Wednesday, 24 June 2015

Famous Flyers - B-29


B29


The Second World War was the making of many legendary names in flight, the planes that had their reputations made in the cauldron of all-out air combat and would become immortalised in popular culture for years after they were pensioned off and replaced. On the allied side, names like the Spitfire, the Mustang, the B17 Flying Fortress, and the Lancaster bomber, all made immeasurable contributions to the war effort, and can legitimately claim to be the planes that defeated the twin tyrannies of the Nazi regime in Europe and the Imperial Japanese government in the Pacific. On the Axis side, while tarnished by the association with the people who commanded them, planes like the Me-109, the Zero fighter, and the FW-190 are still admired for the technical excellence and innovations they gave to aviation. However, while these planes can make claim to saving the free world, another plane can make a good case for kick-starting the modern world. It's story takes in the story of flight in the first and second halves of the 20th century, and it would also be the carrier for the end product of arguably the most significant scientific project of the century. That plane was the B29 - the "Superfortress", the huge four engined silver bomber of the Us Air Force, introduced into the war in 1944, intially to fly the long distances across the ocean to bomb the cities of Japan, but then as the carrier of a fearsome new weapon; the atomic bomb.

When a Boeing B29 Superfortress, christened "Enola Gay" by it's crew, flew a twelve hour mission across the empty expanses of the  Pacific Ocean to drop an atomic bomb on the Japanese city of Hiroshima, it catapulted the world into a whole new era. An era when planes could fly for thousands of miles, non-stop, at high altitude. Carrying a weapon of such power that from a technological point of view the previous six years of war may as well have been one hundred years ago, such was the extent to which the atomic bomb changed the global political picture. The plane itself was produced at the crossroads between the two worlds and this was reflected in it's design; with it's clattering piston engines and ruler-straight wings it harked back to the earliest days of flight. But the pressurised fuselage and long distance range set the foundations for all that was to follow. It's size too, pointed the way to what was to come; a forty metre wingspan, thirty metre length, four engines, almost twice the weight of it's predecessor, a larger payload, but still much faster despite it's size and complexity. The bloody Pacific war against Japan would be the catalyst to create the modern aeroplane, and to bring together in a few years ideas, dreams, and half-formed plans that had been gradually developing for most of the early decades of the century.

Few would recognise the man who's name would be given to the company that became synonymous with aviation. It just after the turn of the twentieth century that William E. Boeing entered the family lumber industry. In his early twenties he was the perfect age to be intrigued by the sight of an early plane during his travels representing the company. He bought a plane of his own but frustrations with acquiring new parts led him to try constructing his own craft. As with the Wright brothers a few years earlier, Boeing's knowledge of an existing industry served him well when it came to the new technology of aeroplanes. He soon had a wooden plane prototype built and flying from a boat works in Seattle - where the company would remain to date. The Great War came along a year after the Boeing company was founded and the orders for the company's 'Model C' seaplanes by the US Navy secured it's future. The company built a new factory for itself on the shores of Puget Sound, Seattle. The 'Red Barn' as it came to be known was a two level wooden building, where the company designed and built seaplanes, fighter planes, and small bi-planes for passenger and mail use throughout the 1920s.

This was an age when the plane builders were also the operators of the airlines. In 1927 Boeing Air Transport was formed and the company started work on the Boeing 80, their first purpose built airliner. It could carry twelve passengers at 140 mph, and was heavily influenced by a plane produced by another giant American corporation whose name is now more commonly associated with cars; Ford. In the 1920s the Ford Motor Company had built an all-metal passenger plane called the Ford Trimotor (as it had three engines). The Trimotor had been developed around the designs of an engineer called William Stout, who experimented with building planes entirely from metal panels rather from metal or wooden frames coated in fabric, as planes had traditionally been built. Stout in turn had been influenced by the designs of the German Junkers company. So much so, in fact, that when Ford bought Stout's designs and built the Trimotor, the Junkers company started legal action claiming patent-infringement. Their case was understandable; they had built a three engined metal plane in 1924, a year before Ford's buy of the Stout company and the resemblance between the Junkers G24 and Ford TriMotor was undeniable. As a result of the various legal wranglings the Ford was limited from sale in Europe, leaving Junkers in a strong position that would eventually translate into them becoming a major supplier of bombers for the Nazis in the Second World War. The Trimotor, however, would have a major impact in North America, introducing the concept of the reliable passenger airliner that could fly between towns and cities, and bringing with it the now-familiar infrastructure of paved runways, radio beacons, control towers and all the rest.

Boeing, seeing the success of the Ford TriMotor, designed and built their own passenger airplane. The Boeing Model 80 was very similar in appearance to the Trimotor and the Junkers, but although it pioneered both the on-board galley and toilet, and in service Boeing Air Transport gave the flying world the first stewardesses, the Model 80 was ultimately not as successful. The Tri-Motor had cornered the market for such a plane, and Boeing would have to think bigger. As it happened their next try at making an airliner would in fact be slightly smaller, but far more advanced. And once again the Americans would borrow a few ideas from the Germans. Apart from all-metal construction the biggest advance in plane design during the 1920 and 1930s was making the wings cantilevered, and doing away the need for external bracing wires. When the first monoplanes began to appear alongside biplanes - like the plane that took Bleriot on his pioneering journey over the English channel - their wings were still held up with the same cat's cradle of bracing wires. This cut down much of the potential advantage of having a monoplane in the first place; the monoplane did away with much of the drag of having a biplane configuration, but then got much of the drag back again through the wires. Charles Lindbergh's Spirit of St Louis was an extradorinarily sleek and compact design for it's time but still presented a very large frontal area to the wind with it's large landing wheels and spars holding the wings up. Lindbergh needed the large wheels and spars to hold his heavy plane in one piece when it took off and landed, but when he was labouring across the ocean relying totally on the one engine, he must have wished he could've pulled a lever and retracted the wheels out of the slipstream.

Cantilevering the wings - that is, supporting them entirely at their root, just as in a cantilever bridge - would solve the problem and allow for much more aerodynamically clean designs, but the problem was the centre spar of the plane would have to be very large to hold the wing up, and very heavy. Metal construction was the key part of the puzzle - metal was much more suitable than wood for holding the heavy load of a wing, and it allowed planes to become large enough to offset the weight penalty. Just as the great iron steamships of the previous century had become large enough to fit in every larger steam engines, and steel rails had allowed for massive steam locomotives to be built, so too the advance of metal construction allowed aeroplanes to leap forward both in size and efficiency. Being at the forefront of metal construction, the Junkers company were also the pioneers in making cantilever monoplanes. They flew their first prototype, the J1, in 1916. The J1 was a basic single seater, and more powerful engines would need to come along for the concept to carry some passengers.

In 1930 Boeing unveiled a prototype called the Monomail, that, as the name suggested, was a monoplane intended for use as a high speed mail delivery plane. The monomail had all-metal construction, cantilever wings, and retracting landing gear. It could fly at nearly 160 mph, carry six passengers or equivalent cargo, but was still hamstrung by engine and propeller technology. Three years later Boeing revealed a passenger plane based on what had been learned from the Monomail. The model "247" was effectively the first 'modern' passenger airliner, and the world had not seen the like of it before. Even from a modern perspective the 247 doesn't look particularly old, and could pass as a small propeller-driven passenger plane. It pioneered the simple and sleek uncluttered fuselage, with passenger windows running it's length, two large un-braced wings, with the two engines sitting in aerodynamic pods in the wings. In performance it was in a different world to what had come before. The 247 could fly up to 200 mph - by comparison Lindbergh only six years before had topped out at 133mph - and could fly over 6000 feet higher up. It could, and did, fly across the entire United States in twenty hours, all while carrying ten passengers. The Ford Trimotor instantly became obsolete, and Ford, seeing the rapid progress that Boeing and the other specialist aeroplane builders were making, returned to familiar territory churning out cars and trucks. Unfortunately for Boeing, Ford's withdrawal would not mean that they would be free to rule the skies with the 247.

The first sixty 247's were sold for dazzling sums of money to United Airlines, owned by Boeing's own affiliate airline, the Boeing Air Transport. But when Trans World Airlines tried to order the 247 they were declined. The Boeing factory could not accommodate any production for any orders outside of the company's own airline. TWA, naturally not wanting to be left behind the race for the new generation of planes, went straight to the Douglas corporation in California and commissioned their own 247 rival. The Douglas DC-2 rolled out a year later than the 247 in 1934, and while it wasn't the trailblazer, it was superior in nearly every way to the Boeing. The DC-2 was faster, had a range around 300 miles further, and most crucially of all could carry four more passengers. It wasn't much of a difference, but it was enough; after all why would any airline buy the inferior plane? Others came crowding into the arena too, including Lockheed with it's Electra. The Electra - famous as the plane Amelia Earhart was flying when she disappeared over the Pacific - also boasted better numbers than the Boeing and sold in decent numbers.

The mid-1930s were not a promising time for Boeing. Early in the decade the company took up the challenge from the United States Air Corps to build a heavy bomber to match the performance and range of the 247. With the Great War showing that airships were an obvious technical dead-end as bombing platforms the world's armies had switched focus to planes. The overlooked, and un-celebrated, Martin B-10 of 1932 showed the world how a future heavy bomber would look. The Martin introduced the idea of a large bomb-bay in the middle of the plane, and the defensive nose and tail gunner positions. Combining the features of the 247 and the B-10 led Boeing to create it's "299" - eventually renumbered as B-17, and given the nickname "Flying Fortress". The nickname was apt; the "Fortress" had four engines to the two of passenger planes, five machine gun turrets, and could carry it's bomb load fifty miles per hour faster than the 247 could carry it's passengers. Alas for Boeing, when it came time to demonstrate the 299 to the assembled top brass, in a "Fly off" in 1935 with competitors from Douglas and Martin, the 299 crashed, taking the chief test pilot with it. As if the rub salt into the wounds, Douglas then unveiled the DC-3 passenger plane. The DC-3, and it's military transport version, would become so ubiquitous that many were still flying into the 21st century. The DC-3 became a familiar sight throughout the world, and was pretty much single handedly responsible for giving the entire world reliable long distance air transport.

In 1935 Boeing took another blow. With the ever gaining increase in air traffic, and air passenger revenues, the US congress declared that plane manufacturers owning their own airlines was anti-competitive, and decreed that groups including Boeing Air Transport be broken up and the airlines sold-off to become separate companies. This move solidified the already strong stranglehold of the Dc-2 and Dc-3. The simple and dependable design of the Dc-2 had set the mould, and success bred success for the Dc-3. With the USA the trendsetter in domestic passenger flying other countries simply followed suit and ordered up the Dc-3 in droves. Ironically the saviour of Boeing would not be one of the countries that had become the new customers for American planes, but the ever more hostile and threatening government of Germany. The rapid rise of the Nazis in the mid-thirties did not go ignored by the American military. Although they had chosen the rival Douglas B18 over the Boeing 299, partly because of the crash of the prototype but mainly because of the costs, with the Nazi threat they could not forget the "Flying Fortress" and it's immense potential. By late in the decade the B17 was winning over converts as the clouds of war loomed in the distance. Shortly after the the war in Europe broke out the US Air Corps ordered over five hundred Flying Fortresses. Nearly half had been delivered when the Japanese navy planes came swarming out of the sky over Pearl Harbor.

Deciding that they may as well try to get something from their design Boeing had been working to turn the 299 bomber prototype into a passenger plane, only with one major difference. The end result, the 307 "Stratoliner", would be the first passenger plane in service with a fully pressurised fuselage. Compared to the sleek lines of the B17 it had a rather bulbous appearance but anticipated the future with the row of cockpit windows flush with the nose. The "Stratoliner", as it's name suggests, was the first truly high-altitude passenger airliner, flying about two thirds of the 30,000 feet altitude that is standard now. This promised three great advantages; the engines needed to burn through less fuel in the thinner air, the planes could fly over the top of much inclement weather, potentially meaning fewer diversions, and the journey itself was more comfortable for the passengers who would have a smoother ride. The downside was that this would all be fantastically expensive, but unlike the 247 this time there was no competition for Stratoliner, and the two great airlines that had avoided Boeing's previous planes, TWA and Pan-Am, immediately ordered the 307. TWA founder Howard Hughes also bought one to be his personal plane, and planned a round-the-world flight. The large and expensive 307 could not hope to take on the take on the DC-3 on most flying routes, but it was creating a whole new market for itself on the long-haul routes, previously only the domain of the lumbering flying boats. But the Stratoliner could fly much higher, much faster, and much more comfortably than the flying boats. Plus it had all important cachet as the newest, most advanced, most glamorous passenger plane in the world, and TWA and PanAm did not have a problem finding takers for tickets among the world's elite travellers - but it would all be a very short-lived golden age. Long-haul passenger flying, and Howard Hughes's circumnavigation flight, would have to be put on hold in the shadow of war.

In the end only ten 307 Stratoliners would be built. Events in the world would overtake them. With the entry of the United States in the war in 1941 the 307s were requisitioned into military transport service, and the Boeing factory in Seattle began churning out B17 bombers en-masse. The huge increase in production demanded a few changes. Where before the war the earlier B17s had been built all in one piece, almost hand built by a few people, the wartime bombers were built in segments on a twenty-four hour, three shift, production line, just as cars were built, before all the bits - cockpit, fuselage, tail, wings, landing gear, were fastened together. This production method, while being quicker, also had the unexpected benefit of making battle-damaged B17's easier to repair in the field. New pieces could be spliced onto damaged bombers and keep them in service. At the height of production during the war the Boeing factory was turning out sixteen B17 bombers in a single day. But then the need for new planes was a constant requirement during the height of the war. In total over 12,000 B17's were built during World War Two, 922 of which were lost. In 1943 sixty B17's were lost in a single day in raids over Germany, an unhappy total that would be topped by the seventy seven losses in a day with over six hundred casualties in airmen later in the year. Although the German fighter pilots called the B17 the "flying porcupine" thanks to it's bristling armament, it's major usage in daytime raids led to heavy losses. The RAF's Lancaster bombers, which had longer range and could carry heavier loads than the B17, were preferred for use at night. But when the long range P-51 Mustang fighter was introduced as an escort plane, the balance swung decisively in the Allies favour, and the German home defenses would soon be crippled.

In the late 1930s, as well as building the B17 and the 307, Boeing were also working on developing a wholly pressurised bomber, hoping to apply the same advantages of the technology to military usage. The big hurdle to overcome was how to incorporate a bomb bay into a pressurised plane. Being a passenger plane the 307 could simply be a long pressure cylinder with a floor and seats bolted inside - still how passenger planes are constructed today, but a bomber would have to open the underside. Boeing's solution was to leave the bomb bay un-pressurised but leave a small crawlspace above the bay to let crew get from one end of the plane to the other. This was a very cramped space with only room for one person to shimmy through at a time, but the discomfort for the crew in this respect was more than offset by the benefits of the pressurised hull in others. For crew comfort and communication the main plus over the older generation of bombers would be that they would not have wear oxygen masks during missions. The pilot and copilot could also sit on the same level as the other crew, instead of up above them as was standard with all other large bombers. The crew would also be able to call upon state of the art remotely controlled gun turrets, removing the need for each gunner to operate their turret by hand, which in the B17 meant sitting exposed to freezing temperatures. The gunners in the new bomber could sit in the plane fuselage itself. But the overwhelming advantage of the new plane would be it's planned operating altitude and speed - up to 30,000 feet (10,000 metres) and four hundred miles per hour - would place it out of range of anything the enemy powers would be able send it's way.

With the Japanese attack on the US Navy base at Pearl Harbor in 1941 the war became a truly global conflict and the US stepped up development of the new "Superbomber". The Boeing XB-29 prototype that rolled out was very impressive. A giant silver four engine plane, the heaviest in the world, with a huge wingspan, it dwarfed the B17. Because it was so large the traditional arrangement of the undercarriage with the two large wheels under the wings, and the tail dragging behind, had to be left in the past. The new plane sat level with the ground. with a large nose-wheel assembly under the cockpit. The now-standard template for the modern airliner had been set. In the early 1940s the XB-29 looked like something from a comic book, and the futuristic effect that enhanced by the plane's extraordinary nose. The design copied the streamlined 'step-less' arrangement of the 307, but the single row of windows like on the 307 would not be sufficient for forward visibility in a war plane. Boeing's solution meant the XB-29 looked like nothing that had flown before. The entire nose was glass, with the pilots sitting behind the top of the window, and the bombardier sat in the middle of what looked like a fish bowl on it's side, with a complete panoramic view.

But for all the daring looks of the XB-29, the project was troubled, and but for the pressure and necessity of the war it might have been abandoned. The main sticking point was the engines. The Wright Company cyclone engines were terribly unreliable, plagued with overheating problems, with the high magnesium content of their construction leading to intense fires that presented a real danger of any engine fire burning through the wings. The wings themselves, long and narrow, did not generate much lift at low speed and the pilots found a plane that struggled to take-off and gain altitude. The lack of speed led to low airflow into the engines, further exacerbating the overheating problems. In February 1943 one of XB-29 prototypes engines caught fire on a test flight, with Boeing's chief test pilot at the controls. The fire soon spread to the wing and the plane plowed into a meat packing factory near Boeing field. The entire crew, and twenty workers in the factory lost their lives. The plane was still secret at this stage, and the wreckage was censored out of newspaper photographs of the disaster.  The size of the project was unprecedented for an aeroplane. Rivalries had to be suspended during the war years, with the big companies sharing each other's facilities, and B29's were built in four factories across the United States. This would be yet another precursor of the future, when the building of parts for every large plane from airliners to the Space Shuttle would be outsourced across lots of factories.

Although the "Superbomber" had been conceived to see service in both Europe and the Pacific by the time the B-29 was ready for action the war in Europe was swinging decisively in the Allies favour, and the plane would be kept solely for use against Japan in the Pacific. To begin with it flew from bases in Allied-controlled territory in China and in India, utilising it's three thousand mile range to bomb Japanese-controlled Bangkok and Singapore. To increase the reach of the B29 into Japan the allies planned to set up bases in the Mariana Islands, fifteen hundred miles south east of Japan. In 1944 US Navy and Army forces first recaptured Saipan island and the former US colony of Guam (captured by the Japanese in 1941), and then Tinian island - a name that would become known throughout the world a year later. Officially the B29 was being used for bombing raids against Japanese cities and industry, but the plane also had another, highly secret purpose. A purpose known to only a few top officials, and the purpose that would change the world beyond all recognition.

In the early 1930s, while the aeroplane companies had been wrestling with the problems, both technical and economic, of building large all-metal aeroplanes, scientists in America and Europe had been pondering what to make of the latest development in nuclear physics. The field had been developing ever since the turn of the century with a series of breakthroughs, most famously Albert Einstein's revolutionary equation e=mc2, the equation that summarized how energy "e" was equal to mass "m" times the speed of light "c", squared. Since the speed of light squared was an enormous number, Einstein's equation told the world's scientists and engineers that - theoretically at least - there were staggering reserves of energy bound up in all matter, and that humanity's efforts at releasing the energy so far; the coal, oil and gas burned in hundreds of thousands of steam, petrol and gas engines, in turbines, generators and boilers, was just the very tip of a potentially enormous iceberg. The problem was how to possibly go about unleashing the nuclear energy from matter in a way that would be useful. And this looked like a very challenging problem. After all, until 1932, with the discovery of the neutron, physicists had not even had a full understanding of the structure of atom itself.

With the discovery of the neutron, and the fuller picture of the atom that emerged, a Hungarian-American physicist called Leo Szilard came to a profound realisation. He postulated the nuclear chain reaction; if some of the newly-discovered neutrons were "freed" by a nuclear reaction and absorbed into other atoms then this could then trigger another reaction that released more neutrons, and thus the process would continue. Theorists realised the two main practical possibilities of such a process. Released slowly the energy from the nuclear reaction could provide a source of power, a nuclear engine perhaps, or a nuclear heat source. Released quickly the process would create an incredibly powerful blast of heat energy, and make for a weapon thousands of times more powerful than anything seen before. And given that e=mc2, there would not need to be much material to create such a weapon. In 1938 the mechanism that allowed the chain reaction to become a reality was discovered. Nuclear "fission" was shown to split an atom's nucleus into smaller parts after bombardment from neutrons, with free neutrons released to continue to reaction.

Fission had been demonstrated by German scientists, Otto Hahn and Fritz Strassman, working under the eye of the Nazi government. Leo Szilard had been one of many scientists and intellectuals who had emigrated from Nazi Germany during the 1930s as the full effect of Hitler's authoritarian, anti-Semitic and militaristic policies had come into being. He had moved first to London, and then to work at Columbia University, New York. While at Columbia, shortly after the discovery of fission, Szilard had experimented with uranium and discovered that it was the ideal element to sustain a chain reaction. Concerned by the possibility that the Nazis may also be working on similar goals, he sent a letter to President Roosevelt in 1939, with the support and signature of Albert Einstein, warning of the grave consequence of a Nazi nuclear weapon. A year later, with the Nazi 'Blitzkrieg' of Europe in full effect, another two expatriot scientists who had fled the Nazis - the German Rudolf Peierls and the Austrian Otto Frisch, both working at Birmingham University in the UK-  calculated that a working nuclear bomb could theoretically be created from only one kilogram of refined uranium. Until then it had been assumed that any potential nuclear weapon would have to contain so much material and be so large that it could only realistically be delivered in a ship. Now it was realised that a plane could do the job too. The embattled British government, face-to-face with Hitler's military forces, also pressed the Americans to take up nuclear weapon research.

Roosevelt established the 'Manhattan' project to make a nuclear bomb a reality, under the control of Robert J. Oppenheimer, an enormous undertaking spread around locations around the US, and including scientists from other Allied nations. The project was top secret, with most of the people involved below the top levels being unaware of the exact nature of what they were working on. Szilard and his Italian-born colleague Enrico Fermi - yet another Nazi emigre - demonstrated the first chain reaction nuclear reactor, named the "Chicago Pile 1" in 1942. The reactor succeeded partly because it utilised graphite as a moderator to help control the nuclear chain reaction; a crucial development that German scientists would never come to discover, greatly hindering any progress on creating a practical reactor or weapon. The Manhattan Project focused on overcoming two major problems in particular. Enriching the required materials, uranium-235 and plutonium-239, and designing the detonation sequence of a nuclear weapon to put the radioactive material into a so-called 'supercritical' state very rapidly in precisely the correct way.

In 1943 the US Army Air Forces were briefed on the Manhattan Project. The full extent of the importance of the B29 project came into focus to everyone responsible for it. There would be huge pressure on the design as all the eggs were literally in one basket. While the British Lancaster bomber had the required capacity to accommodate any nuclear bomb, the US top brass had decided against using it, preferring the greater performance and range of Boeing's as yet untried design - a design that was still suffering engine fires and in the same year would send the company's top pilot crashing into a factory at Boeing's home airfield. That pilot, Edmund 'Eddie' Allen, had been instrumental in setting up a methodical, scientifically minded, testing department within Boeing, and the XB-29 could not have worked without his influence and leadership. Sadly for him and his crew the pressures of war, and the pressing need for the new bomber in the Pacific theatre meant the plane had to be tested despite the obvious problems with the engines. Weeks earlier the same crew had narrowly averted disaster in similar circumstances, landing at Boeing field trailing flames from the wing and with a fuselage filled with choking smoke. Unfortunately as 1943 began the XB29 was struggling to fly without problems for more than an hour at a time, so it had to be sent up and tested in the air despite the reservations of it's chief test pilot.

From flight tests and modifications during 1944 it was determined the size and shape of a bomb that would be able to fit inside the B29. The project to enable the planes to fit the atomic bomb was code-named "Silverplate", and involved among other things, stripping out much of the armour plating, and most of the gun turrets, to save the weight needed to accommodate bombs that might weigh over 4500 kilos, as well as redesigning the bomb bay to allow the bombs to be armed in-flight. In 1944 509th Composite Group, the primary squadron for the atomic bombing missions, was established at Wendover Air Base, in the remote deserts of western Utah, under the command of Lt. Col Paul Tibbets. The 509 would practice dropping so-called "Pumpkin" bombs; conventional bombs in the same shell as the nuclear bombs. The bombs themselves were still very much a work-in-progress. The Manhattan scientists had focused in on two different designs for detonating the nuclear weapon. The first was called a "Gun-type" bomb, where one piece of nuclear material was fired at a target piece, sending it supercritical and detonating. The problem with the gun-type was that if it used plutonium fuel it was too long to fit inside the Silverplate B29 bomb bay. The second type, called the "implosion" bomb, used conventional explosives to collapse a sphere of material into a reaction. This design promised to be more compact and practical to deliver, but also was far more complicated to implement. To ensure success both types would be developed; work on the implosion bomb continued apace, while a gun-type bomb that would use uranium was also being designed. Uranium was much rarer than plutonium -the preferred material- but reliable enough to work if it was needed in action. The uranium bomb was given the code name "Little Boy", and the plutonium bomb called "Fat Man".

Security was an overriding concern of the Manhattan project. Although the Nazi military was clearly in retreat after the Allied D-Day invasion of Normandy in June 1944, they were still producing some innovative and destructive weapons. The worst case scenario was that spies could provide the remaining Nazi scientists and engineers enough information to construct a working nuclear device. Combine that device with the Nazi V1 "Buzz bomb"; the autonomous flying bomb that was often striking at the citizens of London, or the astonishing, and frighteningly advanced V2 rocket, then the war may carry on for many more years. Then there was the continuing Pacific war against Japan. Even with the capture of the Marianas islands and the building of the bases for the planned 'Silverplate' missions, the Japanese mainland presented a formidable target. The successful Allied capture of the Pacific island of Okinawa alone had involved terrible bloodshed with over 212,000 military and civilian casualties. In fact the atomic missions were launched with the hope that once the Japanese leaders saw the destructive new super-weapon that was in the United States's hands they would opt for surrender and peace. Any leak to the Japanese about the 509th Group's mission may have jeopardised everything, whether it be sabotage of the components of the bomb, attacks on the planes in transit, attacks on Tinian island, or the mass evacuation of cities and a mass increase in anti-air defenses.

Security was so tight that when the time came for the first test of a nuclear device, even the President was not initially told of the results of that test. Lower down the chain, several senior commanders found themselves looking down the wrong end of sentries rifles when they got too close to the silverplate B29s, and the components of the atomic bombs. Not everybody involved with the Manhattan project had even thought that testing a device first was a good idea. Allied soldiers were still dying in Europe and the Pacific, and any test could potentially waste up to a billion dollars worth of suitable refined atomic material. With the final capture of Berlin, the death of Hitler, and the surrender of the German forces, President Truman requested that the testing be carried out before the planned Potsdam Conference, the meeting of Allied leaders convened to draft up terms to be offered to Japan for their surrender. If Japan refused, the President reasoned, then at least one bomb mission would be authorised. Truman had publically promised Japan to "expect a rain of ruin from the air, the like of which has never been seen on this earth" if they refused. Only a few people knew the full truth of those words. At the conference Truman was notified in a coded message of the successful test of a nuclear device in the remote New Mexico desert on July 16th. The "Trinity" device (or "Gadget" as it was known) had detonated with the force of 19 kilotonnes of TNT, an explosion big enough to devastate a city, create a three hundred metre wide crater, and a shock wave felt over one hundred miles away.

The Trinity test had taken place at Alamagordo Bombing Range in southern New Mexico, as remote a place as any in the United States. The site had been chosen in 1944, and by the time of the test had been thoroughly prepared and was the temporary home to well over four hundred people. The test had been originally been planned to take place inside a giant containment capsule to try to contain as much of the extremely valuable refined plutonium as possible. The seven metre long cylindrical steel capsule, called "Jumbo", had arrived on site by rail car but by the time of it's arrival it was decided not to use it. J. Robert Oppenheimer had judged that there was enough plutonium being produced in the Manhattan project's reactor in Hanford, Washington State, that containment would not be needed and would interfere with the necessary measurements of the test. "Jumbo" would be propped in a tower next to the explosion to see just how powerful that explosion it was. The device itself would instead be hoisted up a thirty metre tower and detonated in the open air. The name "Gadget" for the device wasn't simply a euphemism for security; the scientists shied away from calling it a "bomb" because - strictly speaking - it wasn't one as it was not portable.

The plutonium core for the Gadget arrived at the bombing range on July 11th 1945, and was assembled in the bedroom of the ranch house that had stood on the site before it was requisitioned by the military. The ill-fated Dr Louis Slotin - who would fatally irradiate himself a year later when he accidentally dropped a similar core while performing an experiment - assembled the the core two days later. A test explosion using a giant stack of TNT held in May had shown that the site was lacking in some crucial infrastructure. More vehicles were brought in, the roads on the site were widened, more phone lines installed. When the time came for the real test in the early hours of July 16th, predictions among the Manhattan scientists ranged from no chain reaction at all (known as a "fizzle") to a complete success. Officially all the observers who were not in shelters were ordered to lie on the ground with their backs turned to blast, but several watched with darkened goggles or with one eye through darkened glass.

What they saw, at 5:29 am, was the test tower disappear and the desert floor light up with a glowing light, seemingly as bright as the sun, that begin to expand, followed by the rushing air of a terrific shock wave blasting over them. The dark pre-dawn sky and surrounding mountains were lit up as though it was midday by an expanding glowing white mushroom cloud. The cloud would eventually stretch over seven miles into the sky. Even those who had shaded their eyes found themselves temporarily blinded by the unexpectedly bright light. The steel capsule "Jumbo", sitting nearby survived but the huge object was moved a considerable distance. For those watching the test it had been a great success, a more powerful explosion than most of them had expected, and the new weapon would doubtlessly end the war. Within hours though there was more sober reflection as those present wondered what would happen after the war. The yield of the bomb was clearly on a completely different scale to anything that had come before. Suddenly the power to destroy whole cities with one small device had become terrifyingly real. Test director Kenneth Bainbridge told Oppenheimer soberly "Now we are all sons of bitches." Oppenheimer remembered that "We knew the world would not be the same. A few people laughed, a few people cried. Most people were silent." Some years later he famously said that he also thought of words from the Hindu Bhagavad-Gita, words that become synonymous with his work: "Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds".

Meanwhile in the Pacific on Tinian Island the 509th Composite Group, including the 393 Bombardment Squadron, was arriving and being assembled ready for missions carrying the nuclear weapons against Japan. A list of targets had been drawn up. Tokyo, Nagoya, Kobe, Osaka and Yokohama had all be extensively damaged by B29 raids. On May 26th a large portion of Tokyo was destroyed by US incendiary bombs, with great loss of civilian lives - the largest in one raid in the entire war. The Target Committee, as it was known, had drawn up a list of target cities, based mainly on their military importance and whether they had been bombed before. The committee was keen to stun the Japanese by bombing a target that had seemed out of range of US forces, and President Truman was keen to try and minimise the inevitable outcry that the bomb would generate. He told Secretary of War Henry Stimson "military objectives and soldiers and sailors are the target and not women and children". Stimson himself had, by coincidence, been on his honeymoon in the city of Kyoto many years earlier and successfully lobbied to have the city removed from the target list.

The final list read thus; Kokura, a munitions manufacturing centre; the ports of Hiroshima and Niigata; and in place of Kyoto the city of Nagasaki. The "Little Boy" bomb had arrived in Tinian on July 26th, only ten days after the Trinity test, followed shortly after by it's uranium core, and on August 2nd the "Fat Man" plutonium implosion bomb. The Trinity device had been an implosion detonation, so only one of bombs had been tested, but the simplicity of the "gun" design convinced the Manhattan scientists that it would work. The first of the fifteen Silverplate B29's had landed on Tinian island on June 11th. Colonel Paul Tibbets's plane, officially B29-45-MO serial number 44-86292, but christened 'Enola Gay' after Tibbets' mother, rolled out of the Martin aircraft assembly plant in Bellevue, Nebraska in May 1945. The 393 squadron had been flying raids over Japan dropping the "Pumpkin" bombs, partly as trial runs, and also a diversionary tactic to make the atomic bomb run look like any other mission. "Special Mission 13", the code name for the Atomic bombing mission would consist of sevenB29's, with the lead plane carrying the bomb at the head, escorted by two more planes, threeseparate planes performing weather reconnaissance over the target and the two reserve targets,and a back up lead plane standing by to rendezvous with the lead plane at the island of Iwo Jima to transfer the bomb should the lead plane encounter mechanical problems. The planes would leave North Field base at Tinian, a large airfield occupying a large portion of the island,with four large runways, and the facility to load the bomb assembly on board the planes.

In the pre-dawn hours of August 6th, 1945, the "Little Boy" was loaded into the bomb bay of the Enola Gay, and it's crew of twelve climbed aboard. Colonel Tibbets would be the plane's commander, alongside him in the co-pilot's seat the plane's regular commander Robert Lewis.Sitting in front, in the plane's fish-bowl nose as the bombardier, Major Thomas Ferebee, under strict instruction that the target would have to be lined up under visual aim, and that the weapon could not be released if the target was obscured by cloud. In command of the mission itself was Captain William Parsons, the director of the "Little Boy program. On arrival at Tinian Island Parsons had decided that the bomb should be armed in-flight rather than on the ground. Given the relative simplicity of the design Parsons feared a crash and fire on takeoff may set the device off. This was something of a last-minute decision and Parsons spent the hours before the mission began repeating the procedure for placing the detonator into the bomb.

With a few photographers present to document the departure, the Enola Gay, lit up under a floodlight, and it's support planes left Tinian, to engage in what would be the most destructive single military mission in the whole of history. They would rendezvous as planned over Iwo Jima and, with the weather reports favourable, flew on for Hiroshima. At around quarter past eight local time Major Ferebee sighted the target zone in his sights. The bomb was released. The Enola Gay was flying at around 10,000 metres (30,000 feet) and the bomb took just over forty seconds to fall to it's detonation height. Tibbet's immediately on release turned to plane hard over to try to outrun the shock waves as best he could. All on board feared that the planes may be badly damaged by the blast wave. As they turned, "Little Boy" detonated at around six hundred metres above the city.

In a single blinding flash of extreme heat around 80,000 people in the city were killed. About seventy percent of the city was destroyed. Virtually every thing standing within a mile of the detonation point was obliterated. A mushroom cloud just like the cloud over the Trinity site boiled thousands of metres into the sky. Devastating fires soon began to blow up and spread throughout what was left of the city. Rescue for those left would be slow to arrive. All communication with the rest of Japan had instantly stopped at the time of the bomb's detonation. Senior Japanese commanders had no real idea of what had happened until military planes began to sight the pall of smoke hanging across the city. Sixteen hours later the US Government would make an official announcement of what had taken place. With the news of the atom bomb made known to the rest of the world, senior Japanese atomic physicists were sent to Hiroshima. After inspecting the remains of the city they concluded that the US government were indeed telling the truth, but, they told their superiors, given the complexity of designing and manufacturing such a bomb, it was unlikely that there were more than one or two further bombs, and that there was no pressing need for the Japanese military to surrender.

With no Japanese surrender forthcoming, a second atomic bombing mission took off from North Field on August 9th. This time the "Fat Man" plutonium implosion bomb would be carried and dropped over the city of Kokura. The lead plane, B-29 "Bockscar", commanded by Major Charles Sweeney, immediately ran into problems that threatened to derail the mission. The reserve fuel tank system was found to be inoperable, limiting the range of the mission. A problem that was only exacerbated when one the escort planes failed to meet the bombing group over the planned rendezvous point off of the southern tip of Japan, and fuel was burned through while waiting, ultimately in vain. One plane down from what had been planned. Bockscar and the second plane, with the codename "The Great Artiste", headed for Kokura. When they arrived over the planned drop site they found cloud and drifting smoke from other American incendiary bombing raids obscuring the target. They passed over three times in the following hour, all the while attracting the unwanted attention of ground defence fire. After the third pass they abandoned Kokura and headed for the alternate target; Nagasaki. The respective fates of thousands had been set by the vagaries of drifting smoke in the wind and the atmospheric conditions. Kokura had received a fateful reprieve, one that would not be presented to Nagasaki. When the pair of B29's arrived over Nagasaki, only twenty minutes after leaving Kokura, it too was blanketed by low cloud. They flew in on a first pass, guided by radar. Through bombardier Kermit Behan's sights the cloud cleared briefly. Beahan spotted the city and released the bomb. The more powerful plutonium device detonated at the same height as the bomb over Hiroshima, but because of the terrain around Nagasaki it caused less damage as the blast was contained slightly by hills around the city. Nevertheless around 40,000 people were killed instantly, and as at Hiroshima, many more would be killed in fires.

A day later, on August 10th, Emperor Hirohito of Japan offered his surrender to the Allies. Two days later the Allied commanders accepted the offer conditionally and awaited word from Hirohito. The next day, August 13, US commanders, hearing no word, ordered further B29 bombing raids resumed. It would be a further two days before the Emperor announced over radio to the Japanese people his intention to surrender, and only on September 2nd would the formal end of the Second World War come. The effects continued to haunt Hiroshima and Nagasaki for long afterwards. Nuclear weapons had the potential to cause devastation in a way completely removed from the initial heat and shock wave; radioactive "fall out", the waste products of the reaction. In the coming years there would be great increases in the Hiroshima and Nagasaki areas in illnesses and genetic defects linked to the radiation. Chief among these was cancer, estimated to have claimed nearly 2,000 additional deaths. The controversy over the two nuclear missions has been a continuing debate ever since. Detractors point out that the United States could have engaged in more diplomatic avenues, revealing the potential power of the bomb, the results of the Trinity tests, or dropping the bomb over the sea or an unpopulated area. It's unilaterally decided use against civilians, it is argued, can only be classed as a war crime under international law. Against this the defenders point to the number of lives potentially saved by averting an invasion of Japan, that the firebombing campaigns claimed even more lives than the two atomic bombs, that the attacks had to have the element of surprise to shock the Japanese into surrendering, and that the Japanese military had not surrendered even after the Hiroshima bomb. But one thing remains undeniable. Thanks to the nuclear bomb, and the B29 thatcarried it, the modern world had suddenly, and violently, been born.


Monday, 9 March 2015

Road Racing

Road Racing


When most people think of motor racing they imagine the modern world of Formula One, with the races held on purpose built circuits designed with safety, spectator comfort, and other 'corporate' functions in mind. The modern day racing circuit is built to an interchangeable template that is duplicated around the world, available to whomever provides the money, with precious little in the way of local colour or flavours, with the exception of the weather. The drivers and the cars have become the stars, with the tracks seemingly relegated to being mere backdrops for the latest twist in the relentless soap opera of the championship battle. The official line on the new world of international expansion to pristine new race circuits will be overwhelmingly positive. In press releases drivers will talk of the 'challenge' of the tracks; teams will talk of the impressive facilities, and those in charge will say how pleased they are with the organisation. But everyone involved knows that in the modern world of wall-to-wall television coverage and the overwhelming need for safety that nothing else is feasible or possible. But in their more candid moments the drivers will, to a man, admit that the most exciting and challenging circuits are the older ones - the ones that have survived from the old days and somehow made it into the modern world without too much change. They will name the Suzuka track in Japan, built in the 1960s as a test track; the fast sweeps of Silverstone, on what was once an airfield; the close confines of Montreal's Ille Notre Dame, with the walls always menacing; the bumps of Interlagos in the heart of Sao Paulo; flat out blasts of historic Monza; and the old road racing track of Spa Francorchamps in the Belgian Ardennes.

When it comes to the fans too, Spa is usually named as the best circuit that features on the Formula one, and other racing calendars. The appeal of the place lies not just in it's layout but in it's heritage; it is one of the last remaining relics of the old way of doing things, when races were held on closed public roads, and when now the now-revered jewels of the motor racing world like Silverstone and Monza were considered the dull and sterile poor relations to 'real' challenges of the year's calendar. The tracks that were created from a few road blocks, straw bales, and temporary grandstands, and wound through towns, forests, and fields. Road racing was part of the fabric of top level motorsport from the earliest days in a way that is hard to fathom these days. The appeal is understandable, races could be organised without too much difficulty as the public roads were already there, and spectators were easy to attract when the racing came to them. Road racing also improved the breed when it came to the engineering of the cars. Car manufacturers and racing teams desired the challenge of racing on the highway to properly put their designs through their paces. And also understandable is why road racing gradually faded away, only remaining in spirit at the highest levels. As cars became faster and faster not only was it much more dangerous than racing on a purpose built track - for drivers and spectators both - but it was harder to marshal, to charge admission, and to cover on television. Then there was the outside pressure of urbanisation and development encroaching on once quiet country roads, and the higher levels of traffic that meant closing the roads would be more disruptive.

Beginnings

Grand Prix racing began on the public roads. The first ever 'Grand Prix' race was held on a circuit of roads to the south east of the French city of Le Mans in 1906. Translated into English the name means 'Grand Prize' and that was what was on offer from the Automobile Club d'France - a winner's prize of 45,000 francs, roughly the equivalent of half a million pounds in today's money. The race superceded the Gordon Bennett races, a series of races funded by the eponymous American millionaire newspaper owner (the same "Gordon Bennett!" whose name is still invoked as an expression of exasperation in the UK). The races ran from 1900 to 1905, the first three events being races between Paris and Lyon, Paris and Bordeaux, Paris and Innsbruck, then the event was held in Ireland, the UK mainland being off limits, road racing being outlawed by the British government. In 1904 the race moved to the mountains north of Frankfurt in Germany, and then back to France and the city of Clermont Ferrand (a name that will recurr much later in the story). The Bennett races put limits on the number of cars each nation could enter, much like the then-recently revived Olympic games. For 1906 the French, frustrated by this rule, that artificially stifled the French dominance of the nascent automobile industry, decided to hold their own race, open to all comers. They laid out a sixty-four mile long course, a course that the fastest drivers and cars of the day could circle in just under an hour, partly because the organiser built special wooden plank road bypasses around the villages on the course to minimize disruption to the residents.

The Grand Prix at Le Mans set the pattern to follow. A large closed off course, instead of city-to-city races, roughly triangular in shape, with specially built grandstands, pit garages, bridges, and advertising hoardings and spectator fences lining the track. The entire length of the course was sealed with a tar surface to minimise flying stones and clouds of lingering dust that came with the standard unsurfaced roads. The race was split into two six lap parts over two days, with the finishing time of the first day determining the starting time on the second. The event was won by a Hungarian called Ferenc Szisz - curiously the only Hungarian to ever win a Grand Prix race to date - driving a Renault. The event had been a success, but without any entrants from British or American cars - the two nations being suspicious of the French motives for creating a race that well suited their own car industry so well. Thus began a detachment between the three groups - mainland Europe, the UK, and America, and their ways of going racing that would persist throughout the century and into the present day

In America, the Vanderbilt family, eager to help the American car industry catch up with Europe, created the Vanderbilt Cup races on Long Island in 1904, with a similar open policy for entrants as the Grand Prix would have. The races were a success, but unfortunately for the USA would be won by French cars for the first three years. In 1908 William Vanderbilt, the main enthusiast for racing in the family, completed work on a paved highway; the Long Island Motor Parkway, a nearly fifty mile toll road, a precursor to the modern motorway, and also a convenient place to host a race. The 1908 Vanderbilt cup was won, much to the joy of the crowds, by a American called George Robertson, driving an American car, the Locomobile. In 1911, the Cup moved to the Southern city of Savannah in Georgia to join together with another race, the Automobile Club of America's "Grand Prize", a race run to the same rules as the Grands Prix that had been held on the same Savannah course in 1908 but then suspended for two years. The two events became a double-header and moved on in the next years to Milwaukee, Santa Monica in Los Angeles, and San Francisco too, before both being abruptly halted by America's joining the Great War in 1917. By then the Vanderbilt Cup and the Grand Prize had already begun to be outshined by an upstart event; the Indianapolis 500 mile race, held on a giant 2.5 mile long rectangular race and test track built in 1909 - the Indianapolis Motor Speedway.

The Vanderbilt Cup would be briefly revived in the late 1930s, but it only lasted two years. This was the time of German and Italian domination of racing, and their was little local interest to draw in the spectators. The main focus of American racers had been drawn away from the European and international scene and become firmly fixed around the Indianapolis 500 and high speed oval track racing. Indianapolis had been inspired the by the Brooklands track, built south of London. The world's first ever purpose built racetrack, Brooklands came about because of the banning of racing on the public road. Alarmed by the British establishment's heavy handed approach and the potential setbacks it could cause to Britain's ambitions in the automotive industry, Brookland's builder, Hugh Locke-King, had spared no expense and built a huge egg-shaped high speed track, with giant bankings at each end to ensure that the track would be able to accommodate very high speeds. Brooklands would become the home of Britain's racers, and the British would only be bit-part players in the emerging Grand Prix scene. Their major successes would come in overcoming the French dominance in both speed records and endurance races. The high speed Brooklands track would become and ideal base for intrepid speed record breakers like Malcolm Campbell, and for manufacturers like Bentley to test their cars on long-distance runs. In the late 1920s Bentley would come to dominate a different kind of race to the Grands Prix. After the 1906 French Grand Prix, that race returned to the Le Mans area again in 1921, on a different circuit to the immediate south of the city, although a separate race, confusingly called the "Grand Prix de France" had been run in 1911 and 1913. The 1921 race inspired the local automobile club, the Automobile Club de L'ouest, to create their own annual race, based around endurance rather than speed, the Twenty Four Hour race.

Grand Prix

In 1907 another "Grand Prix" was held, but as noted above, it wasn't in Le Mans this time, but further north at Dieppe. The course was shorter, only 48 miles rather than 64, and without any of the wooden bypasses that had been built for the Le Mans race. The same course would be used again in 1908, and again in 1912, after the race was put on hold for two years. In 1913 the race shifted again, fifty miles east to Amiens. The Amiens course was very exciting for it's time; the usual triangle of fairly straight, flat roads, livened up by a narrow and twisty downhill run to a crossroads in a small country town, before a high speed run back up a river valley through challenging high speed bends. This would be the future of the Grand Prix, less a test of pure engine power and bravery, than of the complete package of chassis, engine and driver, and already rules were clamping down on the allowable size of cars and engines. In 1913, though, the Amiens course was clearly almost too much for the times as four drivers and an unlucky bystander had been killed in crashes while testing on the course before the race.

The Grand Prix never returned to the roads south of Amiens, although ironically their exciting twists and turns would soon become the norm. In 1914 France's second city, Lyon, took up the honour of holding the race, and pulled out all the stops, creating a very grand course of twenty miles, first snaking up parallel to a river north of the city, before climbing up into the hills, and then dropping back down through a photogenic double hairpin bend, where many spectators crowded onto the banks to watch, and giving the drivers a panoramic view of the the finish line far below by the river. Before reaching the grandstands the drivers slid through a tight hairpin bend around a restaurant - both still there and little changed in a century. In 1914 the stands and the hillsides were packed in with hundreds of thousands of eager spectators. The race was to be a match between the French Peugeots and German Mercedes, between the hero of France George Boillot, winner of the 1912 and 1913 races, and the lead Mercedes driver Christian Lautenschlager. The French were expectant of victory; Peugeot and Boillot had won the last two Grands Prix, and Peugeot had also successfully raided the big new American race, the Indianapolis 500 in the last two years. Perhaps too they were aware of a much bigger contest brewing as the race was held only a week after the Archduke Franz Ferninand was assassinated in Sarajevo. In the event, they went away disappointed, after seven hours of racing, Lautenschlager had won, and Boillot's Peugeot had dropped back with tyre trouble, before it's engine ignominiously gave up on the final lap.

In the 1920s and 1930s the European continental racing scene flourished and many other Grand Prix races were created, some named for the nation, some for the local area, but nearly all taking the evocative French name that had become synonymous with top level motor racing. The original race continued to flit around France, visiting Strasbourg in 1922, in an area that would one day be directly adjacent to the city's airport, although the final turn of the course in a suburban town seems to have barely changed in the course of a century. The next year it was held near Tours, on yet another high speed triangular course. This race would be historic for the British as for the first time a British car and driver won a Grand Prix race, perhaps the long straights of the tree-lined boulevards near Tours suiting the Brooklands-honed Sunbeam car of the great record breaker Henry Segrave more than some of the more sinuous routes used in earlier races. This was the tail end of the great heroic pioneering era that had begun at the turn of the century. A year later, a mysterious English mechanic and driver called Ernest Eldridge would power down a two lane road south of Paris near the small town of Arpajon in a giant aeroplane-engined FIAT to set a new world speed record - the last time the fastest speed for a car would be recorded on the public road.

In the 1930s the French would be unseated from their position at the head of the motor racing table, first by the Italian Alfa Romeos and Maserati's, and then by the German teams, the state funded Mercedes and Auto Unions who would take motor racing to a whole new level of professionalism, dominance, and most of all, speed. Both the German and Italian Grands Prix would be held not on the public road, but on purpose built circuits. The Italian race was held at Monza, a super fast autodrome, with two interlinked tracks, a simple five turn road course and banked speedway that could be combined to create a daunting high speed race course. By contrast the Germans built a 14 mile long course with over one hundred corners - an approximation of a 'real' road, but totally artificial; the Nurburgring. The 'Ring was the perfect place for the upcoming 'Silver Arrows' to begin their dominance of the European scene. It was fast, but also supremely challenging to the car's handling, and could also be used for testing all of the time, unlike a public road. The German Mercedes and Auto Union cars became unstoppable - with the engine putting out huge power, and the chassis that could (just) about handle it. Even the French got in on the act of creating closed race courses that mimicked public roads, the Monthlery track in the south of Paris like Monza combining a speed bowl with a parkland road course. Meanwhile the automotive backwater of Spain built an astonishing creation near Barcelona. Autódromo de Sitges-Terramar was an oval speed bowl just over a mile long, but with banking angles up to sixty degrees. The track held but one Spanish Grand Prix in 1923 before going bust when the track's builders seized all the entrance takings to recoup payments they had not received from the organisors. Racing never returned but remarkably the track survives to this very day. Without the white-elephant of Sitges the Spanish instead turned to the Grand Prix of San Sebastian in the Basque country in the North. The San Sebastian GP around the Lasarte road course became the de-facto, and then the official Spanish Grand Prix.

Post War

If the 1920s and 30s had seen private race courses increasingly taking the share of racing away from the public roads, then the immediate post war years would bring back the road and city street race with a vengeance. With Germany in ruins, Britain's Brooklands turned into an wartime airfield, and America now occupying a parallel but very separate world based around Indianapolis, the French again came to the fore. The first major international motor race after the end of the Second World War was held on the seafront at Nice. It was a tiny course taking in a run up and down the promenade, and around a small garden, and it was never repeated, but it set the motor racing ball rolling again.

There would be a Grand Prix in around a park in Perpignan, on the shores of Lake Geneva, in the town of St Cloud - using a section of newly built motorway - St Gaudens, Sempione Park in Milan, and the first race to be called a 'Formula One' race in Valentino Park, Turin. These races would form the foundations for the first ever World Driver's Championship in 1950, they would provide the place where Alfa Romeo, Maserati, Talbot, Delage, and the new name of Ferrari, could hone their cars. They would also restart the war-interrupted careers of drivers like Farina, Wimille, Sommer, Villoresi, and Chiron, as well as providing a place where an Argentine champion called Juan-Manuel Fangio could arrive and begin to beat the Europeans on home soil. The races themselves would mostlyfade away after a few more years, the early carefree nature of post-war racing in the streets and parks of small provincial towns overtaken by the much grander events of the World Championship, and by a terrible catastrophe that would happen a few years later.

Le Mans

Though the racing may have mostly been consigned to history, that does not mean the roads that the greats of history once drove and battled on have disappeared too. All throughout the world, and in Europe especially, are public roads that once held races, driven on by people who, to a vast extent are probably unaware that their Toyotas and Hyundais are following in the wheel tracks of legends. That they are driving where Fangio, or Ascari, or Moss once drove, or riding where Agostini or Surtees once rode. There are some survivors of the great road races, the most obvious being the Le Mans circuit de la Sarthe. The famous twenty four hour race, held since 1923 outside the city of Le Mans in north western France, is still run on mostly public stretches of highway south of the city. Le Mans shows both the challenge and excitement created by racing on 'real' roads, and also the extent to which the roads have to be conditioned to be considered suitable in the modern world. At Le Mans drivers of the latest sports racing cars still have to cope with tramlines, a crown in the road, slippery painted lines and a rougher surface than is found on the racetrack. They also have the ominous sight of trees at the side of the road, trees that help contain the spray when it rains and create hanging clouds of mist - another hazard rarely found on open racetracks. But the drivers are now shielded from the trees by tiers of crash barriers, and race secure that should something fail on their car, or should they make a mistake, they will not end up among them.

Le Mans also shows the importance of location when it comes to the continued survival of the racetrack. Like many other road race circuits around Europe the Le Mans circuit is on the outskirts of a city - close enough to attract a ready made audience, and attract the support of a city and it's council, but just far enough away to have survived the onset of urban sprawl. When it first began in the 1920s, the Le Mans race ran right into a hairpin turn near the city centre, but quite early in it's life the hairpin turn was abandoned and the race held outside what was then the city limits. Those who made that decision were prescient; now the original course is in quiet suburbs, bisected in two by a tramway, and cut off completely from the current location by an autoroute. Some places in similar locations have not survived; Brooklands, the world's first ever purpose built racetrack, built south of London, was mostly swallowed up by housing estates, supermarkets and industrial estates in the decades after it was mothballed after the second world war. Had it not been for the fortunate intervention of a local businessman the great Indianapolis Speedway in the US would probably have suffered the same fate - swallowed up by the nearby city in the 1950s and 60s.

Ghosts

It isn't only private race circuits that can be obliterated by the passing of time. Even the very roads that once held races in some places have been demolished, re-routed, or altered beyond all recognition. Just like at Le Mans, the French cities of Reims, Rouen, and the town of Albi all had large race circuits, all entirely consisting of public roads, and all hosted F1-level racing (though only non-championship in Albi's case). In Rouen the track buildings were torn up in the 1990s, years after the last race and the back stretch became an autoroute. At Reims the buildings have been partly preserved - sitting like the ruins of Roman arena quietly at the side of the road, but, again a whole section is now a dual carriageway, and another section simply ends in the middle of a field - the former race track road plowed up when deemed an unnecessary piece of the local infrastructure. At Albi the once-rural circuit is still there in shape, but not in spirit; countless roundabouts, and new junctions reflect a huge boom in suburban housing that filled in the fields in the decades since the races of the 1950s. The only relics of the races; a small derelict race control tower and a small memorial stone to an Italian motorcycle champion who perished on the circuit in the early 1950s.

As well as being in a good location to ensure it's survival, the circuit of Le Mans had the great advantage of hosting a great marquee event. Reims and Rouen hosted the French Grand Prix - a premier event to be sure, but also an event that could be moved to another location on a whim, usually due to financial or political pressures. And that is just what happened to both venues in the 1960s. Reims last hosted the GP in 1966, Rouen in 1968, and while both tracks soldiered on (for many years in Rouen's case) without the lure of the Grand Prix they both faded away. In the 1950s and 1960s Grands Prix weren't always part of the Formula One championship; in the days before television contracts demanded all the teams, cars and drivers showed up to all 'official' races, there were many non-championship races, where organisers would put up prize and starting money and invite anyone who cared to show up. And the top drivers weren't contractually stuck with driving only for F1 teams. Many drove in Formula One, Formula Two, endurance sports car races, and even national touring car events. Some great road races were held on tracks that, because they never held full ''championship'' status, have faded into near-obscurity, despite playing host to some world-famous names. The aforementioned Albi circuit being an example of such; who, driving past some ordinary looking sports fields at the side of the road would guess that  there was once a startline where the fields are now where, on one occasion in 1953, Fangio and Ascari, two world champions, both blasted away side by side to race in a non-championship Formula One race?

Some road races were simply overshadowed by a close competitor and faded away in the shadow of the more famous event. The Italian Mediterranean beach resort of San Remo held races in the 1950s, only short distance along the coast from the far more famous territory of Monte Carlo. Unquestionably the San Remo track was far larger, and just as challenging, as the very short confines of the Monaco Grand Prix, but it never came close to outshining it's neighbour and held it's last race in the 1960s. Monaco is the quintessential road road, a race that has been held on a circuit that has been little changed since it began in 1929. Clearly the Monaco Grand Prix owes it's survival almost entirely to it's extraordinarily privileged location, the playground of the rich with vast cachet for sponsors, but it's relatively compact location has also helped, and has inspired imitators around the world. The southern Los Angeles county city of Long Beach, California, began a street race in 1975, clearly modelled on Monaco, and almost the same size. The tiny south Asian country of Macau, like Monaco, has a track that runs from one end of the country to the other, down a seafront and back around the hill above the seafront. Macau is much larger than Monaco, several miles further round, and would probably be as well known if it hosted Formula One rather than Formula Three and touring cars.

The most extraordinary example of a self-contained race that fills and entire state is the Mountain Course on the Isle of Man. The thirty-odd miles of public roads hosts the 'TT' motorcycle races every year and constitute both an incredible challenge, and an incredible act of survival from it's founding in 1907 - when road races were the only form of race - to the modern world. The fact that the Isle of Man is self contained location, without any passing road traffic to any other places, without large cities or motorways, undoubtedly helps the continued survival of the TT races. The island also, by a quirk of history, has it's own parliament, independent of the mainland parliament, and can set many of it's own laws. Unlike England, Wales and Scotland, the Isle of Man and Northern Ireland allowed racing on public roads. As a consequence the TT races became the only place for British motorbike companies - Triumph, Norton, Royal Enfield et al - to race on public roads and also boosted the reputation of the races. Like at Le Mans, the TT races became far more famous than the championship they were part of, although unlike Le Mans the championship eventually left them entirely. Another quirk of fate that perhaps kept the races going into the modern world; had the TT races continued as top level motorbike races they would have surely been killed off by increasing safety concerns, or adapted into a much smaller and compact form, possibly on a purpose built circuit. Now the races are mostly contested by semi-professional specialist road racers - bike racers who race at weekends but often still hold down regular jobs and rarely, if ever, venture into the top level of Moto GP.

Danger

Clearly safety concerns have had a huge effect on the gradual decline of road racing circuits and their replacement by closed race tracks. Road racing is very dangerous. At the Isle of Man TT countless riders have been killed over the decades crashing into stone walls, lamp posts, buildings and trees. These hazards are largely absent from the wide open spaces of race tracks. Naturally it is hard for roads to be cleared of such hazards, and the only practical safety measure is expensive layers of metal guard rails or temporary concrete walls. It's not just the safety of competitors - open roads encourage spectators and it is hard to keep spectators in safe locations around large circuits. This is less of a problem for motorcycle racing, but has practically eliminated any form of car racing on open roads. Out of control cars are far more lethal than out-of control motorbikes. And motorcycle racers are far less likely to come into contact with each other than car racers. Races like the TT races are also held as time trials rather than wheel to wheel duels - racers start at staggered intervals and the winner is the rider who completes the course the quickest, not who get's there first, further reducing the risk of any dangerous pile ups

Some former road race tracks have adapted to the modern world by becoming closed circuit tracks. Spa is probably the most prominent example of this happening. Originally an eight mile high speed blast through the Belgian countryside, Spa had become a dinosaur by the late 1970s, with Formula One leaving after 1970, and considered far too dangerous for everything except touring cars by the end of the decade. In the early 1980s a new circuit was built by cutting the layout in half with a new piece of racetrack, and the Belgian GP successfully returned on the safer layout. Until well into the 1990s some parts of the track were still public roads, but by the 21st century the old roads had been completely incorporated into the racetrack and a new piece of the public highway built to bypass the track. In the 1970s a similar plan was concieved for Le Mans but never completed, still a few sections of new racetrack were built in the final section of the Le Mans circuit. The 'Porsche Curves' as they were called when they were built in 1972, bypassed a section of the original public road track called 'Maison Blanche' (White House), a very fast and narrow crest over a hill, followed by a quick right-left swerve round the 'White House' cottage.

After the cottage the road ran straight to the start and finish and pits area, and it was here that the terrible disaster at the 1955 race happened. The leading Jaguar of Mike Hawthorn slowed to pull into the pit area - in the 1950s just a layby at the road's edge, and caused the following, much slower, Healey driven by Lance Macklin to swerve left to avoid rear-ending the leading car. Macklin swerved right into the path of one of the Mercedes-Benz cars driven by French veteran Pierre Levegh. Levegh was launched off the sloping back of the Healey - these days such a multi car tangle would probably be relatively harmless, possibly leading to an heated argument among the teams after the race. But in 1955 the Mercedes flew towards a spectator enclosure, over a five foot high earth mound, and smashed at full speed into the crowd. There was no catch fencing to protect the spectators and scores were killed by the flying debris scything through them. For a time motor racing as a whole was placed in serious jeopardy; Grands Prix's were cancelled for the rest of 1955 in the race of the political outcry. Unsurprisingly the crash had the most dramatic effect on road racing circuits. Before 1955 the motor racing calendar was packed full of road races; after 1955 they began to become and endangered breed.

Decline

The most immediate casualties were the German, French and Swiss Grands Prix, which were cancelled. The French and German races would be returned in 1956, but the Swiss race never came back. Today the location of the Swiss Grand Prix, at Bremgarten in Berne, sits quietly, and un-commemorated on ordinary looking suburban streets. Much of it is now cycle tracks through a forest. Other races that faded away after the mid-fifties include the championship Spanish grand prix through the streets of Barcelona at Pedralbes. In the early 50s the area was at the very edge of Barcelona, with only a few villas and churches at the road side, by modern times the roads were packed with houses and apartments. Like in Switzerland it would be very hard to tell that there was once a grand prix race through the urban boulevards. Many of the roads have been completely rebuilt, with tramlines, underpasses and flyovers.

The non-championship races in the streets of Bordeaux, Bari, Rome, Angeouleme, Marseilles,Valentino Park in Turin, and on the quiet rural roads of Cadours, all faded away to become only a memory. Posilipo Park in Naples, and Chimay in Belgium downgraded to lesser formulae. Still others faded away for car racing but retained motorbike races that were easier to marshal and relatively more safe for spectators than cars. Such happened at Dundrod in Northern Ireland, where the top sports cars and drivers all turned out for a race in 1955, only for three drivers to be killed in crashes during the race. Cars never came back, but motorbikes still race around the exact same course even today. 1955 also saw a nascent Swedish Grand Prix on roads just outside the small town of Kristianstad. The dominant Mercedes combination of Fangio and Moss showed up and won in a formation demonstration but the event never grew and had a brief continued life for motorbikes, with an odd footnote - in 1961 an East German MZ rider defected during the race, riding his bike into the interested hands of Japanese mechanics curious to learn the secrets of the East German bike industry.

There were other terrible crashes too. In 1952, three years prior to the Le Mans disaster a little remembered incident at the strange German Grenzlandring circuit - a race around an oval shaped ring-road constructed just prior to WW2 for military usage - claimed fourteen spectators lives. In 1958 at the Cuban Grand Prix in pre-Fidel Castro Havana seven spectators died in a crash. This came hours after the sensational kidnapping of Juan Manuel Fangio by pro-Castro rebels; Fangio was approached by a pistol-wielding man in the lobby of his hotel and asked to come with him to a local house. Fangio was released without harm, in fact the rebels had served him steak dinner, after the race, but both the incidents led to the end of the Cuban Grand Prix. A year later the socialist revolution swept Fidel Castro to power and the capitalist resort packed with the rich of Europe and America that was so amenable to motor racing was replaced with a very different place, with racing and casinos replaced with embargoes and poverty.

Changing political situations naturally have had an effect on racing venues over the years. The Spanish Grand Prix of the 1930s, held on a very exciting 11 mile road course near the town of Lasarte-Oria, came to a sudden end with the outbreak of the Spanish Civil War in 1936. The great circuit never held races again. In the 1930s North Africa was a popular area for hosting races, as the countries there were still European colonies and imported European racing. In Morocco and Algeria the effect of French influence was felt with Grands Prix in Casablanca and an Algerian Grand Prix that moved between several street layouts. In Italian-run Libya the Tripoli Grand Prix became a blue riband event with a large prize fund and very expensive facilities - a forerunner of today's purpose built circuits. But the Second World War brought the race to a sudden end, and when the conflict was finished a large US Air Force base was built over most of the area where the race track had once been. When Colonel Gaddafi came to power in 1969 the base became an international airport. Today the route of the race circuit is still visible on satellite pictures, but no tourists would dare to venture into the stricken country of Libya to visit the area, and the days when international racing was once hosted there seem almost impossible to believe.

The Moroccan Grand Prix had a brief resurrection in 1957 and 1958, the latter year becoming famous as the race where the title was decided between the duelling Englishmen Mike Hawthorn and Stirling Moss. Moss won the race, on the purpose built Ain-Diab course, but Hawthorn followed him home in second to win the championship. Moss, who had won four races in the year to Hawthorn's one, never would win the title, and Hawthorn would be killed in a crash a few months later on a bypass in England. The Moroccan Grand Prix disappeared without much notice after that year and the rectangular Ain-Diab course became part of suburban roads, with no remnants of the old race track remaining. Racing in Africa would thereafter be confined mostly to South Africa, and even there the sanctions on the Apartheid government would lead to few international events. Even the great Paris-Dakar Rally across Saharan-Africa would be driven to move to South America by political problems and security threats in the countries it crossed.

Italy

Italy would become the last great bastion of road-racing in the 1960s and 70s, but even in country so associated with performance cars road racing became rarer and rarer during this time. The greatest of all Italian road races was the Mille-Miglia (Thousand Miles) race. The race ran from Brescia in Northern Italy, down the Adriatic coast, across the central hills of the country to Rome, and back north to Brescia. Like the Isle of Man TT the race was against the clock, with hundreds of starters leaving the start ramp throughout the day of the race. The race was held on closed roads but all around the course spectators would crowd around to watch, and it was these spectators who led to the end of the race after the 1957 running when a Ferrari driven by Spanish aristocrat Alfonso de Portago spun into a crowd in a small village near the finish in Brescia and killed nine people at the roadside. The event was revived in the 1970s but as non-competitive historic car rally rather than a race. The record time for the original Mille Miglia, set by Stirling Moss in a Mercedes in 1955, a few weeks before the fateful Le Mans race, will stand forever at twn hours and seven minutes, averaging 99 mph for the trip around Italy.

After the end of the Mille Miglia the mantle of great Italian Road Race passed to the Targa Florio in Sicily. The Targa was a tiddler compared to the Mille Miglia, but it was still a substantial challenge. Where the Le Mans twenty four hours raced around an eight mile long course, and the Nurburgring Six Hours around a twelve mile course, the Targa Florio ran around forty five miles of country roads for eleven laps. The race was part of the World Sports Car championship until 1973 when the concerns about marshalling and protecting spectators over such a long course finally killed off the event. A few years afterwards the event was revived as a rally - a change reflecting the increased prominence of rallying and the blurring of the lines between road racing and stage rallying. In the 1950s and 60s rallying was a test of machinery and navigation, and was done in modified road cars. By the 1970s rallying was increasing in performance, with more purposeful machines like the Ferrari-engined Lancia Stratos being introduced to the forests and roads. Road racing was giving way to rallying as the place where manufacturers were placing their focus. Even by the mid 1960s many sports car world championship entrants were finding the very twisty roads of the Targa Florio to be unsuitable for their ever-faster circuit racing cars and were creating lightweight specials to race purely in the Targa.

The third great Italian road race was the races held in the Adriatic coast town of Pescara. The races ran around a fifteen mile course from the town, up into the hills overlooking the sea, and back to the town by way of two four mile straights. In 1957, still in a climate of uncertainty about which Grand Prix's would be viable after the Le Mans disaster the Pescara race became a World Championship round for one unique occasion. The race was won, almost inevitably, by the great road racing expert Stirling Moss, who dominated throughout. It would not be repeated as a full-blown Formula One race though, despite the huge crowd that turned up to watch. The fall out from the Mille Miglia crash was being felt throughout Italy. Even the Vatican added it's voice to the mix, condemning the deaths of spectators at the expense of mere entertainment. True open road racing, on roads closed off on the day with a few road blocks, and spectators sitting having picnics at the side of the road was already on the wane, even in car-crazy, and politically laissez-faire Italy.  For the next few years the Portuguese Grand Prix at Porto would take Grand Prix cars across cobble stoned roads and tramway lines for the last ever time. The 1960 race would be the end of an era for Grand Prix racing, and the winner was Jack Brabham - who hated the road racing tracks ("bloody dangerous") in a small lightweight British-made Cooper car that was developed on the airfield racetracks of Britain's club scene.

Throughout it all the one race that carried on regardless was the Monaco Grand Prix. Ironically Monaco's anachronistic nature and the total unsuitability of the extremely slow and tight circuit for racing probably ensured it's survival because it was too slow to be particularly dangerous. Only two drivers have ever been killed at Monaco during it's years as a Formula One venue, and one of those was in a supporting sports car race. By contrast when the resort town of Deauville at the opposite end of France created a Grand Prix in 1936, the course, running along the seafront, was wide and fast - too fast perhaps, as the up and coming French driver Marcel Lehoux died after a collision with another youngster, future inaugural World Champion Giuseppe Farina. The sight of flaming wreckage and a broken driver's body lying in the neat gardens didn't provide the best advertisement for motor racing and Deauville went back to hosting horse races instead. The tight Monaco layout meant there were never many places for drivers and spectators to put themselves in harms way. Most of the spectators were watching from apartment balconies and rooftops. And it was easy to put barriers around the course and police it properly. Monaco may have been there because of money and snobbery, but the organisers always knew how to run their race properly. By contrast there were places that were less well organised. In the late 1960s the Spanish Grand Prix found an exciting new home around the streets of Montjuic Park in central Barcelona.  The circuit had held more minor races since the 1930s, and was extremely attractive, with all kinds of corners, elevation changes, trees, and striking buildings in the surroundings. Sadly after 1975, when the safety barriers were not installed correctly and drivers nearly boycotted the race, then a crash during the race that killed three spectators, the circuit was abandoned.

Relics 

Like many other road circuits Montjuic Park is still there in it's entirety, only a new roundabout interrupting the course of the original. All around Europe are other circuits sitting still, with almost no evidence of the races that once happened there. In Italy the fifteen miles the Pescara Grand Prix was run on - forever remembered as the longest ever World Championship circuit - are all still there, albeit with a few new overpasses to accommodate an autoroute, and a few newer business parks and residential developments at the roadside. Only a large sculpture of a pre-war racer half way around the course provides much evidence of the race. The main street through the town of Pescara appears to have changed little since 1957, when Moss streaked away to a lead he was never to lose over the next two hours of racing. Moss and the others would have seen a fairly similar view to today. The race would have taken them past the main railway station in Pescara, up a straight section of densely packed buildings, before taking a right turn at a junction and heading up a twisty and narrow road up a hillside, with views one side inland and on the other occasional glimpses of the sea. As with many of the longer circuits it must have been challenging to remember exactly where on the circuit the driver was, as the various bends and crests of the road seem to blend together into one.

Unlike modern drivers those who faced racing on such challenging, and complicated courses had to devote much of their concentration to simply driving the course, rather than racing their rivals. Cars were much less reliable and drivers far more exposed to danger. On a circuit like that at Pescara the driver had somehow to put out of their minds what would happen if they ran wide off the road into a ditch, or spun off into a tree, or their car failed and they hit a wall or building. Then there were the final eight miles consisting of two flat out blasts along four mile straights at speeds of up to 180 mph. Some road races were undoubtedly more dangerous than others. At the Targa Florio, for example, the extremely twisty and narrow roads kept the average speeds relatively low, and the event had surprisingly few fatalities. By contrast at Spa-Francorchamps the roads were wide, and fast. By the time of the last Formula One and sports car races the average lap speed  was nudging 150 mph - between houses and trees.

The current Spa circuit is much beloved by the current generation of drivers but is half the length of the 'old' Spa, and far less daunting. The original layout of Spa is still there, looming like a sinister shadow over the current racetrack. Where the current track turns sharp right at the end of the main straight and runs down into a valley, the original course instead took a long left turn over the brow of a hill in the opposite direction. It then ran down a hill along a slightly curving straight, where racers would fly past farmhouses at very high speed, into a very fast right hand corner, that could have been designed with high speed racing in mind. Now there are more houses and junctions, but the famous farmhouse where several famous names - including Jackie Stewart and Graham Hill - crashed out in a cloudburst in the 1966 Belgian Grand Prix is still there, mostly unchanged. The Belgian weather also added to the dangers of Spa, where the sunnier Mediterranean climbs could hold road races in almost guaranteed warmth and sunshine the Belgian Grand Prix was often held in the rain. The rain would often lash the drivers as they headed along the back straight - now interrupted at the beginning by a new roundabout - past open fields towards a quick left-right flick between houses at the hamlet of Masta. Through the kink at speeds of over 150 mph they would head down towards a road junction at the village of Stavelot, but then ease themselves into a fast rising right turn, built to bypass the village itself. The turn is also still there, overgrown and cracked. The mist would hang in the trees on the return leg, through a gloomy looking forest to rejoin the current track again.

Spa was undoubtedly the fastest ever road racing circuit used in motor sport, but it was hated by many great drivers for being too risky and too reliant on their cars holding together on the long straights. For the same reason some drivers also disliked having to drive at Le Mans too, in the days when the trees were not hidden behind barriers. Nostalgia tends to create a great respect for the old Spa, and Le Mans but there were many other road circuits that were just as daunting as those tracks, but somewhat more challenging for the drivers too. However these tracks never attained the same status as their more illustrious counterparts. Some still survive, as Spa has, as permanent circuits incorporating parts of the original roads. In the far south of Sicily, not too far from the roads of the Targa Florio, is the obscure Autodromo Siracusa (Syracuse). Little in the area would lead anybody to suspect that the circuit was once a much larger road circuit that hosted non-championship Formula One races. The modern track, like Spa, uses some of the old roads, but for the most part is an anonymous modern racetrack, and the surrounding roads have been gradually built-up with houses, warehouses, and business parks. Here and there are small remnants of the former circuit - the most distinctive feature of the old circuit was the low brick walls that the road, The walls are still there where the road leaves the highway headed to dusty dead-ends where the modern track sits, looking like alien relics from a different era, an era where it wasn't unusual for stout brick walls to line the very edge of a road. And an era when spectators and photographers would sit on the walls to watch. In the eventful year of 1955 the English driver Tony Brooks won what was probably the venue's most notable victory. Driving a British built Connaught (an obscure make that would never win a championship race) Brooks took the first Grand Prix win by a British driver in a British car since 1923. Ironically Brooks was a great enthusiast of road racing, and admired the Syracuse circuit's challenging walls as they encouraged precision, but his win for Britain would be a precursor to the era of success for British makes, and their cars honed on airfield circuits, who would take over as the road race largely a thing of the past.

Road racing didn't die out overnight after the traumas of 1955. Even ten years after Tony Brooks won at Syracuse on dusty Sicilian roads, the great 'Flying Scotsman' Jimmy Clark would drive to victory in a non championship race on closed roads. This particular event was the 1964 'Solituderennen', the last hurrah of a the astonishing Solitudering - a seven mile open road track winding through trees on the outskirts of Stuttgart. Today Stuttgart is renowned as the home of both Mercedes-Benz and Porsche, and their museums attract many visitors, but for real tangible motoring history, the old Solituderennen sits almost unchanged, but for a few modern roundabouts, almost waiting for another race to be held there. The circuit gave away a good mile to Spa, and was not nearly as quick, but more than made up for it with it's sheer variety. From the start and finish area, the road ran sharply uphill through two hairpins, then flew through a forest taking drivers through the holy-grail of corners for the racer and spectator; the almost flat out, blind bend over a crest, requiring full commitment and skill to maximise the speed through the trees. After several miles of knuckle-whitening high speed, high precision corners, the track rolled down to a tight left hander into the base of a river valley. From this corner it then returned to the start area by way of a sinuous road hugging the edge of of a river, every corner leading directly to the next, meaning the driver never got a moment's rest. There is no clear reason precisely why the Solituderennen faded away from the racing scene in the mid-1960s, after forty-something years of motorcycle and car racing, plus the great international success of Stuttgart's car makers. Perhaps it could no longer survive in the shadow of the famous Nurburgring, and it maybe already the writing was on the wall for such a perilous circuit. Fortunately urban sprawl has never reached the forests where the Solitudering sits and the modern visitor can still drive the roads and marvel that Clark and company used to race their spindly little cars on such dramatic roads.

It is arguable that the Solitudering was the most dramatic road race course that Formula One cars have ever contested races on. Certainly the Pescara track was longer - although a great deal of the fifteen-mile track was eight miles of straightaways where the driver had to take a back seat to the engine and simply hang on. And the race was, when all is said and done, a one off, and, thanks to the genius of Stirling Moss, not much of a racing contest. Certainly if asked to nominate the most extraordinary road circuit a case could be made for the bizarre AVUS ring, used just once in 1959 for the German Grand Prix. AVUS was built before WW2 as one of the first sections of autobahn, and turned into a high speed race track by the addition of a giant 'Wall of Death' - a huge 180 degree brick banked turn at the top end of the circuit. The racers of the 1930s would blast up and down the motorway - exceeding 200 mph - and hang on round the banking. After the war the circuit
continued, with the one-off Grand Prix, and would survive well into the 1990s as a touring car venue, but the great brick banking was demolished and the motorway sections were continually cut back. Today some features of the track have been preserved; an old motel still displays the Mercedes Benz logo, and the footprint of the banking is still there as a lorry trailer park - it is a surprisingly tight radius, perhaps the legend makes the great banked corner seem larger.

Monjuic Park is often touted as the greatest Formula One street circuit, and certainly it was an exceptional layout considering it's short length. But it was still a city park circuit rather than a genuine open road race. At the same time in the early 1970s the French Grand Prix paid several visits to roads around the mid-size town of Clermont-Ferrand (home of Michelin tyres). The Clermont Ferrand track ran around hills west of the city, and was renowned for being a great 'rollercoaster' ride for the drivers, so much so that the winner in 1970, Jochen Rindt, was supposedly motion-sick in his car during the race. The circuit's time in the limelight was brief; from the mid-sixties to the 1972 French Grand Prix. Like at Solitude the roads are still there almost unchanged, decades after the last F1 races were run. What is striking about them is how dramatic and twisty they are; roads that the modern mind associates more with a rally stage than Formula One, and how totally unsuited to the modern requirements of television coverage and VIP wining-and-dining the location is. The road is lined with trees and flint riddled earth banks. There do not appear to be many places for spectators to watch; the circuit is all about the challenge for the driver. A smaller club race track incorporates parts of the old start finish line and track, but is much shorter than the Grand Prix circuit.

Far from the traditional European home of Formula One lies a dark horse contender for the title of Greatest Ever Formula One track. These days the 'off' season in racing consists of sponsor announcements and testing times. But in the 1960s many top F1 drivers would travel to the Antipodes and race in the Australasian 'Tasman' series; an unofficial 'winter' F1 tour taking in the race tracks of Australia and New Zealand. Many of these were fairly ordinary airfield or club race tracks but when the series visited it's namesake - Tasmania - the drivers headed around the road circuit called Longford. Longford was in the middle of nowhere-in-particular. The biggest evidence of civilisation was a corner in the small town of Launceston, where the cars would race past the front door of the local watering hole. In four miles of roads (about the same as modern Spa), the track ran across fields, took a sharp left turn under a railway viaduct, crossed an overgrown creek, passed farms and livestock, and over a long wooden road bridge. Contemporary pictures show what is perhaps the oddest juxtaposition in the history of Formula One; Jimmy Clark, Graham Hill, Jack Brabham, and the rest driving their single seaters over a rural Australian bridge, inches from a white painted wooden slatted fence. Alas, the Tasman series faded away in the late 1960s, as the European schedule would take priority for the increasing number of sponsors arriving in the sport keen to get their logos on the televised  races. It would be 1985 before the Australian Grand Prix would finally become a full fledged championship race, but not in the sheep and cattle farming backwaters of Longford, Tasmania but in the old Victorian colonial city of Adelaide, on a street circuit that would write some of it's own lore in racing history.

Amazingly for all it's unfettered challenges Longford was not the most challenging circuit to have hosted the Australain Grand Prix. The name stretches back to the 1920s and among the list of venues is the occasional mention of a place called Loebethal. Those in the know - the historians, the history enthusiasts, the locals - will mention the place with superlatives and words that seem more suited to a great mythical legend. The Loebathal track, the enthusiasts will say, was ''something else'', a real man's course. The races were held in the 1930s but survived briefly after the war. The course ran for eight miles around the small town of Lobethal in South Australia. It didn't start from the town, but from a junction several miles away. From there it ran along very fast roads to a 90 degree junction, where the drivers put their foot flat to the floor and climbed the hill up towards Loebethal town. There they held on tight around a left right sequence before dropping down in the centre of the town. In case they overcooked the braking for the junction in the town the run-off area was the entrance to a mill. Flying out of town they had to negotiate a tricky right hand bend before entering a breathtaking roller coaster section that could have been lifted from the Nurburgring itself. Here was where one driver of time remembered he would aim and commit for the corner over the blind crest because once the car got airborne there was no way to correct it's course. Even by the standards of the time the Loebathal course was thought dangerous, and only a few motorcycle and car grands prix were held before it faded away, and the housing developers gradually built up the farmland at the roadside. Loebethal is still there to be driven aroud, albeit surrounded by many more houses than when it was a race track. Longford is not so lucky. Astonishingly although the area is still mostly farmland much of the track is now abandoned and derelict - the local roads have been re-routed. The wooden viaduct is gone, now there is only a forlorn gap across the river.

Staying Relevant

The 1970s were a decade of decline for road race circuits, and by the 1980s motor racing was mostly held on either racetracks or city street tracks. But, like all rules, there were exceptions. Formula One and sports cars may have gradually left open road tracks but deep in the countryside of Czechoslovakia in the the European Touring Car championship found time to attack the Masarykring at Brno. In the 1930s, before the catastrophes of the War and afterwards, big time racing had many events in Eastern Europe. The Masarykring was just one relic of that time, a great road circuit that was graced by the greats; Caracciola, Nuvolari, Rosemeyer, etc. The Masaryk Grand Prix was held on an 18 mile long circuit from 1930 to 37. After the war the circuit was cut in half and reduced to a more manageable 11 miles, then down to eight, and then finally 6.79 miles, and enjoyed a curious time in the limelight in the mid-1980s, when the ETCC's profile was raised as the championship became a grudge match between the works teams from BMW and the one time Le Mans racers Jaguar. More barriers were placed on the circuit, trying to keep it in line with updated safety requirements. Motorcycle races lasted until 1982, and the last big touring car race was held in the 1986. In the same year the new Hungarian Grand Prix debuted at the purpose built Hungaroring near Budapest. Even though it would be three more years before the Iron Curtain began to crumble, the Czech authorities decided  to follow the Hungarian example and build a modern autodrome, appropriately in near the town of Brno, inside the footprint of the original pre-war road course.

Racing at the old circuit at Brno may now be only a fading memory, and the modern circuit may have little of the character of the old, but the circuit allows the area to retain it's motorsport tradition into the modern era. Some racing, at least, is better than no racing at all. Romance and nostalgia may be fine for history books, but practical realities mean that if racing is to take place in most places where people live, it is going to be on contained closed courses, not out on the streets that have filled with much more traffic and development even since the 1980s. The Masaryk circuit may still be there, but there are more houses around it now, and roundabouts, pedestrian crossing islands, bus stops and all the other street furniture. In this respect Brno is not alone; quite a few modern autodromes are built in places that once hosted races on much larger, more daunting circuits that would be totally impractical to today's world. The Mugello Circuit, a well liked high speed road course in the very centre of the spine of Italy sits in the shadow a 40 mile road circuit in the hills. The Mugello 'Stradale' circuit, as it is known, was a counterpart to the Targa Florio when it began in the 1920s, but it never gained nearly as much status, mostly because of it's on-off hosting; after the 1920s it was revived in the 1950s only to stop again until the mid-sixties, when it lasted until 1970 before even the car-crazy Italians decided there was no practical way to run a forty mile long race circuit in open countryside, even with a time-trial format. The modern facility was built not far from the old start line and pit lane (still visible as a extra-wide street) in a small town.

Mugello's main event these days is the Motorcycle Grand Prix, and the circuits that host motorcycling in particular have tended to follow the pattern of turning old road courses into closed race courses. The German Moto-GP for example, is held at the Sachsenring, a two mile circuit that shares a start line with the old Sachsenring, a six mile road circuit that ran into the nearby town, up through fields to the edge of the nearby autobahn, before flying back to the start line through very quick tree-lined turns, dips and crests. The Sachsenring was in the former East Germany, and through the 1960s and 1970s hosted the East German Grand Prix. When the Berlin Wall fell and Germany was reunited the track was given the honour of hosting the reunified German GP and redeveloped into the current course, with the intention of briging the international scene to the former eastern half of the country. Economics have often dictated that tracks that have previously focused on motorbikes must nowadays accommodate car races, plus track days, and other major events like music festivals, and as such have been redesigned to become more easily adapted for different uses. Such is the case at the Dutch 'Mecca of Motorbikes' at Assen - once there was a four mile course, with much of the mileage in a large rectangular route at the start of the lap. Nowadays the old first half of the lap forms the perimeter roads of car parks and an nearby amusement park, while the track twists back on itself in a tighter complex of corners. The old circuit may have been more open and scenic, but it was also more wasteful of space, with a large empty infield of little practical use. Sad perhaps, but also an unavoidable truth, as developers encroach on racetracks, the tracks often have to maximise the value of their land.

Heritage

In recent years the history of motor racing has begun to attract more interest from the outside world. There are a great many historic racing festivals around the world, some on modern race tracks, some along the roads of the original road races. Perhaps enough time has passed for it's relics to take on the mould of genuine historical artifacts rather than decaying ruins. Perhaps too, the passing of most of the great names from the heroic eras of decades past has raised them from mere sportsmen to legends, and suddenly the cars they drove and the places they raced are now the only tangible connection to a lost era, and consequently are attracting renewed interest. Then there is the information revolution - suddenly people can find out all about the history of their local area, and in moments find pictures, film and descriptions of races that once happened on their own doorsteps. Then too there is the matter of the sanitisation of modern racing, in terms of safety, variety of locations, and the characters on the track. While no fan wishes to return to the days when many drivers died, either because the cars couldn't withstand crashes or needlessly because of poor rescue and medical facilities, many grumble that the standard template for the modern racetrack is too bland, that the never ending drive for safety is removing some of the thrill of the race. The venues of the past have a romanticism and nostalgic appeal that many find lacking in tracks today.

The fourteen miles of the Nurburgring Nordschleife, built as a purpose built racing track in the 1920s, are symbolic of the increased interest in historic race tracks. After big time racing finally left the track in the 1980s the owners decided to promote the track's open days - when the track was open to the public for a charge to drive it. Twenty years later thousands of visitors from around Europe were flocking there each year for the chance to drive flat out without needing to observe speed limits. Many other race tracks around the world have followed suit with the idea of the 'Track Day'. The Nurburgring has gone from being a race track to a "Touristenfahrten" - tourist road, as well as the world's most prestigious road car test track. Ironically enough one of the uses it was originally built for in the 1920s. Several major road car companies now have test bases there, quite a turn around for a place that was once shunned by Formula One and the World Sportscar Championship. Into the 2000s racing series have increasing struggled to attract the attention of car manufacturers and those that do take part mostly do so for marketing reasons. The Le Mans 24 Hours still maintains a high profile, arguably higher than F1, for the car makers, and much of that is probably down to the eight miles of high speed road racing circuit, so unlike anything that remains in Formula One.

Road races do survive today but they are mostly the preserve of the more amateur end of the racing spectrum. The Isle of Man TT remains the most obvious example of the 'Weekend Warriors' but there are others. The FIA European Hillclimb championship, once a high enough profile series that it still attracted F1 drivers up to the 1960s. Nowadays it is still going, supported by enthusiastic semi-pro and amateur drivers, who bring their rally cars and old Formula cars and drive up mountain roads at often insane-seeming speeds. The openness of the rule book is part of the appeal - the so called "Run what ya brung" series , as it is colloquially known in America. While spectacular, it is still dangerous. Lionel Regal - a top driver in the series, who's on-board videos are all over the internet, died when he lost control of his race car and crashed into trees at the Saint Ursanne hillclimb in 2010. In America the historic Pikes Peak hillclimb, up twelve miles to the 14,000 feet summit of one of America's highest peaks, still runs every year. As does the 'Silver State Classic' - a open road time trial race along Nevada's empty desert roads that is free to anyone to enter as long as they complete a safety check and attend a driving school run by the organisers.

Many of the places that once hosted racing have come to have revival events in recent years. In England the Goodwood festival and revival events have provided the model, where drivers bring their historic cars for the public to see. The concept has inspired an event at Reims, based naturally at the old pit buildings. Solitude in Munich too has a historic event where the roads are closed for the racers. The Targa Florio rally takes in many sections of the forty four mile circuit, the country roads mostly unchanged since the days when Championship Ferraris and Porsches raced around them. The Mille Miglia rally takes in the route of the races, attracting celebrities, and many of the world's most valuable collector cars for the drive around Italy. They still pass the memorial to Alfonso de Portago's crash, on the side of a ruler straight road among fields. In Australia the Longford pub and hotel attracts enthuisasts to a historic car meeting. The Loebethal Grand Carnival was created as a historic car parade, and it's first gathering included many of the survivors of the original races there. Motorbikers, too have their moments of nostalgia. The old home of the Finnish Grand Prix, in the quiet town of Imatra, has hosted demo runs attended by former bike racing greats riding around the virtually unchanged rectangular course, a course that fell out of fashion in the 1980s. Even Le Mans is finding that the main event is being challenged by the supporting historic races, as many spectators wish to see the famous cars and drivers of the past just as much as they want to see the current cars. The road to the White House, where the terrible disaster of 1955 took place, is still there, but hidden behind the grandstands, VIP tents and car parks.

Even in this world of information, and with all the revivals, photos and videos, there are still some secrets seemingly lost to history, remembered by only a few. Perhaps the biggest of these is the 'Deuschlandring', the forgotten cousin of the Nurburgring. In the 1930s the Nazi controlled government decided to build a successor to the Nurburgring. It would be slightly shorter, but much faster, as befitting the fabulous Mercedes Benz and Auto Union 'Silver Arrows' of the era. As with much else that the Reich promised, the Deutschlandring was supposed to be the grandest race track in the world, but the war that Hitler wrought would be the end of it. The ten kilometres of would-be race track were built in the mid-30s, often by forced labour by prisoners, and finished and christened in a  ceremony in 1939. Months later the war began, the racing stopped and the never used race track was forgotten about, merged into the public road network. They are still there, a curiously wide and flowing circuit of public roads in the countryside south of the city of Dresden. Some great road races left behind ghosts, all left behind legends, but some never hear the sound of engines at all.


Sunday, 18 January 2015

Famous Flyers - Zeppelin


- The Zeppelins

In the spring of 1838 an enormous iron framed ship set out from Bristol, heading to New York. The 'Great Western' was designed by the great engineer Brunel, also responsible for the Great Western Railway, the Clifton suspension bridge, Paddington railway station, and many other Victorian engineering marvels. As it turned out, the Great Western's first voyage was delayed by a fire breaking out in the engine room. Another ship, the Sirius, left Cork in Ireland ahead of the Western and headed to New York. By the time the Western was ready to set sail, most of the passengers had cancelled their bookings, with only a handful willing to take the journey. Sirius arrived first in New York, but it was a one off trip for the ship, it returned to sailing between Ireland and Scotland. The Great Western made it to New York the day after the Sirius, and in the following decade made over forty crossings of the ocean, the first steamship to regularly cross the Atlantic with paying customers. She was followed by many more Atlantic steamships over the next century. The steamer was the only way to cross between the old world and the new and the advent of aeroplanes that could cross oceans did not change this. Ships could carry thousands of passengers, planes could carry a few tens of passengers. The heroic flight of Charles Lindbergh had raised the profile of air travel enormously, but the ordinary middle class traveller was only ever likely to fly on a plane when travelling between cities or taking short hops across short stretches of sea, such as the English channel. Even by the 1930s, with over thirty years of improvements to plane designs, including a huge burst of progress during the Great War, and the heroic exploits of the Orteig Prize competitors, the most luxurious of Pan American Airlines seaplanes could carry around thirty passengers. And with such limited numbers the price of a journey on a trans-oceanic sea plane flight was huge; a five figure sum in today's money.

Seaplanes (or flying boats) came to the fore in the 1930s because they addressed two practical problems with air travel; the need to refuel on long oceanic crossings, and the lack of places to land in large cities. These were problems that had also been solved by a completely different form of airborne craft; the airship. Airships had been around for just as long as powered aeroplanes and the two forms of machine shared a great deal in common. Both used a light but strong framework - planes to form a fuselage and wings, airships to contain bags filled with lighter-than-air gases. Both used powerful piston engines to drive propellers, except that airships could steer with their engines. Planes were certainly faster and more agile than airships, but airships promised very large cargo and passenger carrying capacity. Where planes could carry a few dozen people it looked as though a giant airship might be a competitor to the huge ocean going liners. In the 1910s and 1920s it looked as though the future of travel would be shared between small planes buzzing around like insects between airfields, and giant whale-like airships carrying people across oceans.

The name that became synonymous with airships was that of a German count of the late 19th century. Ferdinand von Zeppelin spent most of his life in the German army, and was inspired by seeing hot air balloons being used for reconnaissance during the American Civil War. Airships had been a concept on many Victorian drawing boards throughout the 19th century, but like their winged counterparts were being held back from being fully developed by the limitations of materials and engines. In he 1850s a Frenchman called Henri Giffard had built a working airship, the "Dirigible" (or "directable"); it was over forty metres long, filled with hydrogen gas and powered by a steam engine. Much like George Cayley's glider of the same decade it was a beautiful piece of engineering, but of limited practical use. The Giffard dirigible could only travel at walking pace, could not fly into the wind, and was also filled with extremely volatile hydrogen gas that presented a huge danger in the close proximity of the hot steam engine.

Zeppelin took the concept of the airship seriously and left the army in his middle age to set up a company to make a practical design. It would take many years for Zeppelin to achieve something that worked. He hired an engineer called Theodor Kober to help with the design, and gained a patent on a design by Kober for a rigid airship, made from aluminium , covered in fabric, with multiple gondolas suspended underneath for carrying passengers or cargo. It would take Zeppelin a decade to muster the support, both financial and political, to build a full working rigid airship based on the design. His break came when the German Engineers Association decided to support his plan and attracted other engineers, including experts on metals, and industrial gas suppliers, both essential components of his idea.

By the turn of the 20th century the Zeppelin company had built it's first prototype rigid airship, the LZ1. The LZ1 was built in a factory in the town of Friedrichshafen, on the shores of Lake Constance in Bavaria. This factory would come to produce the famous Zeppelin ships of the 1930s, but only after a very shaky start for the Zeppelin company. The LZ1 was a very impressive sight floating over the shores of the lake, but it turned out to be a total fiasco. On it's first flight it's structure was found to be severely insufficient to cope with the stresses of the wind turbulence, some of it's controls jammed, and one of it's engines failed. After repairs it was flown two more times but only on short journeys. Investors were not convinced and Zeppelin had to sell off his company and dismantle the LZ1 for scrap. Six years later the indomitable Count von Zeppelin was back with a second airship, LZ2, the first product of a new Zeppelin company and a new designer. Kober had given way to a long time Zeppelin engineer called Ludwig Durr. Durr would design all the subsequent rigid airships of the company.

The structural problems with the LZ1 were caused by the rectangular girders in the frame buckling under stress; Durr changed the design to a triangular girder frame that was much stronger. He also discarded the idea of using moving weight ballast to control the ship's pitch and adopted aeroplane-like ailerons. LZ2 crashed on it's second flight after it's engines failed, but it's design had proven much more airworthy than the first Zeppelin airship. A replacement, LZ3, was quickly built and proved to be a success; it had more stability than LZ2 and successfully flew for hours at a time. The German government was won round to the airship and awarded money to the company, no doubt swayed by German royalty taking journeys on the LZ3. During the winter of 1906 a new problem arose; while the airship was more airworthy, it's floating hangar on Lake Constance wasn't, and the ship was damaged when a storm blew the hangar into it. Ironically yet another setback would seal the future successes of the company. The next Zeppelin, LZ4, was destroyed by a fire; the burnt out shell of it's frame laying crumpled on the ground looks, to modern eyes eerily like the wreck of the Hindenburg twenty years later. LZ4 had flown over many cities and been seen by thousands of people in person. As a consequence huge donations were made from around Germany to the Zeppelin company to continue their work.

Although the German army had bought the LZ3 for military evaluation, the airship was also being considered for civilian use. In 1909 the first ever passenger airline was founded by the Zeppelin company under the rather unromantic name DELAG. The star-crossed history of the airship continued - DELAG's first Zeppelin was destroyed by a hangar fire, the second one crashed after being caught in a thunderstorm, the third was broken in two after being caught by gusts outside it's hangar, the forth also burnt down in a hangar fire. Amazingly none of these incidents resulted in any deaths, or any obvious lack of interest from the public. But the passenger flights were halted by the outbreak of war in 1914. They were replaced by something much less wholesome; bombing raids. Initially these were directed against cites in Belgium but late in 1914 the German navy drew up plans for dropping bombs on English cities, partly as a way of destroying military targets but also as a way to terrorize and demoralise the British public.

The German commanders hoped that airships would become a whole new weapon of war; giant bomb carriers that could fly up to any enemy city and rain down quantities of bombs that aeroplanes could never possibly carry. Nearly one hundred Zeppelin airships were built during the four years of the Great war, and they took part in over fifty raids on British soil. The raids would not be a success from a tactical point of view; by 1916 British air defenses had developed enough to be able to shoot airships down, although for all the advance in technology, quite often it would be the British weather that would thwart the airship menaces. The first attempted raid on London in 1915 had to be called off because of strong headwinds. Zeppelin's could carry a lot of ordnance but were terribly inaccurate. One raid intended for London was instead carried out on the docks of Hull - over two hundred miles away. The airships had a much larger impact from a psychological point of view; this was the first time since Medieval times that the English civilian populations had to worry about a war coming to their doorsteps. Bombing raids on England in 1915 caused great alarm - almost two hundred lives were lost, factories, warehouses, railway stations, and even theatres were destroyed or heavily damaged. Gun emplacements were put up in cities but proved frighteningly impotent against the giant Zeppelins far above them.  Only when explosive incendiary bullets were improved could aeroplanes begin to combat the airships, and when they did the great fear they generated began to be eroded. When the first German airship was downed over London much of the city could see what had happened.

The war had proven that the airship would not be of much practical use as a bomber and the Zeppelin company returned to building airships for passenger use. These would not immediately be available for use by German passengers however. War reparations meant the first two post-war Zeppelin's were confiscated and donated to Italy and France. A saviour would come in the unlikely form of United States Navy. Keen to trial airships as giant floating aircraft carriers, Zeppelin LZ126 was flown across the Atlantic in 1924 to the Us Navy Station at Lakehurst, New Jersey, commanded by Hugo Eckener, the head of the Zeppelin company - the Count himself had died aged seventy eight in 1917. The LZ126 became the USS Los Angeles and aside from the name the Americans made one major change to the ship - they replaced the highly flammable hydrogen gas used in the ship with far more stable helium gas. The Germans had not used helium in their airships for the simple reason that it was far more expensive, and the vast majority of the world's helium was manufactured in America and Germany would have had to import it.

The Germans would not have their own way when it came to manufacturing airships either. The successful trials of the Los Angeles persuaded the US Navy to build another ship on home soil, in a new hangar at the Lakehurst station. The two hundred metre long 'Shenandoah' had a brief life of two years before being lost in a dramatic crash in a storm in 1925 - while flying over the state of Ohio strong updrafts pushed the ship many hundred of metres above it's design limit and it was torn apart by turbulence. Many of the survivors hung on to the sinking parts of the wreck as it came crashing down to the ground. The setback didn't dissuade the Navy, and in the 1930s two more enormous airships would be built in America. The 'Akron' and the 'Macon' were designed to patrol the coast and carry a fleet of small fighter planes to intercept any enemy threats. Like the Shenandoah the previous decade, both the Akron and Macon lasted two years before crashing in storms. The Akron over the Atlantic off New England, the Macon ditched and sank in the Pacific Ocean off California. Seventy two men died in the crash of the Akron - for all that the Hindenburg's infamous end would come to symbolise the end of the airship era, the Akron crash resulted in a far higher loss of life, and took with it the great champion of airships in the Us Navy, Rear Admiral William Moffett. The loss of the Macon in 1935 was the last straw for the Navy, who abandoned any further rigid airship projects. The British too had experimented with rigid airships; in the 1920s the British Government looked to airships to fly across Europe and Asia to India and onwards to Australia. Two prototypes were built - the R100 and R101. Both ships were commissioned in 1924, and expected to fly by 1926, but delays pushed their maiden flights to 1929. R100 was first to fly, it crossed the Atlantic in 1930 to Canada. Two months later the R101 set out for India, but it only made it as far as Northern France before smashing into a French hillside and burning down to a smouldering hulk. R100 had been designed by Barnes Wallis, the future designer of the famed 'bouncing' bomb of the Dambusters raids of WW2, and was built to a very conventional design. R101 had more innovations in it's design but was overweight and had to be lengthened to create more lift. After it's fiery crash the inquiry concluded that it's fabric covering had been torn on the nose and enough gas had been lost to cause the ship to sink into the ground. Ultimately the inquiry scathingly concluded that the R101 had been rushed into service and was not ready to embark on such a long flight. After a year of waiting the R100 was broken up for scrap and Britain abandoned any more interests in airships.

This left the Germans, and the Zeppelin company, still the only country to use successfully use airships for passenger use. Ironically this peaceful purpose would continue after Germany fell under the control of the Nazis in the 1930s. Ever keen to promote German industry, and to take the credit for any of it's successes, the Nazis poured money into manufacturing and engineering. The Zeppelin company received eleven million Reichsmarks from the government and used the money to create two giant new airships and a new airline, the DZR, a replacement for the original DELAG that had continued after the Great War. Zeppelin chairman Hugo Eckener was not a favourite of the Nazis' - he had considered running against Hitler in the 1932 presidential election. Herman Goering, the newly installed Aviation Minister, created the DZR in order to exert more control over the Zeppelin company, Hugo Eckener, and over one of Germany's most prized machines; the LZ127 'Graf Zeppelin'.

After the completion and delivery of the LZ126/USS Los Angeles in 1926, Zeppelin had started work on a ship that was to remain in German hands. Overwhelmingly paid for by public donation the LZ127 was similar to the LZ126 but intended for passenger travel rather than military use. To this purpose a large gondola was designed incorporating ten cabins, a dining room and a kitchen, much like a passenger train car. Twenty passengers could squeeze aboard the ship, in conditions that made up in quality what they lacked in space. In the 1923 crash of the US Navy Shenandoah the entire gondola had detached from the main structure of the airship and plummeted to the ground, killing all the crew inside, so all future airships had built the gondola solidly into the structure - it reduced all round visibility but safeguarded against a catastrophic loss of the controls. The ship was completed in 1928 and for the next four years it was tested and used for promotional flights. In contrast to the way the British had rushed the R101 straight into an epic journey, the Graf was tested on several short flights in Germany before crossing the Atlantic to New York. The Graf lived a charmed life and seemed to avoid all the pitfalls that beset so many of it's fellow great airships. It flew in commercial use from 1932 to 1937 without incident, and visited all corners of the globe, including the Russian arctic. Suddenly, despite the setbacks to the US Navy airships it looked as though airships might finally become a viable form of oceanic travel. A new skyscraper in New York - the Empire State Building - was even built with a mooring mast on it's spire in anticipation that airships, and their passengers, would soon be frequent visitors. A trip across the ocean on the great Zeppelin wasn't a cheap ticket, though. Just like the seaplanes that were soon to follow, a passenger would have to fork out the equivalent of about ten thousand dollars in today's money. Most people would have to enjoy looking up at the Graf Zeppelin rather than riding aboard it, and the airline would in fact make most of it's money from transporting air mail. The great ocean liners were still the only realistic way most people had of crossing the oceans.

In 1929 the Graf Zeppelin, in it's second year, had set out on the greatest airship journey yet. With the support of the publishing baron William Randolph Hearst, it departed Lakehurst heading... for Lakehurst. The ship circumnavigated the world over the course of a month from August 7th to August the 29th, heading from Lakehurst, to the Zeppelin home base at Freidrichschafen on Lake Constance, then to Berlin, across the length of Russia and south to Tokyo, then across the Pacific - the first ever non-stop crossing - to San Francisco, and finally over the United States back to New Jersey, a grand total of 20,651 miles in a total elapsed time of 21 days, 5 hours and 31 minutes, the actual flying time was shorter than that. In fact so well had the Zeppelin coped with the journey that the trip would then continue back across the Atlantic a second time to Friedrichshafen. When they came to power the Nazi's saw the adulation that the Graf Zeppelin received wherever it went and realised what a powerful propaganda tool it represented. Although it had been funded by the German public the Nazi's stamped their Swastika on the tail fins and in 1936 Josef Goebbels sent it, and a brand new sister ship, off on a four day tour of Germany to distribute leaflets and broadcast speeches over loadspeakers.

Despite it's many great flights across the world's oceans the Graf Zeppelin had proven more suited for flying to South America than to where the Nazis really wanted it to go - the United States. Flying from east to west the Graf struggled against the prevailing North Atlantic winds and didn't carry enough passengers to really attract the wealthy away from the ocean liners. In 1936, the Zeppelin company provided them with the answer to their problem; the LZ-129. The fire that consumed the hydrogen-filled R101 after it crashed influenced the Zeppelin company to scrap their hydrogen inflated LZ-128 design before it left the drawing board, and start again with a airship that could be inflated with helium. Hopeful that the passage of time from the Great War, and the exploits of the Graf Zeppelin would persuade the cautious Americans to sell them helium freely. The LZ-129 was far larger than the LZ-127; over seven million cubic feet of gas bags, as opposed to three million seven thousand cubic feet. Zeppelin had partnered with the Goodyear rubber company in America to assist building the Navy airships Akron and Macon, and incorporated similar design features in those ships into their new German ship. But where the Americans had wanted to build aircraft hangars into the bottom of their airships the Germans instead built passenger decks. Gone were the cabins crammed into a gondola, the Lz-129 would look like an ocean liner, with two decks for about seventy passengers to occupy - a match for  number that matched the new generation of long-range flying boats that were on the drawing board, except that the airship passenger would have far more space to move about in. Airships seemed to finally be coming of age, the only immediate setback coming when the Americans still refused to sell helium, so the newly named LZ-129 'Hindenburg' would have use hydrogen after all.

Hindenburg took to the skies for the first time on March 4th 1936, at Freidrichshafen. It's name was not yet painted on the nose, but the Nazi swastika adorned the tail; Goebbels had given two million government marks to ensure the airship's swift completion. The Nazi's had also moved Hugo Eckener into the largely symbolic position of company chairman, leaving the day to day operations in the hands of Eckener's deputy, the more controllable, in their eyes, Ernst Lehman. Lehman's tenure in charge did not begin well; under his command the Hindenburg damaged it's tail on a propaganda flight. Shortly afterwards the new airship put in a more successful appearance over the Berlin Olympic games. Lehman's willingness to prioritise Nazi propaganda flights above testing led to more trouble on the first Atlantic journey to the South America when several of the ship's diesel engines failed, and the ship came close to having to be ditched in the Sahara desert on it's return leg. Hindenburg eventually made thirty four Atlantic crossings in 1936. The airship's fantastic journey time to America of two and a half days was a sensation, nearly half the time it took the fastest of the ocean liners to manage the journey. The future looked very bright for the transatlantic German airship, already another ship, the LZ-130, was under construction ready to join the Hindenburg.

In March 1937 the Hindenburg flew to Rio de Janeiro for the first transatlantic journey of the new season. Between them the Hindenburg and Graf Zeppelin were scheduled to fly over thirty long-distance journeys in 1937. On May 3rd the Hindenburg set off for Lakehurst on the first flight of the year to North America. In command was Commander Max Pruss, with thirty six passengers and forty crew, with another twenty one crew members being trained in anticipation of them forming the crew of the LZ-130. Also aboard was the head of the company Ernst Lehmann. Three days later the Hindenburg arrived over the shores of North America, and spent the afternoon of the 6th of March flying down the eastern seaboard past Boston and overlying Manhattan a few hours later. The ship arrived to land at Lakehurst around four PM, but Captain Pruss decided to turn around and wait off the shore for a thunderstorm near the landing site to clear. Around seven PM the Hindenburg approached Lakehurst again, circling around the field to head into the easterly winds. All of the great rigid airships required a delicate balancing act to land safely; ballast water would be dropped, and gas vented from the gasbags to lower the ship slowly. At twenty past seven the ship was floating around three hundred feet from the ground and the landing lines were dropped to the ground crew below. A few minutes later witnesses spotted a small fire glowing at the base the ship's top rear tail fin. Within seconds the flame spread through the rear hydrogen bags and set the entire tail on fire. The tail immediately began to fall, while the nose stayed bouyant and momentarily level. The fire spread forward rapidly as a gigantic ball of flame exploded into the sky. As the ship fell the fire burst through the front of the nose and the ship sank rapidly into the ground, consuming the passenger decks and control gondola in moments.

To watching onlookers it seemed as though nobody could possibly have survived the astonishingly swift and total devastation, but amazingly over half the occupants made it out of the crashing Hindenburg. The origin of the fire in the tail helped survivors chances; the ship had sank close to the ground before the fire reached the passenger decks. Plus the fact that many passengers were standing at the windows watching the landing and could scramble out to safety as the ship crashed down. Many of those who perished were crew stationed deep inside the bowels of the ship with no quick way to exit. Amongst the victims was Ernst Lehman who died in hospital the day after the disaster. The crash spelled the beginning of the end for the era of the airship. The newsreel films of the disaster were shown all over the world, and killed off any further public interest in Zeppelins. No more passenger flights were ever attempted. The Graf Zeppelin was withdrawn from service, the LZ-130, or 'Graf Zeppelin II', never entered it. Within a year of the beginning of the Second World War both had been scrapped, and the Zeppelin company would vanish. The name would be resurrected in 1990s Germany for a company building smaller ships. The USS Los Angeles had been flown intermittently by the US Navy until 1939 but it too was scrapped in 1940. Today the only remaining evidence of the era of giant rigid airships are their former hangars, now fulfilling other uses; the Lakehurst Hangar, the Goodyear Airdock in Akron Ohio, the Zeppelin hangar in Rio de Janeiro, the R100 and R101 hangar at Cardington England, and the Macon hangar at Moffett Field California, later to become the heart NASA's Ames research facility.