Sky Fighters of France: The Paintings of Henri Farré

French artist Henri Farré produced 175 paintings during the First World War that did more than any photograph to depict the color and movement of a new invention that would forever change the nature of warfare and the destiny of mankind. He used his canvas to record the daring encounters of men and machines in the skies over the Western Front. The aeroplane had barely been in existence ten years when Farré sketched evocative scenes of air combat from his perch in an open cockpit.

Henri Farré, “Caudron G.3 2-Seat Reconnaissance & Artillery Spotting Plane”, oil on board (© Military Aviation Museum)

Born in Foix, France, on 13 July, 1871, Farré excelled as a student at the École des Beaux-Arts, holding his first exhibition at the Salon des Artistes at age 26. The influence of the French Impressionist and Post-Impressionist movements on art at the turn of the 20th Century was reflected predominantly in Farré’s landscapes and portraiture.

At the outbreak of war in August of 1914 he was pursuing a career as a portraitist in Buenos Aires, Argentina. Determined to defend his native country against a German invasion, Farré returned to France and attempted to enlist. However, his age (43) was sufficient to have excluded him from selection for service. Undeterred, placed on the “shelved” list by the recruiters, he badgered his friends with military connections until they relented and ultimately paved the way for Farré’s investiture.

No sooner had he reported for duty when Farré was asked to paint as well as to fight for France. The French Minister for War had directed Farré’s division commander, who also served as director of the Hôtel des Invalides and the Musée de L’Armée, “to create a group of artist-painters, whose duty it will be to paint certain phases of action, so as to immortalize on canvas true pictures of fighting in the field.” Intrigued by the unique vantage afforded him by the coincidence of his assignment to a flying squadron, Farré obligingly accepted the dual role of military orderly and aviation painter.

Henri Farré in front of a Voisin III, ca. 1915 (© Le Miroir)

From this unlikely beginning, Farré maneuvered his way into a post as an observateur-bombardier with a Voisin bomber squadron. It took five months of flying before he learned to, “see vertically,” to accurately record the reconnaissance missions, bombing raids, and air attacks that he witnessed. Before long, however, he was making accurate observations of the colors of the sky as seen at high altitude, of the formation of clouds and of the earth below, as seen from a point of view no artist before him had been privileged to enjoy. However, his attention was not always on his art. On one occasion, with only a pocketknife ready to hand, Farré had had to lean over the side of his aeroplane to cut away an obstinate bomb that had failed to release. His actions helped to save the ship, the pilot, and himself from almost certain destruction upon landing. One should keep in mind that crews of the day flew without the benefit of parachutes.

Henri Farré in the United States, ca. 1918 (© Library of Congress)

Flying as an observer, Farré almost certainly would have been called upon to defend himself and his fellow fliers in action. Observers, in general, were tasked with the operation of at least one machine gun. Depending on the configuration of the plane, they might be compelled to stand up to operate the guns mounted to their aircraft, placing themselves at even greater risk and sometimes obscuring the forward view of the pilot. Even if afforded the limited advantage of multiple gun mounts, the observer would have had to transfer manually the plane’s armament from one mount to another in order to traverse the gun.

Since few, if any, photographs were taken of actual aerial combat during the First World War, Farré’s oil paintings represent a visually and historically significant record of French air operations. His first-hand impressions of the exciting and dangerous air exploits by men in canvas-covered crates were, for many, the only representations of their kind known to the European and American public during the First World War.

British aerial Observer with handheld camera (© BBC)

And this is ironic. The introduction of the aeroplane into military service had been concerned largely with one thing: aerial observation and later aerial photo reconnaissance. In fact, in 1914, reconnaissance was widely perceived as the only practical use of the aeroplane. Ultimately, very little attention would be paid to the documentation of air operations, with nearly all camera lenses focused on the persistent carnage unleashed night and day upon the beleaguered trenches of the opposing armies.

Observer of the Royal Flying Corps in a Royal Aircraft Factory B.E.2c with a C-type camera fixed to the side of the aeroplane, ca. 1916 (© Imperial War Museum)

Vertical cameras were used from the outset of the war, but they were too heavy and bulky for the light aircraft of the day. Most early reconnaissance flights were recorded through visual observations or written reports. Handheld cameras were sometimes employed but with mixed results. To achieve a satisfactory image required both a skilled pilot, to maintain level flight, and a capable operator who could handle the bulky camera and the heavy glass plate negatives.

An officer receives a camera from the observer of a Salmson 2.A2, 91st Aero Squadron, First Army Observation Group, United States Army Air Service, ca. 1918

All belligerent nations soon learned the importance of aerial photography. By 1916 air reconnaissance was practiced regularly along the Western Front. This in turn necessitated fighter escorts, and thereby drove much of the rapid progress in aeronautical engineering for the duration of the war. It is estimated that about one third of all sorties flown were devoted to reconnaissance. By the end of the war both sides maintained detailed maps of the frontlines derived from mosaics made up of thousands of aerial photographs. Germany alone reportedly generated 4,000 images a day in 1918. The British are known to have developed some 80,000 images in the course of a single battle.

It is likely Farré’s own hand-written notes and preliminary sketches often served as an authoritative account of sorties flown. It is known that on more than one occasion he returned to the scenes of earlier battles to sketch details of the topography he claimed to have missed or misinterpreted. Apart from a determination for accuracy in his own paintings, it may very well be that Farré was ordered to revisit the sites of these past engagements in order to clarify or revise his earlier observations for senior Allied commanders. Presumably, there were unforeseen consequences to the production of, “true pictures of fighting in the field.”

Henri Farré, “Aerial Shooting Range at Cazeaux” (1917), oil on canvas (© Military Aviation Museum)

The New York Times recalled that Farré, flying with his sketch pad tied to his knee, “circled over the scene of action and, oblivious to the shells, noted the details…. He never got a scratch.” He witnessed the first night bombardment attempt, which ended in disaster for the French aircrews involved. He also participated in other more successful raids – he observed the sky fighters of France in action in their SPADs, Voisins, and Nieuports, captured scenes at aviation schools and of activities at airfields, and even flew aboard the early seaplanes on long-range maritime patrols. As Farré said, the observateur-bombardier’s work was, “not only painted but lived by me on the different fronts of France.”

Henri Farré, “Captain Guynemer, Killed on the Field of Honor” (1917), etching (© Military Aviation Museum)

The Times went on to say Farré’s works opened a, “completely new field of vision to the general public and stirred both the emotions and the imagination.” As a means of raising Allied support and money for the orphaned children of French aviators killed in action, the French government authorized the artist to take his paintings to America in 1918. In New York’s Anderson Galleries, as well as in Chicago, his efforts garnered great acclaim from all walks of American society. Gustave Kobbe, then art critic for the New York Herald, wrote of the exhibition: “Wherever these pictures are shown they will make a sensation.” The sensation they made, “extended even to the children of America… a boy of eight came one day bringing a bouquet of flowers to place beneath the portrait of Captain [Georges] Guynemer.”

Henri Farré, “Caproni Aeroplane” (1917), oil on canvas (© Military Aviation Museum)

When Lieutenant Henri Farré died in Chicago on 6 October, 1934, at the age of sixty-three, the world was again on the verge of war. This time, however, there would be little room for the officially-sanctioned combat artist ducking bullets whilst sketching impressions of aerial engagements on his knee. That being said, Farré’s paintings today serve as a compelling record of the rapid advancement of military aviation during the Great War, documenting far more than the thousands of reconnaissance photos that had cost the lives of so many men.

Nieuport 17 of the Military Aviation Museum, Biplanes & Triplanes, 2014 (© Art Norfolk)

A large assortment of his artwork is today on display in the United States at the Military Aviation Museum, Virginia Beach, Virginia. There you will also find many of the same ancient aeroplanes once depicted by Farré – still in their natural element and where they occasionally take to the air – in remembrance of those aircrews who served a century ago in the first battles for mastery of the skies.

© Vidi-Visions Productions

Crashing Through the Snow: A Yuletide Yarn

Matthew and His Sisters

As you prepare to throw yet another Yule log on the fire, consider a December from a century ago. Indeed, take heart as once more we hear tell of our dear little Matthew and his sisters, and their serial misadventures from Christmases past. Had it not been for his sisters’ persistent affliction — caused by their unfortunate encounter with an automated apparatus at a handkerchief factory — none of what you are about to read might ever have unfolded. In the years since, it is said an older Matthew took a certain poetic license in his recollections of Christmas Eve, 1918.

Although having survived an acute attack of appendicitis in 1915, Matthew remained a boy with a weak constitution. Even the myriad melodies of the grand Welte philharmonic organ, now installed in the parlour of his family’s home — salvaged from HMHS Britannic (lost in the Aegean Sea at the end of 1916) — weren’t enough to fortify him against the dreaded Spanish Flu that ravaged the ranks of the British, French, and American Armies that winter. This stood in stark contrast to the widespread jubilation witnessed over news of the Armistice signed just the month before.

© Unilever

Showing symptoms of infection, reminiscent of those displayed by the soldiers depicted in the Illustrated London News, Matthew found himself once more in the care of Dr. Strabismus (whom God preserve) of Utrecht. His sisters could do little to relieve their brother’s suffering and placed all their faith in the skill of the physician. The good Doctor, exhausted by continuous calls from clients to receive his ministrations, in the midst of the ongoing epidemic, was not surprised to again find himself at Matthew’s bedside. And nor was he overly optimistic, having witnessed, first-hand, the virulence of the virus. All he could hope for was that his mere presence might give the boy some succor. Before he took his leave, Dr. Strabismus stressed to the girls that the intake of copious amounts of warm water, preferably infused with the patented beef extract Bovril, would do the boy a power of good. With this latest prognostication, the doctor spirited away himself and his accouterments as he carried on with his rounds.

Upon the Doctor’s departure, Matthew bade his sisters draw near to his bed. After the fiascoes of recent Christmases, he was determined this year to overcome their peculiar handicap. Despite his illness, he had his heart set upon a brisk drive in the family’s Model T Ford which they had dubbed the “Tin Lizzie”. He also asked for a big clockwork model of the Royal Navy’s HMS Dreadnought that he had seen displayed in a shop window many months before when out shopping with his mother. In his appeal, his voice subdued by the flu, he mimed and gesticulated as if to mimic the attitude of a professional driver behind the wheel of a motorcar.

Transfixed by their brother’s antics, having grasped his motives,  the sisters’ first act was to place a telephone call to the central exchange at Victoria, Australia! A few more calls and they were connected with the station at Red Cliffs, a newly established town intended for settlement by military veterans of the World War. After some negotiations, the two girls secured for their brother a gift they thought would do more than surpass his expectations. In fact, it could have flattened them and everything else in its path! Heeding the advice of Dr. Strabismus, they knew this was the only cure for Matthew’s case of the flu and the definitive answer to his Christmas wishes.

HMS Dreadnought (ca. 1906)

And lo! On 24 December, 1918, twelve motorized lorries drew to a stop along the curbstone in front of Matthew’s home and the homes of his neighbours for a block in either direction. In turn, three jacketed and mittened men tumbled out of each truck’s cab into the road, whereupon there ensued a certain frenzy to unload the cargo, in spite of freezing temperatures. By the time the men had finished, their faces and clothes blackened by soot, the street was strewn with loose bricks of coal. Having shoveled as much as could be contained by the cellars of the house, the remainder of the anthracite was deposited rather unceremoniously on the pavement. Distracted by their industry, a passing police constable seemed poised to issue a citation when he, and everyone else on the scene, was taken up short.

The ground trembled suddenly with an unnatural force as if from the fall of some giant’s foot. The slowness of the rhythm, at a pace slower than the swing of a clock’s pendulum, elicited a great feeling of anticipation — the tension increased steadily as both the volume and force of each blow mounted in intensity. Had the Armistice been broken? Was this some creeping artillery barrage by long-range German guns? Had the Zeppelins come again? Some credence was given to the notion of an explosive or incendiary device by a thickening cloud of smoke that seemed to hang over the general area. Women and children rushed indoors at the approach of this unknown agent. Other passersby sought shelter behind pillar boxes, bollards, ashcans, the line of lorries, or any other barricade they could improvise. However, the men from the local colliery made no attempt to flee, while the constable went rigid with fright.

At long last, rounding the bend in the street, the sluggish stroke of its single cylinder reverberating through everyone and everything, trailing a plume of inky black smoke and the occasional burst of bright sparks from its improvised funnel, the audience beheld the most enormous road-going vehicle they had ever seen. The snub-nose beast, as tall, if not taller than most of the buildings on the lane, and almost as wide as the lane itself, rode on four coupled pairs of wheels with what appeared to be huge flat treads spaced evenly along their circumference. It was these treads that struck the ground with such purpose on every rotation of the wheels. With one last determined “whump” the as yet unidentified fire-breathing monster came to a stop in front of Matthew’s home.

Two men clambered down from a covered platform atop the engine, almost as black with soot as the several men who had arrived earlier to offload the coal. One of them then marched, bold as brass, up the stairs to the house and reached out to ring the front doorbell. Before he could pull the cord, however, the door flew open and there appeared in the doorway Matthew’s two sisters. After a few words and a desperate attempt to brush away as much of the accumulated coal dust as possible, he entered the house. Curtains twitched in the houses opposite as curious eyes scanned to see if there was any danger. Nearly five years of war had left everyone a bit on edge and no one could fathom what this meant. Was it something from the pen of H.G. Wells come to life?

Moments later, with Matthew now alongside, wrapped up against the cold, the first of the two men came back outside. They walked together to the base of a ladder on the near side of the machine. Matthew was passed up the ladder like a sack of potatoes to the other man who was waiting at the top. The man who had handed up Matthew climbed up next and joined his counterpart at what appeared to be the controls. The boy was secured inside the enclosure out of the wind. Orders then were barked to the men from the colliery, still waiting diligently. There was a sudden sound of scraping metal and a large chute opened at the rear of the vehicle, into which these men now started to shovel furiously the same coal they had stockpiled earlier. After a half-hour’s labour, the chute door closed with a sharp “clang” and the work gang stood back.

Frank Bottrill’s “Big Lizzie” at Red Cliffs (Victoria, Australia)

The throttle of the steam engine having been opened, motive force again applied to the huge wheels, it elicited a groan not from the bizarre treads, but from the actual pavement beneath as it strained under the weight and tremendous torque of the motor. Slowly but surely the machine plodded off up the street, rattling dishes, teeth, and nerves as it went, and taking Matthew with it! Two hours later the beast returned to feast on another mountain of coal. This cycle was repeated many times over the next 16 hours; after 12 hours someone finally came and removed the policeman who hadn’t budged since the first sighting. And yet there still was no clue as to the identity of the two men or their incredible machine.

By the night of Christmas Eve, now less concerned for their own safety, overcome by their curiosity, the people of the neighbourhood established a network to trace the movements of the engine: they offered excellent rates for the best observation posts, and even better odds on its estimated times of arrival. With the late appearance of an organ grinder, pickpockets, touts, and street vendors, the avenue took on an almost carnival-like atmosphere. In fact, the scene had become so animated that someone thought it prudent to sequester another and somewhat less terror-stricken police constable to maintain some semblance of order.

“Dreadnaught” Wheel

Ultimately, the still unknown men and their magnificent machine completed their final circuit at the stroke of Midnight. With a sudden rush of exhaust from the flue, the engine stopped again before Matthew’s house. The aft chute clanged open once more and the colliery’s men fed the last of the coal into the bunker. They then threw their shovels into the beds of their dozen lorries, climbed back into their cabs, and drove off, in single-file, into the gathering darkness. The steam engine idling, there again emerged from the control cabin the two unknown men and a now upright Matthew. At that same moment, the front door to the house opened and out came Matthew’s sisters to greet the men and to embrace their brother. They were helped up the ladder and stood atop the engine’s platform gaping, in awe of the machine’s size and of the sheer number of people in view. Struggling to make his way through the throng, and straining to be heard above the general clamour of the crowd, the newly installed police constable piped up, “What’s all this, then?”

Matthew’s sisters looked at one another, at their brother, at the two men, and back at the constable. In unison they cried, “It’s our cure for the Spanish Flu!”

RNVR at the Crystal Palace (John Lavery, 1917)

A tumultuous roar erupted from those gathered to witness — men threw their hats into the air in their exaltation. It was almost like a second Armistice. Besides continuing coverage of the civil war in Russia, the return of soldiers from France, and planning of the Paris Peace Conference, Matthew’s sisters had observed in the Illustrated London News mention of the Brothers Bottrill. Hosted by the Crystal Palace, as a part of the upcoming “Great Victory Exhibition”, Frank and Reuben Bottrill had traveled from Australia to Great Britain to display their invention.

At 34ft. long, 11ft. wide, and 18ft. high, their one-of-a-kind 45-tonne traction engine was by far the largest in the world up to that time. Known affectionately as “Big Lizzie”, the Bottrill’s gentle giant sported a unique eight-wheel configuration (the “Dreadnaught”), patented by Frank Bottrill in 1912, and which had enabled her to cross the vastness of Australia’s inland deserts. First built in 1915, “Big Lizzie” had a top speed of 1mph. She was converted from crude oil to coal especially for this trip to the United Kingdom, due to the ongoing shortage of crude so desperately needed for the Royal Navy; which explained the copious amounts of coal, curbside. And, should the need ever have arisen, Matthew would never have wanted for fresh water with which to make a steaming cup of Bovril: “Big Lizzie” carried over 4,000 litres of the stuff! Remarkably, the excitement of the day’s events had served to break his fever. Unlike so many others that winter, and contrary to the predictions of Dr. Strabismus, Matthew would recover fully from his illness.

In the years that followed, Matthew would always remember his sisters’ original cure for the Spanish Flu, the kindness of the Brothers Bottrill, his day-long ride on “Big Lizzie”, the sound of her patented “Dreadnaught” wheels, the colliery’s steadfast men, and the twelve drays of Christmas. Give the gift that keeps on giving, and giving, and giving, and giving….

© Vidi-Visions Productions

Silver Lining: Old Warden and the Shuttleworth Collection

The Shuttleworth Collection is a rare gem in what has jokingly been referred to by some as the world’s largest open-air museum (the United Kingdom). It is home to one of the most important private collections of historic aircraft and motor vehicles, whose holdings span a period that stretches from the Victorian to the modern Elizabethan Age. But this eclectic, one-of-a-kind facility is just the tip of the iceberg known as Old Warden.

The Old Warden Estate in Bedfordshire, England, was assembled by the Ongley family in the 18th and 19th Centuries and was subsequently purchased in 1872 by Joseph Shuttleworth, a Lincolnshire industrialist. Founded in 1842 with Nathaniel Clayton, Joseph was a partner in the firm of Clayton & Shuttleworth, agricultural engineers and steam-wagon makers. Their workshops produced a range of equipment that was exported widely. The wealth generated by the company enabled Joseph Shuttleworth to acquire Old Warden Park and the surrounding estate, today home to the Shuttleworth Collection.

Shuttleworth House (© Shuttleworth Collection)

In 1875, Joseph replaced Ongley’s original red brick manor house with an impressive mansion. Built in the Jacobean style, Old Warden House was designed by architect Henry Clutton and features a steel frame reputed to have been made by Clayton & Shuttleworth. Upon Joseph’s death in 1883, his younger son, Frank, inherited the wealth of the Old Warden Estate. An army man who had attained the rank of Colonel, Frank was a keen traveler and breeder of horses. Frank was 57 when he married Dorothy Clotilda, the then 23-year-old daughter of the Vicar of Old Warden.

Dorothy Shuttleworth with Son, Richard, and Daughter, Anne, ca. 1917 (© Shuttleworth Collection)

Richard Ormonde Shuttleworth was born at Old Warden on 16 July, 1909. At the age of 23, Richard Shuttleworth inherited enough money to indulge his twin passions for motor racing and aviation, purchasing, rebuilding and restoring motorcars, motorcycles and aeroplanes from the years immediately prior to and after the Great War.

When war broke out again in Europe in 1939, Richard joined the Royal Air Force and was posted to RAF Benson, near to Benson in South Oxfordshire.

Richard Shuttleworth Winning at Donington Park, 1934 (© Shuttleworth Collection)

Sadly, in the early hours of 2 August, 1940, flying in a cross-country training exercise in a Fairey Battle, he was killed when his plane crashed into a hillside.

In 1944, Richard’s mother, Dorothy Clotilda Shuttleworth, decided to place the Old Warden Estate in a charitable trust in memory of her late son. She wanted to ensure the estate would continue to be used for the purposes of education in the disciplines of agriculture and aviation studies, areas of great personal interest to Richard.

The two principle objectives of the trust were the establishment of a college at Old Warden Park, Bedfordshire, and the development of the Shuttleworth Collection, the unique museum of veteran aeroplanes, cars and other vehicles situated on the adjacent property. Shuttleworth College enrolled its first students in 1946, at the Old Warden House, and soon established its place as a national centre for agricultural education. Since 2009 it has enjoyed a close association with Bedford College. Old Warden House is today a part of the Shuttleworth Collection and frequently hosts weddings and private conferences.

Main Entrance (© Shuttleworth Collection)

The Shuttleworth Collection was first opened to the public in 1963. Annual events that encompass flying displays and vehicle parades draw crowds to Old Warden from across the British Isles and from around the world.

1912 Blackburn Monoplane (Foreground), Bristol Boxkite (Background), Lilienthal Glider (Above) (© Vidi-Visions Productions)

Exhibits contained within the Collection include replicas of gliders from the mid-1890s built by German engineer Otto Lilienthal, and run to fixed-wing aircraft from as late as the 1950s. Equipment on display is largely of British design.

Notable exceptions, however, include a genuine Blériot Model XI dating from 1909, acknowledged as the world’s oldest airworthy aeroplane.

Bristol F.2B Fighter (© Vidi-Visions Productions)

Other historic aircraft include the actual de Havilland DH.88 Comet, Grosvenor House, which won the MacRobertson England-to-Australia air race in 1934, genuine examples of a Bristol F.2B Fighter and a Royal Aircraft Factory S.E.5a of the First World War, two Hawker Hurricanes, a Hawker Demon (Hart), the last production Gloster Gladiator, a rare airworthy Westland Lysander, and a newly refurbished Supermarine Spitfire. Aircraft are demonstrated frequently at public and private events, complemented by a dizzying array of historic artifacts on display in each of the Collection’s six hangars.

Westland Lysander (Foreground), Hawker Hurricane (Background) (© Vidi-Visions Productions)

Besides his enthusiasm for aviation, Richard Shuttleworth was also an avid motorist who enjoyed the collection and restoration of vintage motor vehicles. In keeping with his personal philosophy that all such antique equipment be operated as originally intended, the Collection’s vehicles, much like their winged counterparts, are maintained in full running order.

1911 Delage Type X (© Vidi-Visions Productions)

The Collection is home to a variety of Veteran (—1901), Edwardian (1901—1910), and Classic (1911—1948) cars, along with omnibuses, motorcycles, and bicycles of similar vintage, most of which are paraded regularly around the 4,734-acre estate.

Apart from the fantastic equipment contained within the Collection, and the successes of Shuttleworth College, among the more fanciful features of the Old Warden Estate is the Swiss Garden. Created initially between 1824 and 1832 by the 3rd Baron of Old Warden, Lord Ongley, when the garden was first completed he threw extravagant parties. To complete the look Lord Ongley convinced his servants to dress up in traditional Swiss costume.

Excavated soil was used to create embankments that gave the garden its distinctive appearance. In addition, all of the ponds were produced intentionally after a nearby river was dammed. The clever use of earthworks, shrubberies, trees, paths, lakes and follies transformed the garden into what one contemporary observer described as, “a fairyland.”

The Swiss Garden (© Shuttleworth Collection)

In the 20 years between Lord Ongley’s departure in the 1850s and the acquisition of the Old Warden Estate by Joseph Shuttleworth, the garden was neglected. When Shuttleworth purchased the land he made sweeping changes to the property. Having demolished Lord Ongley’s earlier manor house, he commissioned the architect Henry Clutton not only to design the new Old Warden House but to revitalize the Swiss Garden, with the help of respected landscape gardener Edward Milner.

The Swiss Garden (© Shuttleworth Collection)

After the Second World War the Swiss Garden once more fell into disrepair, and by the 1970s it was in a perilous state. Over the next two decades, and again at the beginning of the 21st Century, the garden received much attention. This work bought valuable time for the garden and its many unique buildings. Now that the most recent restoration work has been completed and given a few years to mature, the Swiss Garden has become a window to the past – an authentic snapshot of late-Regency fancy and Victorian sophistication.

The Swiss Garden (© Shuttleworth Collection)

The restoration covered almost every aspect of the garden, from the renewal of paths to the repair of decorative features. It included conservation and refurbishment of all structures, removal of damaged trees and overgrown shrubs, plus new plantings with species that both Lord Ongley and Joseph Shuttleworth would have recognized.

Even the lake that feeds the garden’s ponds was restored, making the water as clear and sparkling as was possible. In a dedicated effort, the garden was taken back to the moment when Shuttleworth completed his first improvements to Lord Ongley’s original Swiss Garden.

In a given calendar year, the Shuttleworth Collection may present between 10 and 12 public displays of its aircraft. These air shows and pageants showcase specific aspects of the Collection’s holdings – showing off these magnificent flying machines to greatest possible advantage, and telling the equally magnificent stories of the men and women who built and flew them.

Hawker Demon (Hart) (© Vidi-Visions Productions)

This singular museum serves as a compelling tribute to the shared legacy of all who served in World Wars One and Two. Veteran planes, whose first crews endured such tremendous hardships as tested the ultimate endurance of man and machine, now sport and play from the very heights from which they once drove the darkest of clouds. The shining aircraft of the Shuttleworth Collection remain the silver lining in the skies above Great Britain.

E-mail vidi.visions.productions@gmail.com for further details.

© Vidi-Visions Productions & The Shuttleworth Collection

Kiwi Flights, Mosquito Bites

de Havilland DH.98 Mosquito FB.26, KA114 (© Classic Aircraft Photography)

Faster than the Supermarine Spitfire by 23 mph, the de Havilland DH.98 Mosquito was one of the most advanced airplanes of the Second World War. Until September of 2012, the last flight by a Mosquito (Serial No. RR299) had ended in a fatal crash at Barton Aerodrome, Greater Manchester, in Great Britain, on 21 July, 1996. Both aircrew were lost and the airframe written off. And yet this would prove not to be the design’s epitaph.

Sir Geoffrey de Havilland by Walter Stoneman, 1944 (© National Portrait Gallery, London)

When Geoffery de Havilland approached the Air Ministry in 1938-1939 with his proposal for an un-armed wooden bomber they were incredulous. However, de Havilland had one ace up his sleeve: Sir Wilfrid Freeman, the Air Council’s member for Research and Development. He believed that by the elimination of gun turrets, guns, gunners and the necessary structures and fuel to carry them, with only a crew of two, it could be as fast as a fighter.

Sir Wilfrid Freeman by Howard Coster, ca. 1941 (© National Portrait Gallery, London)

Sir Wilfrid issued an order for the first prototype and thus was born the “Wooden Wonder” (or “Freeman’s Folly”). The manufacture of components was dispersed across southern England. By 1943 over 100 Mosquitos a month were being built, with almost double that by 1945. Production had also begun in Canada. In 1943, the first Mosquito rolled off the assembly line at Bankstown in Australia, where production continued until 1948; there were 212 Australian-built Mosquitos.

Among them were four T.43 dual-control airframes, including A52-1054 (ex-RNZAF NZ2308), which were later sold to the Royal New Zealand Air Force (RNZAF) in 1947. When surplussed in 1955, A52-1054 was sold to an orchard equipment firm at Riwaka, South Island, New Zealand. Stripped of all valuable parts, it was left as a child’s playhouse on the property of a local farmer. The remains were eventually acquired by Mr. Glyn Powell of Mosquito Aircraft Restoration Limited. It is in no small measure thanks to Mr. Powell that NZ2308 would ultimately become the seed from which may yet be grown a veritable forest of spruce, balsa and birch.

de Havilland DH.98 Mosquito T.43, A52-1054, NZ2308

Because of its poor condition at the time of purchase, Mr. Powell deduced NZ2308’s airframe would need more than just refurbishment. However, the original de Havilland moulds had been destroyed after production ended in 1950, rendering the prospect of reproduction a practical impossibility. In a project that would span the globe and nearly 30 years, Glyn succeeded in reverse-engineering the cold-moulding process vital to the construction of the Mosquito fuselage. The first example to be built was delivered to the Mosquito Bomber Group, Windsor, Ontario, Canada, for static display.

The second project on Mr. Powell’s slate was Mosquito FB.26, KA114/ ZK-MOS. Originally built at Toronto, Ontario, in 1945, for the Royal Canadian Air Force (RCAF), the plane went into storage without ever seeing combat. In 1948 KA114 was earmarked for delivery to Chinese Nationalist forces in Taiwan. Although a number of surplus Mosquitos mothballed in Canada were shipped overseas, the single FB.26 fell through the cracks and arrived instead at a farm in Milo, Alberta. The airplane was rediscovered in a derelict condition in 1979. After another quarter-century, the remains of KA114 and Mr. Powell’s new fuselage, tailplane fin, wings and flaps were delivered to AVspecs at Ardmore Airport, Auckland, New Zealand, where, over a period of 8 years, they were combined with restored original components and a pair of ex-RNZAF Rolls-Royce Merlin engines.

KA114 Prior to Restoration, ca. 1975

The airframe was flown for the first time since 1945 on 27 September, 2012, the culmination of one of the most challenging restorations ever attempted, and the first flight by a Mosquito in 16 years. Following the completion of test-flights, the plane was transported by sea to Norfolk, VA, and thence overland to its new home at the Military Aviation Museum, Virginia Beach, VA, where KA114 continues to fly.

Mr. Glyn Powell (Left) receives the Queen’s Service Medal from the Governor-General of New Zealand.

Completion of Mr. Powell’s ex-RNZAF NZ2308 was to be heralded by a commemorative journey across the Tasman Sea, retracing the historic 4-hour delivery flight by the RNZAF in June of 1947. Work on KA114 concluded, A52-1054 was to have been next in line at AVspecs. However, it was TV959 that would hold this distinction. Now on display at the Flying Heritage and Combat Armor Museum, Everett, WA, TV959 made its first flight in 2016; although preceded in its return to flight by VR796 in 2014, the latter aircraft involved the restoration of an original Airspeed Aircraft B.35 fuselage, and was completed independent of AVspecs and Mr. Powell’s shop. The most recent addition to the roster of restored Mossies is ex-RNZAF NZ2384. Built in the UK in 1945 at de Havilland’s Hatfield plant as an FB.VI, PZ474 was initially delivered to the Royal Air Force (RAF) for training. Transferred to New Zealand in April of 1947, it would serve with No. 75 Squadron RNZAF until the early 1950s.

Eventually, following a brief period on the civil register in New Zealand as ZK-BCV, PZ474 was delivered to the United States. Once there, the plane was registered as N9909F. From circa 1955-1966 it was owned by the Insurance Finance Corporation of Studio City, CA. By 1970, however, PZ474 had become a fixture at the former Whiteman Air Park (now Whiteman Airport) in Pacoima, CA, where it would sit outdoors for the next 40 years. During this time it was owned by Mr. James Merizan. Despite multiple attempts to restore or sell the plane, it remained immobile at Whiteman field, in an increasingly weathered and dilapidated condition, until 2013.

Mosquito FB.VI, PZ474, Ex-RNZAF NZ2384, at Whiteman Air Park in the 1960s or 1970s, with US civil registration N9909F (ex-NZ civil registration ZK-BCV is still visible on the aft fuselage). Note the rare drop tank under the starboard wing.

In 2014, the airframe was at last acquired by Mr. Rod Lewis of Lewis Air Legends in San Antonio, TX, whereupon PZ474 was returned to New Zealand for a full restoration. With the benefit of Mr. Powell’s vital knowledge and equipment, and the collective expertise of the peerless technicians at AVspecs, after five years and more than 75,000 man-hours, on 13 January, 2019, ex-NZ2384 made its first flight in almost a half-century.

The revitalization of NZ2308 remains an ongoing project, as of this writing, along with several other examples of the de Havilland DH.98 Mosquito from around the world in various stages of restoration.

Glyn Powell was awarded the Queen’s Service Medal in the 2014 New Year Honours list, for services to aeronautical heritage preservation. The Military Aviation Museum’s KA114 was dubbed the EAA AirVenture’s WWII Grand Champion Warbird for 2015, and was awarded the prize for Best Restoration; in the same category, AVspecs was recognized with the EAA’s Gold Wrench for their outstanding work on the Mosquito.

de Havilland DH.98 Mosquito FB.26, KA114 (© Classic Aircraft Photography)

Hats off to Mr. Powell, AVspecs, the Military Aviation Museum, and everyone involved in this undertaking!

© Vidi-Visions Productions

Hans Werner Henze’s Last Stanza

Hans Werner Henze

Born in Gütersloh, Westphalia, on 1 July, 1926, Hans Werner Henze was the oldest of six children. An early interest in art and music, and his liberal political convictions, placed the young Hans at odds with the conservative ideals of his father. A veteran of the First World War, Franz Henze had worked as a teacher at a progressive school, but became disillusioned after the government’s closure of the institution in 1935.

Hans displayed a natural aptitude for music, and was enrolled at the state music school of Braunschweig in 1942. Mounting wartime pressures on the German state compelled the senior Henze to re-enlist in the army in 1943. He was posted to the Eastern front, never to return. Hans Henze’s studies were interrupted in 1944 when he was called to active duty. Trained as a communications officer, he was captured by British forces and interned for the duration. Postwar, in 1946, he resumed his studies in Heidelberg under Wolfgang Fortner.

Charcoal & Pastel Portrait by Wilhelm Heiner, 1949 (© Hans Werner Henze Foundation, 2018)

In 1950 he became ballet conductor at the Hessisches Staatstheater Wiesbaden, where he composed two operas for radio, his Piano Concerto No. 1, and his first significant stage production, Boulevard Solitude, an operatic re-telling of Manon Lescaut. In what he then perceived to be an unfavorable political climate, Henze emigrated to Italy in 1953, where he would remain for the balance of his life.

Ingeborg Bachmann & Hans Werner Henze (© Hans Werner Henze Foundation, 2018)

Soon after he began a long-lasting and fruitful collaboration with poet Ingeborg Bachmann. With her as his librettist, he composed the operas, Der Prinz von Homburg (1958) and Der junge Lord (1964). Five Neapolitan Songs, premiered by Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau, were written upon his arrival in Naples. His Kammermusik of 1958 was dedicated to Benjamin Britten, and included settings written for tenor Peter Pears, guitarist Julian Bream, and eight instrumentalists.

Hans Werner Henze, 1964 (© Hans Werner Henze Foundation, 2018)

From 1962 to 1967, Henze taught composition at the Mozarteum, Salzburg, and in 1967 became a visiting Professor at Dartmouth College, in New Hampshire. Subsequent entries in his musical catalogue were influenced heavily by his political affiliations. For example, the premiere of his oratorio, Das Floß der Medusa, failed when his West Berlin partners refused to perform under a portrait of Che Guevara and a revolutionary banner. El Cimarrón, for spoken word and chamber orchestra, was based on a tale of escaped black slaves during Cuba’s colonial period; from a book by Cuban author Miguel Barnet.

“L’Upupa” premiere, 2003 (© Hans Werner Henze Foundation, 2018)

Somewhat less provocative, his later works continued to reflect his political and social convictions. His Symphony No. 9 (1997), was, “dedicated to the heroes and martyrs of German anti-fascism,” and featured a libretto by Hans-Ulrich Treichel, based on Anna Seghers’ novel, The Seventh Cross. It served as a quasi auto-biographical denouncement of Henze’s personal experiences as a veteran of Germany’s wartime Fascist society.

Success was again achieved with the 2003 premiere at the Salzburg Festival of the opera, L’Upupa und der Triumph der Sohnesliebe, with an original text by Henze, himself, derived from a Syrian fairy tale. Other late compositions included Sebastian im Traum (2004) for large orchestra, and the opera, Phaedra (2007).

Hans Werner Henze died in Dresden on 27 October, 2012, aged 86.

© Vidi-Visions Productions

Ghost of Christmas Past: Perestroika

Perestroika (перестро́йка) refers to the series of reforms widely associated with former Soviet leader Mikhail Gorbachev — an extension of Glasnost (гла́сность) — instituted during the latter half of the 1980s. Literally translated, Perestroika means “restructuring,” an allusion to Gorbachev’s attempts to restructure his country’s centralized political and economic systems. These collective reforms are said to have contributed to the dramatic events that unfolded in Eastern Europe and across the constituent republics of the Soviet Union between 1989 and 1991.

On 25 December, 1991, in a televised announcement, Mikhail Gorbachev tendered his resignation as President of the Soviet Union. He declared the office extinct and ceded all power to Boris Yeltsin, then President of the Russian SFSR. On the night of 25 December, at 19:32 MSK, the Red Banner of the Soviet Union was lowered for the last time over the Kremlin in Moscow. The tri-colour of the Russian Federation was raised in its place, thus marking the symbolic end of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR). The following day, on 26 December, the upper chamber of the USSR’s Supreme Soviet voted both itself and the Soviet Union out of existence.

From 1998, Dr. Andrey Kasparov’s “Perestroika” features an orchestra that re-tunes sans order, and, before a final collapse, changes its seating. The crowd’s roar is imitated by the speech of the musicians, where words borrowed from the lexicon of political prisoners and Russian euphemisms, with usage of extended vocabulary, are vocalised. Included are musical quotations from the 1930s, La Marseillaise, and the Hymn of the USSR.

A performance of this original work is available from Vienna Modern Masters (VMM3049), recorded in 1999, with conductor Jiri Mikula and the Moravian Philharmonic.

Dr. Andrey Kasparov

In 2014 Dr. Kasparov approached Vidi-Visions Productions to add a new dimension to “Perestroika.” It was extremely gratifying to have been given the opportunity to delve deeper into the the series of landmark political and economic policies that gave Andrey’s work its name, and contributed to the unraveling of the Soviet Union’s hegemony over its constituent republics and the Eastern Bloc.

The images that comprise the finished video collage were painstakingly selected to account for the myriad incidents that culminated in the events of 25-26 December, 1991, and to complement the narrative of the orchestral score. These images are for educational use only. No copyright is intended or implied. However, we do hope they give greater impetus to the meaning of Dr. Kasparov’s “Perestroika,” and to the legacy of these eponymous reforms in the former USSR.

© Vidi-Visions Productions

In the Nick of Time: A Yuletide Yarn

Matthew and His Sisters

The festive season brings with it stories of Christmases past, sometimes of a particularly bizarre nature. Among the more obscure tales yet untold of our dear little Matthew and his sisters, this one comes from a December lost to living memory. Had not it been for his sisters’ persistent affliction — caused by the aftereffects of an unfortunate encounter with an apparatus at a handkerchief factory — none of this might ever have happened. In the years that followed, it is said an older Matthew delighted in the telling and re-telling of how his life was saved by chance on Christmas Eve, 1915.

Matthew had spent much of the year in a poor state of health. His condition was so fragile, he sometimes took to his bed for weeks at a time. As the end of the year approached, a shadow descended upon the household — the boy sank lower with each passing day. One afternoon, late in November, having returned home from school earlier than usual, Matthew’s sisters caught Dr. Strabismus (whom God preserve) of Utrecht on the stair. By the physician’s implacable features, they knew their brother’s case was more dire than ever. The good Doctor expressed to the young girls his doubt that even by removal of at least one of Matthew’s vital organs could his health be preserved for the New Year. Before he took his leave, Dr. Strabismus offered up a prayer for the boy’s life and also for those in service to His Britannic Majesty. The Great War was on the minds of everyone, after all. Satisfied with his prognostication, the doctor swept out the door to continue his rounds.

In the ensuing silence, Matthew’s sisters divined a seemingly elegant cure for their ailing brother. They first placed a telephone call to the Harland and Wolff shipyard, at Belfast, Ireland! A few more calls and they were able to hire a removals firm for the task they had in mind. After some discussion, they secured for their brother a gift they hoped would not only satisfy Dr. Strabismus’ requirements, but also would do more than the typical apothecary. And lo! On Christmas Eve, loaded on an articulated dray drawn by eight horses, there was delivered to Matthew’s home a gigantic wooden crate. It was covered with various stencilled markings, including several that read “RMS Britannic”. Even as his sisters were about to sign the receipt for the delivery, the calm was broken by Matthew’s cries of pain. The bearded lorrie driver dashed inside the house, the two girls close at his heels, and bounded up the stairs two at a time.

As they burst through the bedroom door, Matthew’s agony became apparent for all to see. The man looked down at the boy, snatched him in his arms, and yelled at the girls, “Follow me!” He then sailed back down the stairs, with Matthew clinging to the driver’s neck. Wrapped in blankets, the boy was placed on the driver’s seat of the cart. The man then helped up Mathew’s two sisters and disconnected the tractor section of the cart from the idle trailer, before he sprang from the footplate to his perch. With one crack of his whip, the eight horses bolted, pushing everyone against the back of the seat, and leaving the mysterious unclaimed box far behind in the quickening dark.

Matthew’s sisters soon could tell they were headed straight for Southampton Docks. They clung to one another in terror as the frenzied horses’ hooves clattered on the cobbled streets. The driver of the cart seemed mad with the pursuit of his intended quarry, which only became apparent after they had crashed through the gates of the terminal. As they flew past the wharves and warehouses, the two girls realized they were making straight for a large ocean liner, whose white hull was accented by a green stripe that ran its entire enormous length; four buff funnels towered over the bulk of the vessel.

HMHS Britannic (© titanic-in-color.com)

“Britannic! Get down!” the man shouted to the girls, as he reigned in the team of horses. He then gathered up Matthew and made straight for the nearest gangplank. Up all four of them ran, disappearing inside the mighty ship. It was dawn before they emerged.

Matthew was to remain aboard ship all through Christmas and the coming days, but his recovery would be swift: as their surgery’s first ever patient, the doctors of HMHS Britannic had removed Matthew’s appendix in a feat of medical genius. For you see, Britannic had only just commissioned as one of His Majesty’s hospital ships on the 23rd of December, 1915.

By their misguided attempt to fill Dr. Strabismus’ prescription, the girls had managed inadvertently to save not only their brother’s life but also to preserve for posterity a very unique artifact, indeed.

On the ride back to their home that Christmas morning, Matthew’s sisters looked up at their anonymous benefactor. In unison they said, “What’s your name?” The leather reins in his hands, the bearded man smiled and said, “My friends call me ‘Old’ Dominic.” The girls hugged one another, so overcome were they with joy.

When the sisters returned home, they found a crowd gathered ’round the great box still idle on their street. “Old” Dominic left them at the curb as he re-coupled his cart to the dray. The girls having at last signed for the delivery, as the eight horses stamped in the cold morning air, Dominic broke out a large wrecking bar and proceeded to unwrap this most monumental of Christmas gifts. As the noise of rending timbers filled the air, one by one the iron nails gave up their purchase, until the crate was opened for all to see.

Brittanic Welte-Philharmonie (© Museum of Music Automatons Seewen SO)

In the sunshine they beheld the majesty of Britannic’s new Welte organ, removed from the liner as she was prepared by Harland and Wolff for emergency service as a hospital ship. It took a further three days to complete the installation of the organ, after which “Old” Dominic and his helpers, in turn, took their leave.

© Oehms

Therefore, when Matthew returned from his unscheduled stay aboard what had been the instrument’s intended home, he found his house filled with the glorious sounds of Britannic’s Welte philharmonic. His sisters’ eyes gleamed in the firelight that night as they told him of the dramatic ride to Southampton Docks. Grasping the nettle, though still weak from his ordeal, Matthew asked, “but to whom do I owe my life?” Whereupon his sisters exclaimed, “Old St. Nick!”

The Welte philharmonic organ today serves as a constant reminder of that Christmas Eve a century ago, when two well-intentioned sisters, a bearded man named “Nick”, and the old Britannic helped to save little Matthew’s life. Give the gift that keeps on giving, and giving, and giving, and giving….

© Vidi-Visions Productions

Martian Landing: Martin JRM Mars Making Waves

Martin JRM-1 Mars, “Philippine” (BuNo 76820), Sproat Lake, Vancouver, BC, © Miles Green, 2015

At her Port Alberni base, British Columbia, Canada, Martin JRM-1 Mars, “Philippine” (BuNo 76820), faces an uncertain fate. It was originally intended she be retired to the National Naval Aviation Museum, NAS Pensacola, Florida, to become a static exhibit. The Coulson Group, owners and operators of the plane, have already had the massive hull re-painted in its 1950s-style U.S. Navy livery. The plane was expected to arrive at Pensacola sometime in November, 2012, but political maneuvering delayed the transfer indefinitely. By 2024, there was talk of a possible relocation to the Pima Air & Space Museum in Tucson, Arizona, but it was unclear if this proposal held any water. “Philippine” Mars is one of six Martin JRM seaplanes built and is now one of only two remaining examples of the largest Allied flying boat ever to have entered serial production. Development began in 1938 which resulted in the first prototype, “The Old Lady,” derived from the earlier PBM Mariner, in November of 1941.

XPBM2-1 Mars (BuNo 1520), May, 1942

The Mars’ first flight was made in 1942. Pressed into service as a transport, the original Mars served for the duration of WWII. While “The Old Lady” was scrapped in 1945 her stalwart service resulted in an initial order for twenty more. The first production JRM-1, “Hawaii” Mars, was delivered in the summer of 1945, but saw little use before the end of hostilities in the Pacific Theater of Operations. The original “Hawaii” was lost two years later but was replaced quickly, in line with five additional airframes: “Marianas,” “Philippine,” “Marshall,” “Caroline,” and “Hawaii II.” In 1950 an engine fire burned “Marshall” Mars to the waterline, leaving only four of the giants in the U.S. Navy’s inventory. They continued to operate between San Francisco and Honolulu until 1956, when they were mothballed at NAS Alameda. Three years later the remaining JRMs were sold to Forest Industries Flying Tankers (FIFT), which represented a consortium of British Columbia timber companies.

Martin JRM Mars Formation Flight

Flown to Fairey Aviation, Victoria, British Columbia, they were converted as fire bombers. With the installation of retractable scoops and water tanks 30 tons of water could be uploaded in as little as 22 seconds! “Marianas” Mars crashed near Northwest Bay, British Columbia, on 23 June, 1961, during firefighting operations, with the loss of all four crew. Subsequently, on 12 October, 1962, “Caroline” Mars was destroyed, in situ, by Typhoon Freda. The remaining “Hawaii II” and “Philippine” Mars finally began their new careers in 1963. The planes changed hands several times over the years, before being sold most recently in 2007 to Coulson Group. After a further decade of service, Coulson Tankers began casting about to find new homes for both surviving Martin JRM Mars airframes.

Martin Mars, © Coulson Group of Companies

In 2016, “Hawaii II,” the only Mars currently airworthy, put in an appearance at EAA AirVenture. Unfortunately, while trolling for prospective buyers, the takeaway from the impressive demonstration flights and appreciative crowds was a hull breach from an unknown underwater hazard.

Subsequently, Coulson repaired the damage, perhaps in anticipation of putting in a final appearance as a fire bomber. The forest fires of the 2017 season were certainly dramatic enough, and there was a standing appeal from the public for the return of the Mars to the active-duty roster. The government in British Columbia at the time were tight-lipped as to whether or not they would engage Coulson Tankers or the mighty Martin Mars.

“Hawaii II” Mars Fire Bombing Demonstration at EAA AirVenture, © Mike Collins, 2016

There appeared to be mounting pressure for the Mars’ retirement. Excuses included the claim the plane could only be staged from large bodies of water, which are not as plentiful as those from which the smaller and newer generation of amphibious fire bombers can be operated. There also seemed to be increasing resistance to the use of a 75-year-old aircraft in such a hazardous role, no matter how well it was maintained.

There was added criticism the plane’s greatest asset (its capacity of up to 7,200 gallons of water) actually hampered firefighters on the ground, due to the time needed to make way for the plane and its payload. In other words, what should have been dousing flames was putting a damper on effective fire-fighting operations.

Finally, there was the question of cost. It was argued the Mars cost $4,400.00 more per hour than smaller types that can carry only a fraction of the water and fire retardant. It was the age-old question of strategic versus tactical: the big Martins were strategic seaplanes, but the emphasis had shifted in favour of tactical twin-engine amphibians.

Despite all of the above, there has always been a great enthusiasm for the aircraft, commanding deep respect from the general public, and the Mars continues to make a big splash wherever it goes; as of 2024, however, it has been nearly eight years since the services of the Mars were required.

“We’re being very selective where the ‘Philippine’ Mars is going to go,” Britt Coulson, President and COO of Coulson Aviation, has said. “We want to ensure the history is preserved.” The question is whether or not anyone is willing to plunk down $3-million on the barrel head. Was that US or Canadian Dollars?

Coulson had intended to bring “Hawaii II” back online to offer flight tours. The company wanted to reconfigure the interior to include some seating, and had a crew working on conversion plans. In 2024, however, at the end of March, it was confirmed the plane would join the collection of the British Columbia Aviation Museum in North Saanich, BC, as the centerpiece of an exhibit focused on the history of aerial firefighting in British Columbia.

The final flight of “Hawaii II” is anticiated to take place in October of 2024, launching from Sproat Lake with final splashdown expected at Saanich Inlet, nearby to Victoria International Airport. The aircraft will then be beached on a ramp at the Canadian Coast Guard base on Patricia Bay, itself a former seaplane port, before being mounted on a swivelling cradle and transported at night, via a trailer, across the airport’s runways.

With an initial grant of $250,000.00 from the government in BC, the museum is fundraising to build a new hangar to house “Hawaii II” and other firefighting aircraft from the province on land donated by the Victoria Airport Authority. Regarding the transfer to the British Columbia Aviation Museum, Wayne Coulson, CEO of the Coulson Group of Companies, stated he was pleased to be working with the museum in an effort to preserve the Mars:

“The Hawaii Martin Mars water bomber is an amazing aircraft,” Wayne said. “After this flight, you will probably never see one fly again.”

Coulson Aviation has enlisted five former maintenance engineers and four ex-flight crew to complete approximately 10,000 hours of mechanical preparation and re-training to facilitate the operation.

In an earlier statement, when the fate of either Mars airframe was less clear, according to Britt Coulson:

“They’re likely never going to continue as an air tanker…, but there is another life for them.”

In a previous effort to sustain the aircraft, with a giant amphibian on the slipways in China, and a dearth of contracts on the horizon for the venerable Mars, Aviation Industry Corporation of China signed up with Coulson Tankers to have trainee flight crews ship aboard one of the world’s last airworthy sea monsters. A change from the simulator, crews would learn the ropes first-hand. Formerly the AG600/TA-600, the finished Chinese aircraft is now known as the AVIC AG600 Kunlong, with first deliveries expected in 2025.

AG600/TA-600 Under Construction, © DFNS

What was critical to Chinese requirements was that the new aircraft serve not only as a search-and-rescue platform but also as a fire bomber. While the future of seaplane development may not reside at Port Alberni, the legacy of the Glenn L. Martin Company may yet serve as inspiration for a new generation of aeronautical and flight engineers, giving “Hawaii II” and “Philippine” a new lease on life for the second time in 75 years.

“Hawaii II” Mars at Anchor On Lake Winnebago, Wisconsin, © Mark Evans, 2016

© Vidi-Visions Productions

A Racing Heart Stilled

© Chris Szwedo Productions

John Cooper Fitch, © Saratoga Automobile Museum

John Cooper Fitch was born in Indianapolis, IN, on 4 August, 1917. After his parents’ divorce, his mother married an executive at Stutz who introduced his new stepson to motor racing at the Indianapolis Speedway. The young Fitch wasn’t particularly impressed by what he saw at the track. Although the experience kindled an interest in the hobby of building cars from scrap, a skill that would later prove invaluable, his first love was aviation.

In 1939, as Europe descended into war, Fitch found himself on holiday in Great Britain. His attempts to volunteer for service with the Royal Air Force proved unsuccessful, whereupon he returned to the United States. Subsequently, in 1941, he enlisted with the U.S. Army Air Corps. Fitch was a natural pilot and was soon made a Captain. Flying first in support of the Allies in North Africa, he flew the Douglas A-20. By 1944, back in the United Kingdom, Fitch was piloting the North American P-51 on escort missions as a member of the 4th Fighter Group, 335th Fighter Squadron.

He achieved a certain acclaim after his confirmed victory in combat over one of Germany’s advanced Messerschmitt Me 262 turbojet-powered fighters. However, John would find himself a casualty shortly before war’s end. After three strafing runs against a German supply train, his P-51 was struck by enemy ground fire. Fitch survived the crashlanding only to be captured and interned for the duration. Seven years later, he would become the first and only American, to date, to race for the Mercedes-Benz factory Grand Prix team.

Following the end of hostilities, when Fitch was repatriated and demobilized, he was among the many young pilots whose craving for speed was insatiate in the post-war peace. His awareness of road racing had been piqued back in 1939, having witnessed the last auto race at Brooklands, before the outbreak of the Second World War. It seemed to John that racing might just serve as a means to an end.

John Cooper Fitch

He began his career behind the wheel of an MG-TC, racing at Bridgehampton and Watkins Glen, NY. His skill caught the eye of Briggs Cunningham, whose finances allowed Fitch to race cars better attuned to his talents. John then went on to score a number of victories in his patron’s eponymous cars, but Briggs had his eye on the prize: victory at Le Mans. It was Cunningham’s intention to win the 24 hours at Le Mans with both an American car and an American driver.

In 1952, Fitch came close to making Cunningham’s dream a reality, but he was forced to retire prematurely because of bad fuel provided by the racing body. But the breakdown of Fitch’s car afforded him the greatest opportunity of his career. In the course of the race, John had been taken by the new Mercedes-Benz 300 SL. Likewise, Mercedes’ chief engineer, Rudi Uhlenhaut, was attendant of Fitch’s prowess on the track. And so, when the American approached the German crew to compliment them on the new SL, Uhlenhaut returned the favour by offering Fitch the opportunity to take a few laps in the new roadster, after an up-and-coming Nürburgring race. The Nürburgring courtesy laps served as an informal audition. Fitch walked away with the personal assurance of Mercedes-Benz team manager Alfred Neubauer: “We’ll be in touch if something comes up.” Neubauer would later invite Fitch to join Juan Manuel Fangio, Stirling Moss and Karl Kling to race for Mercedes-Benz in 1955.

1955 Mercedes-Benz 300 SL Gull-Wing, © Mecum Auctions

50 years later Fitch returned to competition when he was paired with a classic Mercedes-Benz 300 SLR gull-wing. At the Bonneville Salt Flats, John struck out to break the land-speed record for the Mercedes class. Unfortunately, due to problems with the car’s fuel system, his two attempts (2003 and 2005) ended in failure. These remarkable events are documented in the film, “Gullwing at Twilight: The Bonneville Ride of John Fitch,” by Chris Szwedo. John Fitch passed away on 31 October, 2012, at his home in Lime Rock, CT, aged 95.

© Vidi-Visions Productions

Dateline: Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood

The legacy of the late Fred Rogers resonates to this day. His Picture-Picture device was as much for children and parents, alike, a window on the wonders of American manufacturing.

Sadly, as was demonstrated by Ms. Sarah Alvarez, a former reporter with Michigan Radio, most of the factories illustrated by Mr. Rogers have been shuttered. However, APM’s Marketplace revealed at least one company that has refused to surrender its corner of the neighborhood: Link Bass and Cello.

Considerably reduced in stature since its appearance on Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood in 1985, the company hangs on by the skin of its teeth. The costs for export of such large instruments from China, regardless of whether or not they are hand-made, precludes any benefit to removing the business and its jobs overseas.

Although the American public remains curious about what goes into the manufacture of everything from dish satellite television receivers to dish towels, Picture-Picture most likely would have to shift its frame of reference from Elk Grove Village to Shenzhen for a glimpse behind the scenes of contemporary industry.

What happened to the factories in Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood?

© Vidi-Visions Productions