INTRODUCTION
Harold Rosher was born at Beckenham on the 18th November, 1893, and was educated at The Dene, Caterham, and subsequently at Woodbridge. Although as a boy he suffered severely from acute asthma and bronchitis, he did well at school; and the pluck which carried him through the moral distresses of asthma helped him to hold his own in games, despite the fact that up to the age of sixteen he was considerably under the average height. As his health did not cease to give anxiety, he was taken for a holiday to India (being with his father the guest of the Maharajah Ranjitsinhji, Jam Sahib of Nawanagar) in 1909. In 1913, for the same reason, he made a trip to South Africa with his sister. It was his health again which helped to decide his career. An open-air life was considered to be essential, and he became a student at the South Eastern Agricultural College, Wye, remaining there until the outbreak of the war.
One of Harold's greatest chums at the Agricultural College was a young and rich German landowner named K——. At the latter's invitation Harold spent the summer vacation of 1913 in Germany, and the two young men toured on motor-cycles through a great part of Germany and Austria. In August 1914 K—— was to celebrate his majority, and had asked Harold to the festivities. But on August 2nd, when war appeared inevitable, he wrote a letter of farewell to Harold in which he said that he did not expect they would ever meet again. The next day he telephoned from Charing Cross as he was leaving England, and Harold was overheard saying to him on the telephone: "Well, if we meet, mind you don't shoot straight."
On the day of the declaration of war, Harold applied for a commission in the Royal Naval Air Service, and in order to save time he went immediately as a civilian pupil to Brooklands, where several months previously he had once been taken up in the air as a passenger. In the few days which elapsed before the War Office commandeered the Brooklands Aerodrome and ejected every civilian Harold progressed rapidly in the craft of flying. He was gazetted a Probationary Flight Sub-Lieutenant in the R.N.A.S. on August 18th and reported himself at Hendon. He remained there about six weeks, obtaining his aviator's certificate.
The letters which form this book were written between August 1914 and February 1916. They are spontaneous and utterly unstudied documents, and they have been printed almost exactly as Harold wrote them. Many of them are quite ordinary; most are spiced with slang; the long ones describing his share in the great historic raids are thrillingly dramatic. But it would not be wise to set some letters above others. None should be missed. Each contributes its due realistic share to the complete picture of an airman's life in war.
It is well that we should have every opportunity of estimating what that life is. For the air service is still quite a new service. Its birth lies within the memory of schoolboys. Few outsiders can imaginatively conceive for themselves the conditions of it, conditions in which the hour of greatest danger is precisely the hour of spiritual solitude and separation from all mankind. Further, the air service is now actually engaged in creating those superb precedents which members of the older services find ready for their fortifying and encouragement when the crisis comes, and this fact alone entitles it to a most special sympathetic attention from the laity. So far as my knowledge goes, no other such picture, so full and so convincing, of the air-fighters' existence has yet been offered to the public. Here, perhaps, I may mention that some organs of the London Press long ago desired to print the principal descriptive letters of Harold Rosher, which in private had aroused the admiration of journalists and literary men; but it was felt that complete publication of the entire series within the covers of a volume would be more proper and more effective.
Three days after the date of the last letter Harold was killed. On 27th February, Major Risk, the C.O. of the Dover Aeroplane Station being away on duty, Harold, as second in command, was in charge. Among other duties he had to train new pilots on fast machines, and he would always personally test a new machine or a newly-repaired machine before allowing anybody else to try it. On that Sunday morning he ordered a number of machines to be brought out of the sheds for practice flights. Among them was one which had just been repaired after a mishap three weeks earlier. The pilot had already got into his machine. Harold told him to get out as the machine was untested, and himself took it up for a trial flight of eight or ten minutes. Everything seemed to go right until Harold began the descent about a mile away from the Aerodrome. Then, at a height of 300 feet or less, the machine suddenly made a nose-dive and crashed to the ground. Harold was killed instantly. The disaster occupied seven seconds, At the inquest nothing was ascertained as to the cause of the accident. One theory is that the controls jammed. Harold was buried on the 2nd March at Charlton Cemetery, with full naval honours. The cemetery is on the cliffs within sight of the Aerodrome, and while his body was being lowered into the grave aeroplanes were flying overhead.
It is permissible to quote a few Service opinions about Harold Rosher's attainments and achievements during his short career as an airman. Commodore Murray F. Sueter, C.B., R.N., wrote to Mr. Frank Rosher, Harold's father: "In my opinion he was one of our best pilots; always ready for any service he was called upon to perform. Mr. Winston Churchill was very pleased with his work in the early part of the war, and had he been spared I am sure he would have made a great name for himself." Wing Commander Arthur N. Longmore, R.N., under whom Harold had served longest, wrote: "You have the consolation of knowing his splendid record at Dunkirk. He was among the finest pilots I ever had out there, always cheerful and ready for his work. He will be a great loss to the Air Service, which loses not only a first-class pilot, but also an excellent officer." Major Charles E. Risk, Squadron Commander, R.N., wrote: "Harold, or Rosh as we always used to call him, was one of my very best pals and a very fine officer and First Lieutenant. Everyone loved him. He was an absolute 'Sahib,' a very good pilot, hard-working, and absolutely trustworthy." And Captain Charles L. Lamb, R.N., wrote: "He returned with some of the others from abroad last autumn for a rest, and very shortly afterwards I selected him from a large number of officers to become the Executive Officer of the Dover Air Station, which was then starting. Although quite young, he immediately displayed great organizing abilities, and also possessed the gift of command of men, which is unusual without previous training, and fully justified my selection. At his own request he was shortly proceeding abroad in command of a Flight, and would undoubtedly have gained his promotion in the near future. I have said little as regards his skill as a pilot, since this was probably well known to you, but he was undoubtedly in the first flight. This skill, however, I consider of secondary importance in life as compared with the far rarer gifts of command and organization which he undoubtedly possessed."
I had the acquaintance of Harold Rosher, and when I met him I was quite extraordinarily impressed by his bearing and his speech. In age and appearance he was a mere boy—a handsome boy, too, in my opinion—but the gestures of youth were restrained. He was very modest, but he was not diffident. In the presence of men older than his father he upheld in the most charming and effective way the dignity of his own generation. He talked quietly, but nobody could escape the conviction that he knew just what he was talking about. All his statements were cautious, and in giving a description or an opinion he seemed to dread superlatives. He had the eye and the voice of one who feared no responsibility, and who, having ruled himself, was thoroughly equal to ruling others. He was twenty-two when he died at work.
A. B.
I
TRAINING
I.
To his Father.
The Blue Bird, Brooklands Aerodrome,
Weybridge.
11th August, 1914.
Dear Dad,
Am getting on famously and having a most amusing time. After I wrote you yesterday I went out and had my first lesson. Mr. Stutt, our instructor [for the British and Colonial Aeroplane Co.], sits immediately behind you, controls the engine switch and covers your hand on the stick. He took me straight up two or three hundred feet and then volplaned down. He always does this with new pupils to see how they take it. I think I managed to pass the ordeal all right. I had two or three flights backwards and forwards, and then another turn later on in the evening. Stutt is an awfully nice fellow, very small but very capable. On all sides one hears him recommended. When in the air, he bawls in your ear, "Now when you push your hand forward, you go down, see!" (and he pushes your hand forward and you make a sudden dive), "and when you pull it back you go up, and when you do this, so and so happens," and so with everything he demonstrates. Then he says, "If you do so and so, you will break your neck, and if you try to climb too quickly you will make a tail slide." It's awfully hard work at first and makes your arm ache like fun. The school machines are very similar to the Grahame-Whites. You sit right in front, with a clean drop below you. We never strap ourselves in. The machines are the safest known, and never make a clean drop if control is lost, but slide down sideways.
When it got too dark we went in and had dinner, all sitting at the middle table. Could get no one to fetch my luggage, so decided to go myself after dinner. Unfortunately, I attempted a short cut in the dark and lost my way. After stumbling round the beastly aerodrome in the dark for an hour, I eventually got back to my starting point. I was drenched to the knees, and the moon didn't help me much on account of the thick mist. It was about 10.30 p.m., so I gave up my quest; the prospect of the long walk and heavy bag was too discouraging.
Photo: F.N. Birkett
THE LATE FLIGHT-LIEUT. RIGGALL, R.N.
On one of the Grahame-White school "box-kites," in the early days of his training
I turned in in my vest and pants and had a good night. Was knocked up at 4.30 this morning and crawled gingerly into my still wet clothes. A lovely morning, very cold, and it was not long before I got wetter still, as the grass was sopping. Had two more lessons this morning, of about 15 minutes each, and took both right and left hand turns, part of the time steering by myself. Stutt says I am getting on. The machines are so stable that they will often fly quite a long way by themselves. Am now quite smitten, and if weather continues fine, I shall take my ticket in a week or ten days. Hope to be flying solo by Thursday or Friday. Experienced my first bump this morning. While flying at 200 feet, the machine suddenly bumped,[1] a unique sensation. These bumps are due to the sun's action on the air and are called "sun bumps." It's owing to these that we novices are not allowed to fly during the day. To experienced airmen they offer no difficulty.
There was a slight accident here this morning. One of the Blériot people (known in our select circle as Blérites) was taxying [running along the ground] in a machine without wings. He got too much speed on, and the machine went head over heels and was utterly wrecked—man unhurt. With the Blériot machine you first have to learn to steer on the ground, as it's much harder than ours. The men look awful fools going round and round in wee circles....
Very nice lot of fellow pupils here that I am getting to know, one naval man with a whole stock of funny yarns. Nothing to do all day long but sleep. Went into Weybridge this morning and got my suit case. Flora and fauna quite interesting. I live only for the mornings and evenings. More anon. Love to all.
Ever your loving son,
Harold.
II.
To his Father.
The Hendon Aerodrome, Hendon.
7th September, 1914.
Dear Dad,
Only a few lines, as it is already late, and I still have plenty to do. The latest excitement down here is a balloon, especially for our use. It is to be up all night, and we have to take turns in keeping watch from it; four hour shifts, starting to-morrow night. She has 4,000 feet of wire cable, but I don't suppose we shall be up more than 1,500 feet. It will be frightfully cold work, and in all probability we shall all be sea-sick.
On Saturday night we had a Zeppelin scare from the Admiralty. I was on duty and called out the marines, etc., etc. Ammunition was served round and the machines brought out. Porte [J. C. Porte, Wing Commander, R.N.] went up for a short time.
Tons of love.
Ever your loving son,
Harold.
III.
To his Grandmother.
The Hendon Aerodrome, Hendon.
7th September, 1914.
Dearest Granny,
Can only send you a few lines just now as I am so frightfully busy. Thanks so much for your letter received two days back. Am hard at it now from 4.30 a.m. to 11.0 p.m., and one day in five for 24 hours on end. Our latest acquaintance is a captive balloon in which we are to take turns to keep watch in the night. It will be terribly cold work. The watches are 4 hours each, and we shall probably be about 1,500 feet up in the air—the full limit of cable is 4,000 feet. I quite expect we shall all be horribly sea-sick, as the motion is quite different from that in an aeroplane. There is also a rumour that we are going to have an airship down here. We had a Zeppelin scare the other night and had all the marines out, ammunition served round, searchlights manned, and aeroplanes brought out in readiness. It was quite exciting for a false alarm.
It's pretty chilly work sleeping in tents now. Unless you cover your clothes up overnight, they are sopping wet in the morning. Also there is a plague of crane flies here, which simply swarm all over one's tent. These are all little troubles, however, which one takes philosophically, and at the same time tries to picture mentally the distress of those at the front. Hope I shall be out there soon; they seem to be having quite good fun.
Must cut short now, so goodbye, Granny dear. Heaps of love.
Ever your loving grandson,
Harold.
IV.
To his Father.
The Hendon Aerodrome, Hendon.
11th September, 1914.
Dear Dad,
Many happy returns. I started writing you last night, so that you might get my letter first thing this morning, but was fated not to finish it.
We had another false alarm and my place was on the 'phones. I didn't get off until 12.30 a.m., so gave it up as a bad job and started afresh this morning.
I expect you will have seen in the papers about the accident last night. Lieut. G—— went up in the Henri Farman, and on coming down made a bad landing—internal injuries—machine absolutely piled up. Nacelle[2] telescoped and the tail somehow right in front of the nacelle. The accident is expected to have rather a bad effect on the moral of the pupils. Personally it doesn't affect me; and anyhow I didn't see G—— at all, as I was bound to the 'phones.
Things are going on much better with me. Yesterday I did five straights [straight flights] alone and managed quite well, having excellent control of the machine, and making good landings, except for the first straights in the morning, when it was rather windy and in consequence the machine was all over the place.
By the way, this is now the third successive night that we have had an alarm. Have not yet been up in the balloon but am looking forward to it. I never thought that we should come down to an old (1902) gas bag.
Heaps of love and don't let Mummie get alarmed. You must bear in mind that night flying is ten times more dangerous than day.
Ever your loving son,
Harold.