated more and more on the effects of compressibility on airflow, and published several reports on this subject. One, in particular, on oscillations in the airflow in a conical nozzle, attracted G. I. Taylor’s attention, who wrote that I had discovered a new solution, which he regarded as a considerable feat.
I mention this because in the same letter he asked me if I had considered applying for an 1851 Exhibition, of which he was an elector. These Exhibitions, as they were called, had been funded following the Great Exhibition of 1851, and were the most valuable in the country. They were worth £450 per annum with an extra £50 to cover books, fees and other expenses. I had never dreamed of getting one, but, nonetheless, I applied and was duly awarded this great distinction, with its financial advantages.
I thus became quite a wealthy student. Most people, in those days, could exist very comfortably, either in college or out, on about £250 for the three academic terms. My ‘battels’, as the College charges were called, amounted to £70 to £90 per term, despite the entertaining I did and the rather expensive rooms I had. This included all fees, food, drink and accommodation. I drank little in those days, only the occasional pint of Audit Ale, and I did not smoke. I kept sherry and some spirits in my rooms for visitors, but otherwise led an economical life, apart from the small hospitality extended to the many visitors who used my rooms. Most of them were friends who were in digs in the town and needed a focal point inside College.
I used to work in my office at the Lab on most mornings and afternoons. I have always been disposed to work in fits and starts, and I suppose this is only natural when one is doing theoretical work, because one can only move forward when the inspiration comes along. One cannot solve a mathematical problem by just sheer hard application. There has to be a spark of insight, which can, however, be cultivated by simply mulling continuously over the problem. On most occasions the means of moving forward comes almost unconsciously, like a flash of light as one’s brain continuously sifts the facts that have been fed into it. Once the light has dawned, a quite valuable paper can be written in a week; that is, one worthy of publication in the Proceedings of the Royal Society, the Philosophical Magazine or the Reports & Memoranda of the Aeronautical Research Committee. It was upon one’s output to these journals that one was judged.
In my subject, the experimental information was very sparse. Wind tunnels, where models could be tested in a stream of air simulating motion through the atmosphere, were well-known and available, but their speeds were limited to about 100 mph (160 km/h). For speeds up to 1,000 mph, in which I was interested, the power required to driv
e such tunnels was enormous and very expensive, and no laboratory in the world had such facilities. If the density of the air was reduced, then the power required to drive it at high speeds would be reduced in proportion, and I wrote a report on the design of such a tunnel.
I did not know it at the time, but this report was picked up by a man called Wood, at the Royal Aircraft Establishment. Such a tunnel was made, and used for examining the shockwaves at the nose and tail of shells when fired from guns. This had an important effect upon my career.
In 1935 my period at Oxford was coming to an end. I had obtained a DPhil degree (Doctor of Philosophy) by putting my reports together in a thesis entitled Some Problems in Supersonic Air Flow and Elasticity, and now the problem was getting a job.
I went up to Oxford a callow, gauche young man, rather shy and somewhat lacking in self-confidence, although with a solid background of mathematical training. I left with a much more mature and rounded personality. For the priceless gift of savoir faire I owe a great debt to Oxford, Brasenose College and the many accomplished and splendid young men who, in the friendliest possible way, enlarged my world.
The carefree, yet ordered, batchelor life at BNC provided exactly the right atmosphere for me to work well at the Lab during the day and to enjoy myself in the evenings. The years I spent at Oxford were very happy ones, but in June 1935 I left to face the hard world alone for the first time.
My original idea of an academic career had long since faded, because, in those days, jobs as university lecturers were few and far between. Nor, after the gracious living at Oxford, was I attracted by a job in a non-residential university, just commuting to and fro at 9.00 am and 5.00 pm.
There was, however, one advertisement in The Times that attracted me. It was a new Professorship in Aeronautics at the Pei Yang Technical College at TienTsien in China. It offered £1,000 a year, plus a house and servants, and the thought of a glamorous life in the Far East attracted me greatly. I applied and was interviewed at the Chinese Legation, which was up some back stairs in Soho. All went well at the interview, and I was then summoned to the Foreign Office in Whitehall to be vetted for my suitability to represent the British Raj in the Orient. Again all went well, and I was told that I had been selected. However, the operations of the Japanese in Manchukuo delayed the appointment, which in the end the war brought to nothing.
Not Much of an Engineer Page 3