22-23 April 2009
As part of my research into World War 1 flying for my next novel I’ve just spent time in France visiting Royal Flying Corps airfields; St Omer, Le Hameau (also known as Filescamp) west of Arras, nearby Avesnes-le-Comte and Vert-Galant north of Amiens.
St.Omer was the largest British airfield on the Western Front, occupied continuously from 1914 to 1918. Over fifty separate squadrons operated from there and, as well as an operational base, it was the major RFC (eventually to be the RAF) aircraft repair and storage depot. A memorial to the 50,000-plus personnel who served there was erected by Cross & Cockade, the WW1 aviation historical society as recently as 2004, better late than never you might say, given the achievements of the St Omer airmen and ground-crew. Like Le Hameau and Avesnes, Vert-Galant proved elusive to locate, despite lying on crossroads on the busy N25, but was spookily identifiable with many farm buildings, once used as billets and workshops, just as they are in contemporary photographs showing a variety of aeroplanes and crews on the grass airfield nearly a century ago.
Was this Biggles?
I also called at the war cemeteries at Izel-le-Hameau and Avesnes-le-Comte containing the graves of numbers of young pilots, some of whose stories are documented, others not. At Avesnes for example the headstone of 2nd Lieutenant G.Wiglesworth struck a chord; an unusual name that prompted the inevitable speculation that Lt Wiglesworth might have been the inspiration for that fictional ace Bigglesworth, immortalised as Biggles by Captain W.E.Johns, who himself had a distinguished flying career in the RFC. But so far, checking various W.E.Johns and Biggles websites, I can find no confirmation. Was Wiglesworth known to Captain Johns? Certainly Johns didn’t fly in the same sector, being further south near Nancy, but perhaps they trained together? An interesting possibility that might be worth investigating but, given my time schedule, not by me unfortunately because here comes the tough bit: confronting that blank screen and starting the real work.
5 APRIL 2009
Odd for the first entry of a writer’s brand new blog to be nothing to do with writing, but that’s how it falls. And there is a link between the subject I’ve concentrated on so far, fighter pilots in combat and the business of racing cars. Both activities share an interest in controlling a machine in extremis, suppressing rising apprehension as the moment approaches for take-off or forming up on the starting grid, experiencing that odd combination of pumping adrenalin and cold calculation once the action is underway and above everything that conviction that, if anything nasty happens, it will happen to the other fellow. Which brings me to Silverstone, where I drove a race-prepared Citroen 2CV.
I recall I did not touch wood.
Sounds tame but they are good for 100 mph in race-trim and the races are always popular with the crowds because the racing is so close; with 2CVs, three, four, even five cars into a corner will go.
I had decided to use the event to promote the recently published paperback edition of ‘To Play The Fox’ by placing a large decal of the roof of my 2CV, with the slogan ‘Fast & furious, like my latest thriller.’ And during the lunch-break before the race joked that perhaps I should put the car on its side, so fans would get a better view. I recall that I did not touch wood…
I was a third into the race, battling for a top-ten place, when I was snagged on my inside rear wing powering through Luffield, the quick left-hander leading to the famous Woodcote corner and the main straight. The photo sequence shows it all. There was a hefty thump on my inside rear wing and I felt the car being pushed to the right.. At first I thought it was just a spin, cursing because it meant I would have to fight my way back through the field. Then everything went light and over we went, the view through the windscreen showing tarmac instead of the bootlid of the car in front. There was a good deal of noise, metallic scraping and the crack of the toughened windscreen shattering. But it was not a big impact when we landed; nothing like as violent as previous shunts (this was the fourth roll in my so-called racing career spanning more than forty years) and all I suffered was a stiff neck and a sore ankle. It was then, as the marshals escorted me away from the wreck, that one of them noticed the slogan on the roof. What could I say, other than: ‘ Yes, I might have been fast but my wife’s going to be b****** furious.’
Now I’m being leaned on in a different way, not by another racing driver keen to pass but by the family trying to convince me that the time has come to hang up my helmet. But when the motor-racing bug bites, it bites deep. I wasn’t planning any more races this season anyway, as I’ve almost completed research for my fourth book and I’m due to start writing. But 2010? Well, perhaps commonsense will prevail. It hasn’t yet, but don’t tell the family…
