March 25, 1917 - Folkestone England

Here we are. My Brooklands scribblings. Some proper entries but mostly technical and flying notes. Even with the wretched English weather, all we thought about was flying, flying, flying. Good old Hollis.

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October 13, 1916 - Brooklands Aerodrome, England

Our commanding officer welcomed us warmly. Tom, Mike, and quite of few others from Oxford are here as well. Aeroplanes are everywhere. Some flying, some landing. Many wheeled and pushed about or swarmed over by the small army of aircraft mechanics, Ack Emmas, for short. Brooklands is a hive of activity. I stood there with the others watching the machines take off, perform circuits of the field and land again. I still can’t believe it. Tomorrow morning - Flight!

October 14, 1916
Very little sleep last night, knowing I’d be the first of us up. Too excited and my mind was racing. Cool this morning with the bite of Fall in the air. The sky was perfectly clear, but I felt the slight heaviness of the air. Unsettled this weather and I was sure the barometer would fall soon. The dew-drenched grass was silent under my boots. So quiet. Only birdsong. The morning light shone on the nearby church.

Captain Hollis was waiting for me at the plane. Mechanics were climbing about the craft on mysterious errands of their own. The Captain’s voice drew my attention away from their preparations.

“This is just a short orientation flight, Winningstad. You’re not to touch anything that moves. In fact, it’s best you don’t touch anything at all. I want to see your hands on the leather padding around the cockpit the entire time. And keep your feet away from the rudder bar. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly, sir.”
“In you go now.” We climbed up and took our places. I sat in the forward seat with Capt. Hollis behind me.
“Show me your hands, Winningstad! Very good. Ever been up before?”
“No sir.”
“Maiden voyage, eh Winningstad?” Let’s make the most of it, shall we? Contact!”
The mechanic swung the propeller. The engine coughed three times then sprang to life. Slowly at first the machine waddled forward and then as Hollis fed power to the engine it gathered speed. When I next looked down we were in the air! Climbing higher!



After a few moments we leveled off. I could see the river now, farm houses scattered among the fields, and the town far off in the distance. Was that a flock of sheep below me? I wriggled round to see the aerodrome behind us. I’ve no idea what expression was on my face, but after looking at me for a long moment, Captain Hollis began weaving the plane left and right and back again. He climbed and dipped, tipping the wings a bit from side to side. I was laughing. It was like the riding the roller coaster at Idora Park when I was little. My jaws ached from the rictus of a smile. No doubt I appeared completely deranged, caught as I was between pure child-like wonder and open-mouthed astonishment. As I turned around to look at Captain Hollis once more, he winked at me. Was that the trace of a smile I saw on his face?



Too soon we landed back at the field.

“Send the next man over,” said Captain Hollis as I climbed back onto solid ground.
I walked back to our cadre who had assembled to watch my flight.
“He’s grinning like a lunatic,” said Jenkins. Everyone laughed. Mike and Tom came over with congratulations. “That looked ripping, Oliver. What was it like?” asked Mike.
“It was…” I failed for the adjective. “You’ll have to wait and see, Mike.”

The remainder of the morning I spent with the others watching as each man went up with his instructor. Apparently, there are never enough machines here at Brooklands so while we wait our turn to fly, we learn by observing the successes and mishaps of our comrades. In the afternoon, I went up again with Captain Hollis. This time he flew a bit higher. The sun was shining brightly through the gathering clouds and glinting off our machine. Below, the light illuminated what looked like piles of wreckage. I’d missed these on my morning circuit. Were those the remains of crashed machines? So many!



Another glorious circuit that ended far too quickly.


October 19, 1916
The weather here is vile. High winds and rain most days. Only at dawn or very late afternoon do we have a chance of going aloft. We’re all intensely frustrated waiting our turn to fly. Too often we hear the dreaded, “All flights cancelled!”

Dual instruction is the order of the day. As Captain Hollis pilots the plane, I keep my hands and feet very lightly on the control column and rudder bar, shadowing his movements and getting a feel for what he’s doing to make the aeroplane go this way and that. Lightly is the way. On other circuits I’m permitted to take the controls myself. Communication is primitive at best. When he wants my attention Captain Hollis bangs on the seat with a great monkey wrench he carries. Before we set off, he always explains what we’re to do on the flight and what the banging of the wrench means. The signal I must always remember is the three sharp cracks in a row. That’s his order for taking back control of the machine. He told me very gently that he’d brain me with the wrench if I ever froze up and refused to release the controls.

Both Mike and Tom did their first solo flights today. I watched, with some envy, I must admit, as Tom flew 5 flawless circuits around the field topped off with a perfect landing. Mike’s flight, on the other hand, was altogether different. He banked far too steeply on his final turn and very nearly went over. Somehow, he righted the machine and landed in one piece even if he did run off the far end of the field. I’m glad he’s OK. Many back claps and congratulations all around.

I spent an hour after dinner quizzing Tom and Mike about their flights. I’m due to solo soon. Probably not tomorrow. l feel the glass falling. We’re in for more rain.


October 25, 1916

Today I made my first solo flight! Proper weather this morning after five days of washouts. Captain Hollis took me up at dawn for more dual instruction. After 10 minutes he took back control and landed. I thought something was wrong until I saw him climbing out of the cockpit.

“Off you go, Winningstad. Five circuits within sight of the field then land right back here. Keep it under 500 feet and make sure to keep your speed up when climbing.”

"YES, SIR!"

Easy on the throttle, she waddles at first, then more power and away. Throttle open now, slight back pressure, not too much, and I’m aloft. To my left the rising sun over the old church. Glorious.



No sightseeing, Oliver! The first turn is coming. Easy into to it, nice shallow bank, a small step on the rudder bar. Don’t skid! Now roll back out and level her wings. Repeat. The last two circuits were spot on. I've got the hang of this. Final circuit. Now for the turn into the field. Just right. I’m lined up right down the middle. Throttle back a touch, easy, easy, I’m over the trees. Whew! I have this now. Steady. Flatten her gently and graceful touch down...just perfect.

“As when in the fullness of Autumn the leaf, set free from the tree to flutter softly, alights in the meadows soft grass...”

BANG!! Enormous bounce. Dammit! I flattened off a few feet high. Idiot! My God that hurt. Plane rolling, so he wheels must work. I'm on the ground. I’ve done it.

Captain Hollis approached the craft and immediately examined the undercarriage.
“Seems to have survived you, Winningstad. Some fine turns there. Let’s work on your approach, shall we?” With that he climbed back into the rear cockpit and we resumed another 15 minutes of dual instruction.

On the way to dinner, one of the ANZACs walked by, "you looked like a bloody roo there, mate," he said with an enormous grin. All night Tom and Mike ribbed me mercilessly about my landing.


November 7, 1916
We fall into a routine. Ride out dud weather, then dual instruction, solo flights. Ride out more dud weather. I had 5 perfect landings in a row last week. Tom and I have a bet to see who will have the most by the time we leave Brooklands. He’s winning.
Everyone here lives for flying. It’s all we care about right now. Nobody even bothers asking for leave.
More crashes now that we’re flying solo so often. I’ve lost count of how many. Everyone survived but 5 or 6 of the lads were seriously injured and had to go to hospital. It’s just part of training I suppose.


12 November, 1916
Harry Jenkins was killed today. He stalled in a turn at 1000 feet and went into spin. I saw the whole thing. It was horrifying. His machine crumbled into the field with the most sickeningly loud crack/crunch sound. We ran over with the medics and the ambulance but there was nothing to be done. He was dead. I’m gutted. I can’t write about this now.

19 November, 1916
More solo flying, when the weather cooperates, that is. It’s getting cold and is always damp. Crashes aplenty. We learned that two of the men in hospital died of their injuries.

25 November, 1916
The Old man arranged for a £50 uniform allowance. Not sure if this is a usual practice but it was awfully good of him regardless. We’ve been here 6 weeks now and what with this weather we likely have another week before we’re done. I’ve resolved to stop writing about all the crashes from here on, but they continue. Today we learned that 3 more men have died in hospital.

7 December, 1916
Basic flight instruction is complete. We all took our tickets today. Tom and Mike too. I lost the perfect landings bet by a wide margin, so I'm buying drinks in the pub tonite.
I made a special point to thank Captain Hollis before we departed, but really, how can I properly thank the man who taught me to fly?