COMBAT AND COMPETITION.pdf - Lakes Gliding Club

CHAPTER THIRTEEN FRONTIERS OF WHAT?
like the fires of hell. A single Vulcan sweeping upwards into a loop
and rolling smoothly off the top - a Victor soon afterwards doing the
same - to the sounds of applause. For a moment you sensed the
atmosphere of a Roman holiday and then it was gone. Just the reaction
of a knowledgeable audience, which had lunched well, proud of it's
products and the way in which they were being shown off.
With tea in the chalets came the Black Arrows. Twelve Hunters
with a precision matching that of the Queen's Colour Squadron - the
best drill unit of them all - filling the sky with their festoons of
coloured smoke.
Sometimes there was chance to go visiting. Particularly welcome if
there was lunch date for Anne and myself with Sandy and Diana
Powell at Lockheeds on the first public day. An event which came to
an unhappy end when they made my old friend redundant. There were
the chance encounters too, most frequently at Shell, where the chalet
bulged with people and the noise was thunderous. It was there that 1
last talked to Frank McKenna, long retired, looking in on the industry
which had been his life.
Another time it was Paddy Bartropp and Ben Gunn. A splendid,
deadly combination! Paddy had left the RAF and started a new
upmarket hire car service. Chauffeur driven Rolls Royces. A great
success in the long run, but hard going at first, and he was looking for
help. Sadly the whole thing was way out of Elliott's class. If any of my
overseas visitors had arrived at Rochester in a hired Rolls, with Paddy
at the helm, Jack would have had a fit and I would have been looking
for help. In the early '80s, at an ETPS reunion, after his chauffeurs
had all become franchised and self employed with their own cars,
Paddy attempted to interest me in his Jet Ranger helicopter, on the
same basis, for £100,000. He never stops trying!
On Friday night the company always threw a cocktail party at some
interesting spot, like Paul Getty's Sutton Place. Getting there was the
problem. You set off, threading your way through the air display
traffic, with some vital customer of the moment. An ideal captive
audience, but you had to drive and navigate, and keep an ear open for
the wives in the back of the car. Throw in the day's refreshments and
you were an accident waiting to happen.
Next day, before the great British public descended on
Farnborough in it's thousands, the chalet was cool and peaceful. A
time when Fred Haskett and I could relax, reviewing the day ahead,
whilst Anne organised brandy and iced milk all round. Just the thing
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