Chapter Six
Smith-Barry
The first proper system of flying instruction in the world had been devised by Wing Commander Robert Smith-Barry. Bob had learned to fly in 1911 on his own initiative. Commissioned into the Royal Flying Corps in 1912, he was a member of the very first class at the Central Flying School. At the start of WW I, Smith-Barry was flying reconnaissance with No. 5 Squadron in France. He had a few hair-raising scrapes, but that’s his story. Bob can write his own book, and probably will.
During the historic retreat from Mons by the British Expeditionary Force, he broke both legs in a crash of his BE 8 and also suffered a smashed kneecap.
We had that much in common…we had both crashed. We had both lived.
After recovering from his injuries, he began flying again in 1915, and joined No. 60 squadron in France as a Flight Commander in mid-May 1916. In July the unit’s CO was killed. Smith-Barry was appointed to lead the squadron and remained in charge until December, 1916. Upon his return to Great Britain, he began to voice his concerns over the appalling lack of pilot ability, and the travesty that was flight training up until that time.
In response to his harsh criticisms of the generally poor standard of training, he had been given the opportunity, as commander of No. 1 Reserve Squadron at Gosport, Hampshire, to do something about it.
He had initiated systematic methods of flying instruction, and formulated these in, ‘Notes on Teaching Flying,’ in May, 1917. His instructors used the Gosport System, which proved to be highly effective and remained the basis for British air training for the next thirty-odd years. Smith-Barry was made a Lieutenant-Colonel and was given command of the newly-formed, School of Special Flying at Gosport.
Considering my own training, short and bitter, learning in, (or on,) a Henri Farman Shorthorn, I wondered why this gentleman would send a telegram to me, a wounded junior officer, and one without much future.
The telegram read: “Dear Flight Lieutenant William S.F. Tucker. Please contact me when you feel more fit.” – R. Smith-Barry, School of Special Flying, Gosport.
“So what’s all this about, then?” I asked the adjutant.
Tears stung my eyes.
I was feeling pretty low, right about then.
“So you think I need special re-training?” I asked.
“You’re an extremely fortunate young man.” He explained. “He’s a good friend of the CO, and it’s clear you can’t return to your duties here for some time, even if we could get the doctors to let you out.”
“Fucking bastards.”
“You’ve flown the S.E. enough. It’ll stand you in good stead. We have more powerful ones coming down the pipeline, you know. Here comes your nurse. I think that you have a lot to offer Smith-Barry.”
“You think about it.” He rose to his feet. “A couple of the boys will be in to see you later. Oh. Tommy Watkins shot down two Boche tri-planes yesterday.”
And then he stumped off in his characteristic limp. I heard another man from our squadron was here, and I sure was glad I didn’t have the captain’s job right about then. Word was the other fellow had crashed and burned.
There but for the Grace of God go I.
At least they didn’t send me to Home Defense, or flying seaplanes, or worse.
***
There she was, a vision.
She stood beside the bed, a vision. Tall enough, auburn, almost coppery hair, shoulder length. Her name was Melissa, and the way she stood just grabbed me every time. She stood up straight, with her shoulders not rounded off. She moved with grace, even though her dress came down to the floor, wet and covered with sawdust as it was. Her eyes were blue-grey, but not cold in any way. She had a nice chin, and while she didn’t have any baby fat, neither was there a line or mark or wrinkle on her visage to show the strain she must have endured.
She gave me an old-fashioned look.
“Measuring me up for a coffin?” I joked.
“And how are we this morning?” She said, whipping out the thermometer and giving it a rub.
“Horny?” I told her. “You didn’t just have that up some guy’s butt, did you?”
She rammed it under my tongue with a certain flair.
“That’s a good sign. You’ll fly again, then?”
She wrote something on her pad. Sunlight streamed in through the door of the tent as people came in. I lost her in the glare, but she was still there. Preparing for my injection. A certain clink of glass on steel. They carry the syringe around in a little metal tub, which, I suspect, is mostly for the cameras. I laughed and then it hurt, so I stopped. She gently pulled out the syringe.
“That will teach you.” She said, and then she went on to the next bed, and the next.
“You flyboys are all the same.” Someone from the next bed.
“We keep getting shot down.” A cheerful voice from the far side of the aisle in the tent, and low chuckles came from other nearby lads.
Good lads, although I never did catch any of their names. God knows, the first day or two, I was in a coma, then for a few more days I slept almost all of the time. Only after a week or ten days did time slow down, catch up, and take on its normal pace. By this time the pain from my wounds were subsiding to a dull ache, but little did I know that the pain I felt at present would be nothing compared to the rehabilitation process.
And the pain of losing her. But that comes later.
My story is rambling enough after all these years.
END
Images and stuff: Louis.
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