Love, Death, Chariot of Fire

by Winton Higgins

  ‘Harold the Hearty’ is the odd man out – he’s here just to take charge of the cheque if it’s proffered, and in that case to undertake that his organisation will manage the contest that the money will make possible. Along with a handful of close colleagues – and in sporadic phone contact with McLean – Mitchell and Hives have spent the last two days in extended and intense conversations, sometimes poring over an S.6 in one of Supermarine’s sheds, sometimes rubbing shoulders around a large drawing board in the design office, as they thrashed out ideas about how to overhaul and modify the planes to make them fly considerably faster than they had two years ago.

  Hives has spent the last two nights as the Mitchells’ guest to save him the trip back to Derby. They enjoyed each other’s company over dinner. Hives has a similar background to Henry Royce and Mitchell himself: he’s worked his way up from the shop floor, but now steers his firm’s technical development. He also knows how to handle himself on social occasions.

  The speedboat heads downstream to the mouth of the Itchen, and then swings to starboard to make its way round the point and up Southampton Water. Its destination soon comes into view, riding at anchor opposite the port: an elegant, low slung vessel with two short masts, and a more impressive raked funnel amidships. Its white hull picks it out from the winter-grey of the water, city and smudged sky. A wisp of dark smoke rises from the funnel. As they draw closer, Mitchell begins to appreciate the yacht’s size – it can’t be far short of 300 feet in length. He reads the name on the bow: Liberty.

  Grimes ties up to the lower platform of the accommodation ladder on the port side, disembarks his passengers, and casts off again. The men mount the ladder in single file, gripping the handrails against the slight rocking of the yacht in the sea swell and the backwash from other craft plying the water. When they reach the upper platform they’re greeted by a shrill boatswain’s call, then a smiling middle-aged gent wearing a peaked cap and a cross between a double-breasted suit and a naval officer’s uniform.

  ‘Welcome aboard, gentlemen! I’m Cedric Hodgekiss, master of this vessel under Lady Houston’s orders,’ he announces.

  The guests take it in turns to shake hands and introduce themselves.

  ‘It’s a fine vessel you have under your command here, Hodgekiss,’ McLean says.

  ‘Indeed, sir. She may be over twenty years old, but still quite advanced. Twin screws, two triple-expansion engines – so less coal burned for more speed achieved!’

  Hodgekiss has evidently been briefed to expect engineering guests. But he adds a patriotic flourish: ‘Did her bit in the war too, sir. Naval patrol yacht in the Gallipoli campaign, then a hospital ship until the Armistice.’

  ‘And the crew?’ Hives asks, looking around the deck in wonderment. Five crewmen, in faux nautical uniforms such as naval ratings wear, busy themselves with various tasks along its length.

  ‘We manage with eighteen hands. Plus Lady Houston’s personal staff, of course. But I know she’s expecting you, so allow me to conduct you below.’

  Hodgekiss takes the guests through a bulkhead and down a carpeted ramp – an odd fixture on an ocean-going vessel, Mitchell notes. As the bulkhead closes softly behind them, he also notices the depth of the muffled silence that pervades its interior. The sounds of the lapping water, the traffic on it, and the city are absent. They find themselves in a grand, well-lit salon lined with plush divans, and two sofa groups in the middle, each enclosing a polished oval coffee table. Like the oyster light fittings in the ceiling and around the timber-panelled walls, the furniture suggests a recent refit in Art Deco style. The scent from the vase of white roses on one of the coffee tables crowds out the faint smell of coal smoke that first greeted the group on entering the bulkhead.

  The room is warm, thanks to the wall radiators placed at intervals around the room. Hodgekiss bids the guests take off their winter coverings and hang them in a locker beside the ramp.

  Lady Houston and a maid in uniform appear from a door at the far end of the room. The maid hovers there while her mistress advances, hand outstretched, to greet her guests. In her fine myrtle-green frock she appears as quite tall and slim for a woman in her early seventies. Her greying hair is bobbed. The finely chiselled facial features that must have beguiled her many male partners are still in evidence, as is the elevated chin that accentuates them and discourages impertinence. As each man introduces himself, she rests a searching gaze on him and holds eye contact. She greets McLean with added warmth, as they’re already acquainted.

  She positions herself behind the commanding armchair of one of the sofa groups and gestures towards the seating on either side. ‘Gentlemen, do take the weight off your legs. Margery,’ she calls over her shoulder, ‘please take our guests’ tea and coffee orders.’

  The hostess takes her own seat in the armchair while the men settle and give Margery their orders.

  Mitchell tries to break the ice. ‘Your yacht has received the attentions of some excellent acoustic engineers, I gather, ma’am. It’s so quiet in here.’

  ‘Very perceptive of you, Mr Mitchell. It was built that way for its first owner, Joseph Pulitzer, the American newspaper man. He had lost his sight at that stage, and was extremely sensitive to noise. Every bulkhead, door and porthole is muffled; every cladded surface insulated. The boat gained the nickname the Tower of Silence. You’ll also notice the ramps, and the rounded corners on the fittings, which also met his needs in feeling his way around his little domain. It was his happiest home, he claimed. In fact he died on board. My late husband followed suit. Not a bad death, if you ask me.

  ‘But enough about the boat. May I hear how you gentlemen would approach building a winning entry for the Schneider contest?’

  ‘Well, I don’t think you need worry about the details of that, ma’am,’ Perrin chuckles. ‘We’ve got the best aircraft and engine designers in the world sitting right here. Let’s leave it to them.’

  Their hostess’s chin rises a further two inches; her eyebrows do likewise. Mitchell cringes. McLean steps in swiftly to save the day.

  ‘We can do much better than that, Harry. I propose that Mitchell and Hives, who’ve been working flat out on the problem in recent days, let Lady Houston and the two of us know what they’ve come up with. RJ?’

  Mitchell waits while Margery places their cups and saucers before them, and the coffee and tea pots, milk, sugar and a plate of biscuits in the middle of the table.

  ‘Thank you, Bob. Yes, well time is of the essence – we have to have our entries designed, built and tested by September. There’s no time to develop wholly new aircraft from scratch. However, we have two S.6s – the 1929 winners – still in working order. We can make some initial modifications to them. They’ll be our trainers and, if necessary, backup entries. We’ll call them S.6As.

  ‘But we’ll build two new planes, S.6Bs, to a similar layout, but modified to take a bigger, more powerful version of the Rolls-Royce R engine than the one in the existing S.6s. This will mean reinforcing the airframe at critical points, shifting the centre of gravity forward, and allowing for a larger fuel and oil load in the design of the fuselage and the floats. The floats in particular will need to be longer and completely redesigned to carry some of the extra fuel, act as radiators, and provide more buoyancy to cater for the increased weight of the plane. Needless to say, fabrication of each component has to be more precise than ever, and allow for heat expansion without the seals leaking or the joints cracking. We’ll need plenty of time to test the craft with the help of the High Speed Flight, so as to find and correct weaknesses.’

  ‘Thank you for that summary, Mr Mitchell,’ Lucy Houston says. ‘But I understand that the problem of cooling these racing engines becomes all the more acute as they grow in size, power and fuel consumption. What are you planning to do about that?’

  ‘You have indeed put your finger on one of our big challenges, ma’am. We called the S.6 “the flying radiator” because we used so many external surfaces of the plane
to dissipate heat without adding to drag. The S.6B will be even more of a flying radiator. We’ll be turning every available external surface, from the floats up, into water- and oil-bearing sleeves and conduits to function as radiators. Mixing glycol into the water will also help. We’re confident that we can produce a considerably faster plane that won’t overheat, so long as the pilot keeps his eye on the temperature gauge.’

  The vessel’s deep silence returns as Mitchell’s interlocutor fixes him with an appreciative gaze. She smiles. ‘I know your work by reputation, Mr Mitchell. But no one told me that you also had a talent for explaining your complex art so simply and lucidly.’

  ‘If I may say so, ma’am, anyone who talks about aircraft design in convoluted terms is talking rubbish.’

  She laughs. ‘That’s what I always suspected! But let’s turn to you, Mr Hives. What can you tell me about the engine you intend to install in the S.6B?’

  ‘Well, ma’am, successful engine designs tend to evolve just like the aircraft that they power. The R engine that powers the S.6 has considerable potential for further development. For instance, we intend to modify the crankcase, rebalance the crankshaft, improve the super-charger to achieve higher boost pressures, and do more testing on fuel mixtures. We’ll also make the engine run a little cooler by fitting it with sodium-filled exhaust-valve stems. We’re confident we can improve the power-to-weight ratio, and raise the horsepower generated by the improved R engine by 400 horsepower up to the 2,300 mark.’

  Harold Perrin’s eyes are glazing over during this recital. But their hostess’s eyes do not, as she leans forward in concentration. McLean is listening just as intently. He’s no doubt catching up on the last two days’ discussions between the frontline technicians.

  ‘And how will you translate all that added power into extra speed, Mr Hives?’ Lucy Houston asks.

  ‘As well as Supermarine’s aerodynamic design work that Mitchell has mentioned, it’ll mean modifying the propeller – its weight, size and pitch. Both our firms already have a good working relationship with the Fairey Aviation Company, which forges and twists the propellers. Testing to find just the right size and pitch of propeller will be an essential part of the work that lies ahead of us. As Mitchell has pointed out, we have a lot of testing to do all round. I’m afraid our neighbours in Derby have more sleepless nights ahead of them – our test sheds will be roaring night and day. Fortunately, we’ve found speedy ways to return engines and propellers to their respective manufacturers for rapid servicing and adjustment whenever we need to.’

  ‘And just how fast do you want your new machines to fly, gentlemen?’

  ‘We want them to set a world record that breaks through the 400 miles per hour barrier, ma’am,’ Mitchell says. ‘Given the short time we have to develop them we’re not promising that. But we’re certainly aiming for it.’

  The company pauses to consider this vaulting ambition. Thick silence once more fills the room.

  ‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ Lucy Houston says. ‘I can’t claim to understand the finer details of your plans, but I now have a clear impression of where they’re leading. And of your own dedication to them. Now – apart from MacDonald, Snowdon and their ilk – do you anticipate obstruction from any other arm of government?

  ‘Quite the contrary, ma’am,’ McLean says. ‘We know for a fact that the RAF brass and the senior men in the Air Ministry are sympathetic to our cause. And I have no doubt whatsoever that the current crop of High Speed Flight pilots will prove highly skilled, plucky, and keen as mustard. Just like their predecessors. Also, we’ve long enjoyed close cooperation from the Royal Aircraft Establishment and the National Physical Laboratories. They provide the aerodynamic and hydrodynamic testing of scale models and materials. We’ve received assurances that they’ll help out again.’

  ‘Excellent,’ she says. ‘But that raises a question of a different kind that I’ve wondered about. Does the development of these Schneider planes have any military significance? And if so, what is it?’

  Perrin looks down at the coffee table. The other men exchange glances. McLean breaks the silence first.

  ‘Both Vickers and Supermarine have supplied the air force and navy with military aircraft for some time – in Vickers’ case since the outbreak of the last war. Also to the Canadian, Australian and Spanish armed forces. Whatever our people invent and learn to build in the course of our firms’ businesses, including producing Schneider racers, feeds into the development of our military planes. The same no doubt applies to Hives’s firm.’

  McLean waits for Hives to signal his agreement before continuing.

  ‘This sort of know-how takes many years to cultivate. From the design offices right down to the shopfloor skills needed to deliver reliable production aircraft in quantity. This country needs its own aviation industry to remain at the forefront well before any military emergency overtakes it. For the first time, mastery in the air is likely to be decisive in any future conflict.’

  ‘And just how will mastery in the air matter so much in the future?’

  ‘A vexed question, ma’am!’ McLean replies. ‘There’s the unending debate over what sort of planes contribute most to a country’s security – bombers or fighters. The one is an offensive weapon, the other defensive. In one sense it doesn’t matter to us. The Schneider contest forces us to develop aerofoils, airframes and other aerodynamic features in pursuit of speed, as well as ever more powerful aero engines with ever higher power-to-weight ratios. These achievements are just as important for bombers as for fighters.

  ‘But there’s one sense in which the debate about the relative importance of bombers and fighters really does matter. In the previous decade many people argued that the next war – if, God forbid, it were to break out – will be won by the country with the best and most bombers. The Conservative leader, Mr Baldwin, holds to this view, I’m afraid, ma’am. It suggests that even a country committed to peace like ours could defend itself only with a strong bomber fleet. One which could threaten to wreak such destruction on a potential aggressor that he would be persuaded to shelve his attack plans.’

  ‘But you seem to reject that, Sir Robert.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. The boards of our firms no longer hold to this view – if they ever did. It reflects the puny speed and firepower of the fighter planes in the last war. Planes like that can’t effectively intercept a flight of bombers. Especially the much faster monoplane bombers we can expect to appear in coming years. But if we in this country develop fighters with even a remote resemblance to our Schneider racers, they will be capable of quick and effective interception. They could bring down enemy bombers en masse. A potential aggressor would then no longer need to speculate about how well we might retaliate were he to attack. He could simply ask himself how quickly his bomber fleet would be reduced to wreckage.’

  Mitchell is grateful for McLean’s survey of ideas that may not be new, but – when expressed in this way – confirm his own instinct to keep pursuing ever higher speeds in the air. He also appreciates McLean’s prudence in withholding sensitive information. They both sit on the Vickers/Supermarine joint design committee, which – like designers in other aviation firms – is engaging in freewheeling discussions with senior people in the ministry and the Air Council.

  International tensions are once more rising, and several European countries are clearly rearming, with France and Italy to the fore. In response, the ministry is seeking back-channel advice from designers to help it draft a fresh specification for a new day-and-night fighter. One that will far outperform the Bristol Bulldog biplane, the mainstay of the RAF’s fighter fleet at present, and even the Hawker Fury biplane that will soon complement it.

  The ministry and the council – especially Hugh Dowding, who oversees the drafting of specifications for new aircraft – want to frame the new specification so as to leave plenty of room for creative designers to devise radical new ways to boost performance. Once it’s drafted and sent out to the leading aviat
ion firms, the specification will trigger a competitive design process. The firms that enter the most promising designs will get government contracts to build prototypes based on them. At the moment Mitchell himself is anticipating the specification by exploring new design features on his drawing board.

  ‘Do I speak for the rest of you gentlemen?’ McLean asks.

  ‘That’s certainly been the view of all the RAF Calshot people I’ve had anything to do with over the last four years,’ Mitchell says. ‘And not just the pilots.’

  Hives and Perrin add their affirmations. The four men turn back to their hostess, who is leaning even further forward. Her eyes are flashing.

  ‘It’s just as I thought! What you’ve said increases my loathing for the present government. Not prepared to spend £100,000 to defend the country! Exposing it to mockery and contempt by shrinking from a contest it has dominated for the last four years! What the hell has happened to Rule Britannia? My God, what true Briton wouldn’t give the shirt off his back to defend his country?!’

  Her guests mumble their earnest agreement. Mitchell knows it’s the right thing to do in the situation. But moments of shared patriotic fervour like this leave him confused. He loves Staffordshire, where he was born and raised, and where his family roots lie. And he loves Hampshire, where he lives happily with his family and thrives in his work. He also understands that these two counties merge into a bigger entity that makes his way of life possible, and that it’s important to protect it. And he’ll contribute to its defence in any way he can. He’d hate to see scenes unfolding in Southampton like the ones he and Flo saw in the streets of Venice! He recalled them again recently when he read that the National Socialist Party in Germany has attracted a million members. That said, though, why does one have to wave flags and make a song and dance about the practical business of defending the country?