Shorthouse
The Shorthouse* Problem - a feature of Racism*
Recent UK press features a story of a British woman* who lives in South Wales, in a nice place like Swansea* I think, who was accused by local authorities of the crime of Racism* because she reported that it rained a lot in Wales. Was this a mistranslation of a Welsh* meteorologist’s opinion? Isn’t this language-mangling getting rather silly? If we’re talking rain here, have you ever been to S Wales, or Riyadh* for that matter — just for balance?
The word racism has now come to include any form of virtual discrimination that the user wishes to flag up - in order to create empathetic confusion in the weak-minded; to the flagger’s advantage. There’s no logical limit, and traditions of satire*, irony*, wit*, humour* indeed, appear to be going the dystopian way of all learning*, scholarship*, imagination*, and so on. This starring of racist* words is getting silly, so I will give my star key a break.
Who remembers Captain Shorthouse and Lieutenant Partly-Stoned? This was a Morecombe and Wise Royal Flying Corps sketch. ‘Little Ern’ was Shorthouse of course, but was he tiny? Not really: it’s all comparative, and the relativity was a major part of their gags. It’s interactive human nature.
But Racism (in its now very broad compass) confronts us everyday, everywhere, if you are prepared to believe the behaviour of otherwise sensible victims, and inform yourself via popular news media or social networking. Why do the putative victims put up with it? Fear of their own local pathetic do-gooders I suppose.
This is not a new subject by any means. I got some of it in 1958 from the Royal Air Force. As a sixteen year old I went to RAF Hornchurch (famous B of B fighter station) for my flying scholarship selection procedure. Everything went pretty well, I hoped. No problems with the warm and breathing, seeing and hearing stuff. Intelligence test papers rather fun, as were the machine driving challenge. One slightly worrying hiccup the first hot afternoon: ‘Come here, son. Slash test not right. You obviously haven’t drunk anything all day. Go down the washrooms and drink some water, and come back in half an hour.’ It made sense. The tortuous day’s journey including a Piccadilly Line ride to the Elm Park station near the end of the line had not included drinks of any kind. I had the impression that the second test would be a foregone conclusion and indeed it was.
On the second day there was an interview with three imposing officers; Gp Cpt, WIngco, Sqn Ldr? Something like that, with wings and gongs etc., but they were pleasant and sympathetic - sort of fatherly but professionally neutral with no hint of condescension etc.. “Tell us about your school”, started the Groupie. “ Well, it’s an ordinary public school, founded in . . . .” Would this have worked today? A bit elitist to say the least, but true, and this was 62 years ago.
“Sports?” ‘Not really, I’m terrible.’ “Do you have any ambitions?” I thought about this, but could not think of anything. Relying on simple honesty I said, “No, not specially.”
Immediately afterwards I thought these answers must have been disastrous. Without preparation, honesty is the conditioned reflex of the monastic tradition; simpler to do than lying, anyway.
The next day included the final interview before going home. One man this time, more matter of fact than yesterday’s three. They will have asked why I wanted to be a pilot and I will have launched into the WW2 father, 100 bombing missions, lots of gongs, Sgt to Ft.Lt., the air full of Lancs, Spitfires and Mossies routine. Today’s man started with this subject: “You say your father was a pilot in the war, but that doesn’t mean anything - he only did it because of the call-up.” “No he didn’t” I countered, “He joined in the RAFVR in 1939 and was flying the Tiger Moth before the war started.” He did not pursue this line of questioning.
I suspected that this was a different kind of sorting out interview. Maybe yesterday’s report had said ‘Quiet, Serious, Leadership qualities?’
My interviewer continued, “. . it says here that you did music, cathedral and so on: Catholic?” ‘Certainly not’, I said, ‘this was Oxford’s prestigious example of the Church of England’s rational expression of enlightened thinking without the dominance and outdated superstition of Rome,’ “and it says violin; a bit Jewish, are we?” ‘Not that I know of. My mother’s family come from a background of Gloucestershire subsistence farm labourers. Jewish fathers don’t count, but mine came from Cumberland farm labourers or tenant farmers anyway.’
“Alright, you can have the Flying Scholarship, but you’ll have to grow two inches if you want to come back here.” And that was that. Five foot six was the limit, and I was five foot four. On yer (little) bike, Biggles.
‘Altitudinally challenged’ might be today’s expression for this deformity, perhaps disadvantaged? But something less confrontational could now be more acceptable for those given to politically motivated expressions of distress. Did he mean it? I’m certainly aware that military organisations look for more than a one trick pony. An adequate pilot may have much more to offer in the fulness of time, and the potential for senior management and leadership is eagerly anticipated, but I will be the first to mention that humans share the animal world’s initial assessment of their fellows on first acquaintance. It’s instinctive of course, and small either signals immaturity, or something wrong. There are exceptions, but a big imposing example is where to put your money, as a first punt.
Of course we all know that rules may be bent a little for worthy candidates. Determination to succeed is an important officer quality and Tony Haig-Thomas, Author of Fall out Roman Catholics and Jews, is an excellent example.
Determined to be a Royal Air Force pilot he was turned down three times by the selection process because his eyesight was not good enough - by a mile, he infers. After further communications and instruction to stop he chanced to read that a new head of ophthalmics had been appointed, wrote directly to this officer and was invited to meet the Air Vice Marshall (Eyes) who declared a special exception because of his keenness. He was in.
I do not have such determined qualities, but what about Haig-Thomas’ Roman Catholics and Jews? Surely this title alone deserves an x in the discrimination box, but the answer is no. Observing someone else’s discriminatory procedures does not make one today’s Racist, and the title quote refers to the quaintness of Hullavington parade tradition. During this Saturday get-together the official heretics temporarily fell out and sheepishly stood on the parade ground boundary while the Church of England padre stated a short prayer, then they returned to their places. The charm of this book is its sympathy and perception as well as the elegant economy of its language. In-built courtesy and consideration for others does not restrict a personal use of government equipment wherever possible, but this book’s affectionate look at and enthusiasm for what you could get away with in years long gone conceals the generous-minded person inside.
Shorthouse flying problems and advantages
The problems are easy to list: reaching the controls and seeing out. But perhaps we should consider the advantages. The famous multi-talented Winkle Brown (so named because of his smallness) describes an exploratory flight in the DH108 Swallow, following the mysterious death of Geoffrey de Havilland in this type. As Brown approached sonic conditions the Swallow began a violent and rapid vertical oscillation, which stopped as soon as speed was reduced. Had he have been longer-bodied (taller) he has no doubt that his head would have hit the canopy with sufficient force to knock him out. His case rests, and a South African acquaintance, about my age, size and a career bank manager told me that it was suggested he apply for the South African Air Force when he left school and national service beckoned. They needed small pilots to fly the Vampire.
Too tall and long legged raises a number of problems, and painful backs was a frequent colleagues’ complaint about airliner crew seats. There was, for instance, a phase of additional hard and soft lumbar pads. Whether they helped some individuals I’m not sure: I did not use them, and got to thinking about why I could manage with the seats as they were. The answer was simple. If I sat straight and upright in an airliner pilot’s seat the back reached to my shoulders, the seat pan was one inch shorter than my thighs, a spare inch for the backs of the knees: perfect. They were made for me.
Small aircraft were not so convenient or expensively equipped, and the luxury of extra adjustments cannot be justified, but a couple of parachute cushions - one to sit on and one behind - suited me well for the Hamble Chipmunks, and perhaps the previous Tiger Moth licence as well. The worst shorthouse problems occurred with individually designed home-builds, and sometimes their commercially produced derivatives. Full-on aerobatics sometimes demands the use of max available control geometry, and I made my own vertical and horizontal seating aids for Stampe, Zlin and Pitts, the first two designed for strapping military Europeans and the last individually tailored to a manly Curtis Pitts from the south.
The Sukhoi 26 was a very different matter. Russians also come in different shapes and sizes, but this radical aerobatic specialist was created by a company with no light aircraft tradition. Many of the crafted metal parts were of titanium, including the very fancy easily adjustable rudder pedals and brakes, but the 30⁰ reclining moulded and interchangeable seat bucket came in 3 sizes - a simple and lighter way of providing adjustability. I never saw other than the medium one fitted, and it suited me perfectly. During my stints with the Russians the other two options were not mentioned so all the locals must have also been happy.
Small military aircraft seem to have become much bigger with the passage of time. Boz Robinson once showed me round the Gnat front cockpit. I had no feeling that any of it was too big for me: how did the real pilots cope? Later rides sitting on Tucano and Hawk ejector seats seemed satisfactory, with the same previous comments about perfect seat dimensions with electrically powered adjustments. And there’s the much observed ‘isn’t it small’ Concorde cockpit. It suited me well. Colleagues ten inches taller than I had to stoop much earlier as they made their way forward from the front door, or even when proceeding cabinwards: maybe full height could be achieved by the front galley curtain. I could make it all the way to the cockpit doorway while standing upright, but once sat in their pilot’s seat and adjusted up everyone seemed content.
From 60 years distance would I have accepted myself for military flying? To be honest, no - unless times were desperate. The inconveniences already described explain why, and an accident report conclusion along the lines of ‘The pilot was unable to simultaneously apply the required full opposite control deflections under the prevailing negative 5g conditions.’
Today, where inclusivity is not only welcomed but sometimes compulsory, I might decide differently and post myself to the Shorthouse Sharpshooters Squadron and their special little aeroplanes. No racism there. I’ve made this up, but it’s possible, and on the subject of reportage I should add that, in places, I have followed the modern newspaper editor’s instruction: “Make it short, make it snappy, make it up.” This story is based on the truth, with reinforcing embellishments, and, in any case, I don’t think I have the exactly correct temperament for military distinction. Due to the terrors of WW2 my mother was dead against my flying, especially the military kind. I think it was the balls of fire and black columns of smoke adjacent to #16 Operational Training Unit that did it. When I left home to report to the Hamble College of Safe Flying she burst into tears. That bit is true.