Richthofen’s Last Stand

It is 100 years today since the most famous airman of them all, Rittmeister Freiherr Manfred von Richthofen – or the Red Baron, if you will – was shot down. The debate rolls on over who fired the single bullet which felled him, but it is a measure of the intensity of Richthofen’s war that he should have allowed himself to get caught up in such an improbable melée as that seen over the River Somme on 21 April 1918.

The fear that the Red Baron instilled in his enemies led to his being vilified for building up the single greatest score of the conflict primarily over slow 2-seater reconnaissance and artillery observation machines.

In Britain it was felt that this was somehow unsporting and any sort of a man with decency and fair play in his bones should have stuck to duelling with fighters. Indeed, many pilots in the Royal Flying Corps believed that Richthofen’s insistence on tactical advantage made him a coward.

But it was the 2-seaters which acted as the eyes and ears of the Western Front – photographing enemy emplacements, dropping bombs and directing the fire of artillery – which meant that they were the obvious target to a professional huntsman. In Richthofen’s mind, enemy fighters were simply there to defend the machines that were worth shooting down, rather than being worth shooting at on their own account.

Another myth which gained traction about the Red Baron was that he was not a great airman; not a dogfighter. That really doesn’t hold much water when reading the testimony of his final victim – one of the few men to survive such an encounter.

Second Lieutenant David Lewis was flying his Sopwith Camel in a formation of six when they ran into six Fokker Dr.I triplanes led by an all-scarlet machine. The German leader singled out his English opposite number, Major Richard Raymond-Barker, and dived upon him, setting his Sopwith alight.

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Richthofen’s last mount: Fokker Dr.I serial 425/17

As the Fokkers regrouped from their initial attack, Lewis dived on one, fired without doing any obvious damage and then found that his own aircraft was coming under withering fire. “Then started a merry waltz; round and round, up and down to the staccato of the machine guns of the other fighters,” he recounted. “Only once did I get my sights on his machine, but in a trice the positions were reversed.”

Against a Sopwith Camel, the ‘king of air fighters’ this was no mean feat of airmanship on Richthofen’s part. There can also be no doubt that the onslaught must have been terrifying to the inexperienced 2/Lt Lewis, who recounted:

“His first burst shattered the compass in front of my face, the liquid therefrom fogging my goggles, of which, however, I was relieved when a bullet severed the elastic from the frame, and they went over the side…

“I do not think Richthofen was more than 50 feet away from me all this time, for I could plainly see his begoggled and helmeted face, and his machine guns. Next I heard the sound of flames and the stream of bullets ceased. I turned round to see that my machine was on fire.”

Lewis put his Camel into a vertical dive to try and stop the flames from consuming him. The plan worked but instead blew the fire back towards the Camel’s tail so that when the time came to pull out of his dive its elevators were practically useless.

The stricken Camel was beyond saving but its pilot was thrown clear of the wreckage and survived with only minor injuries. It was one of those miraculous escapes that come every so often when it is simply not one’s day to go.

Sending two Camels down in flames was a good day’s work but the battle only served to show how far from the cool-headed huntsman Richthofen had become. He was brawling on the edge of the abyss; his finely-honed tactics thrown to the wind.

There is no doubt that he should not have been anywhere near the cockpit in the spring of 1918. He had never fully recuperated from being shot in the head the previous summer, was suffering from what we would call combat fatigue in this day and age and he was, by any stretch, physically and mentally exhausted.

It is noticeable that from his return to active duty in early March until his death six weeks later, Richthofen was no longer fixated upon shooting down the valuable reconnaissance and artillery spotting machines. Instead he attacked enemy fighters like the Camels of Lewis and Raymond-Barker, which were of little strategic value.

Perhaps he felt that if he shot down enough of them, he would evade the bullet with his name on. “I am in wretched spirits after every battle,” he wrote. “When I set foot on the ground again at my airfield after a flight, I go to my quarters and do not want to see anyone or hear anything.”

All of the great air aces who were killed during World War 1 died as a result of going to the well once too often. Almost to a man, those who excelled at war in the air died from doing something that they would, in their prime, have reprimanded, grounded or posted a junior officer for attempting.

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Richthofen (right) was just 25 when he died

‘Mick’ Mannock was flying at barely 100 feet when he presented his S.E.5a as the perfect target to enemy machine gun emplacements. Werner Voss was tackling an absurd number of airmen single-handed and refusing to break off from the fight. Jimmy McCudden was showing off. Georges Guynemer dived in to the stream of bullets from a 2-seater.

When one looks at the photos of these men in the days before they died it is noticeable that, although most were only in their mid-twenties, their faces are lined, their eyes pouched and their hands are usually bunched even as they try to look carefree for the camera. They look a good two decades older than their years – and Richthofen was no exception.

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Richthofen (right) with his men

British pilots were generally spared the same level of public acclaim that the French and German propagandists accorded their own ‘aces’. It was felt that the negative effect on public morale when famous pilots were killed in combat was far more profound than the benefits of cheering them on in life.

The propagandists had made a public hero of Albert Ball only to discover that he was in fact mortal – and in the wave of mourning that followed they decided to keep their high-scoring pilots anonymous wherever possible.

Not so the French or Germans, who lionised their most successful ‘aces’. This added a layer of expectation and reciprocal sense of duty that pushed them all onward into the furthest reaches of their endurance.

“One of my superiors advised me to give up flying, saying it will catch up with me one day,” Richthofen wrote.

“But I would become miserable if now, honoured with glory and decorations, I became a pensioner of my dignity in order to preserve my ‘precious’ life for the nation while every poor fellow in the trenches endures his duty as I did mine.”

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Richthofen and his protégé, Kurt Wolff

The day after Second Lieutenant Lewis and Major Raymond-Barker had fallen to Richthofen’s guns, he again led six Fokker triplanes in to battle with a squadron of Sopwith Camels. One was singled out for the same sort of furious attack that Lewis had received but Wilfred ‘Wop’ May proved elusive.

Richthofen’s pursuit took them down to almost ground level with the experienced Arthur Roy Brown’s Camel diving in to May’s rescue and an entire Australian division firing up at the scarlet triplane. One .303 bullet among the thousands aimed at him finally found its mark and the rest is pure conjecture.

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Alfa’s Story: Part 2

In Part 1 of Alfa Romeo’s story, its factory was built in Milan with British money on a road named after a Roman emperor… but named after a Frenchman’s favourite restaurant. It went bust more than once and was taken over during World War 1 by a Neapolitan with a sense of adventure and a large military contract.

After almost 15 years of high drama, Alfa Romeo had set course for glory when its racing team won the 1920 Circuit of Mugello… but there were still plenty of banana skins underfoot. The next setback came in 1921, when the Banco Italiana di Sconto, Alfa Romeo’s main creditor, was wiped out in a cataclysmic plunge for the Italian economy.

Immediately the assets of all debtor companies were seized by the central Banca Nazionale di Credito – including those of Alfa Romeo. Amid this great political and financial storm, Benito Mussolini emerged from the chaos and marched on Rome demanding power for the Fascists. Rome was powerless to refuse and among the many assets to fall into il Duce’s lap were the Banca Nazionale di Credito and, as a result, Alfa Romeo.

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Mussolini assumed authority in Rome and nationalised the motor industry

When the dust had settled, Alfa Romeo’s chairman Nicola Romeo and his right-hand man Giorgio Rimini decided that Alfa Romeo needed modernising. This was a great buzzword in Fascist circles but it was also true in the sense that chief designer Giuseppe Merosi’s products were close to becoming antiques.

The most forward-looking automotive engineer in Italy at that time was Vittorio Jano, who had brought grand prix racing success to Fiat. Giorgio Rimini dispatched Enzo Ferrari to Turin as emissary to open negotiations with Jano about joining Alfa Romeo.

Ferrari went first to Jano’s wife to sound her out about a possible move to Milan. Having got the lie of the land, and presumably convinced Signora Jano of the attractions in Milan, Ferrari then approached the great designer himself. Jano said that he might consider moving from Fiat but would need to talk ‘to the organ grinder and not the monkey’.

This would not have been an easy pill for Enzo Ferrari to swallow, but he duly made his report. Alfa Romeo’s finance director then followed up with an offer to double whatever Jano was being paid by Fiat… and the deal was swiftly concluded.

The highest priority was given to creating a world-class motor racing programme. Giuseppe Merosi had produced a new, sleek racing car called the P1 but its engine was prehistoric. Into this car Jano slotted a variation on the engine designs that he had created at Fiat: a supercharged twin-cam straight-eight of just under 2 litres in capacity that boasted 140 horsepower and could reach 9,000 rpm.

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Vittorio Jano’s engine  created the dominant Alfa Romeo P2

Thus was created the Alfa Romeo P2. In 1924 it won the Circuit of Cremona in the hands of Antonio Ascari, then Giuseppe Campari won the Grand Prix de l’ACF on the historic Lyon road circuit. The year ended with victory at home in Milan’s royal park at Monza for the Gran Premio d’Italia, taken by Ascari, to prove that the P2 was absolutely the class of the field.

Its rise was timely because the sport’s governing body, the AIACR, declared that there would be a world championship title for Grand Prix cars in 1925.

The four points-scoring races were the Indianapolis 500, which was won by Duesenberg, the Belgian Grand Prix at Spa-Francorchamps, the Grand Prix de l’ACF at Montlhéry and the Italian Grand Prix at Monza.

The Belgian Grand Prix at Spa saw three Alfa P2s line up against a quartet of Delages. Two of the Delages were out before the end of the third lap and the other two weren’t all that far behind them. One of the Alfas went down with broken suspension, which left two surviving P2s circulating contentedly.

Quite how much truth there is to the story of Vittorio Jano having a table laid in the pit lane and inviting his drivers to dine with him when they stopped is largely a matter of conjecture. Something must have gone on, although doubtless the story has spent many years getting better with each telling.

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Antonio Ascari and riding mechanic Giulio Ramponi celebrate their win at Spa – the last time that riding mechanics would be seen

Antonio Ascari won in Belgium and was the form man when the circus arrived at the new purpose-built circuit at Montlhéry in France for the Grand Prix de l’ACF.  The venue was intended to maximise crowd safety both within the bowl of the autodrome and on the closed public roads of the rest of the circuit. Pale fencing made of chestnut wood was erected around the course to hold back the more enthusiastic spectators but Ascari was one of several drivers who feared that the fencing could potentially cause a disaster.

Sure enough, as rain started to fall on race day, Ascari ran wide on the flat-out kink halfway down the return straight and his wheel snagged the pale fence. He fought for a few seconds to control the lurid slide before the car tipped, throwing him out and then rolling over his prone body. Alfa’s fastest driver died in the ambulance on his way to hospital.

If there was one positive to be drawn, it was that this was the first Grand Prix to be run without the need for riding mechanics – sparing the life of Ascari’s mechanic, Giulio Ramponi. As it was, the surviving Alfas of Gastone Brilli-Peri and Giuseppe Campari were withdrawn and Delage won the race unopposed – Robert Benoist and Albert Divo sharing the winning car.

A promising young motorcycle racer, Tazio Nuvolari, was brought to Monza for the deciding race to fill in for Ascari, but he crashed in practice and ended up in hospital with broken ribs so American-Sicilian driver Pete de Paolo took the third car instead. In the end Gastone Brilli-Peri claimed victory with Campari finishing second and de Paolo fifth. It was more than enough for Alfa Romeo to claim the first ever World Championship title for Grand Prix racing.

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Vittorio Jano and Tazio Nuvolari would come to define Alfa’s fortunes in the 1930s

The scarlet cars had brought glory to Italy against the best that France and Britain had to offer. This success meant that there were many who wanted to claim a little of that caché for their own ends… as we will see in Part 3.

MH434 in full flight

Believe it or not, it’s 30 years this year since Piece of Cake was televised. It brought us a host of talented young actors who went on to become household names like Neil Dudgeon (Midsomer Murders), Nathaniel Parker (Inspector Lynley), and Jeremy Northam (The Crown).

It was also arguably the finest moment of Spitfire Mk.IX MH434’s long career. She’s pictured above during a display that the S&G savoured at Old Warden in 2016. But better than that, better than her low pass down the main straight at Goodwood or her celebrated buzzing of Alain de Cadanet she went under the largest single-span bridge in Britain.

It’s quite a big bridge but in a Spitfire it’s threading the needle. And then some.

Because before CGI there was Ray Hanna.

Alfa’s Story – Part 1

The return of Alfa Romeo to grand prix racing seems to have passed almost unnoticed in the hubbub around this weekend’s Australian Grand Prix and the start of the 2018 Formula 1 season. Perhaps it is because everyone knows that it’s ultimately just a Ferrari engine deal but the cloverleaf and the prancing horse have happily shared the paddock for nearly 90 years.

Alfa Romeo is a hallowed name in motoring. From the blood red Grand Prix cars driven by Tazio Nuvolari and Achille Varzi through to the most beautiful car ever built and on to the achingly cool hatchbacks of recent years, like TV detective Aurelio Zen’s black 147, the artisans of Italy’s oldest performance car maker have forged and beaten metal into the stuff of dreams. Yet the company was something of an accidental hero that was inadvertently founded by a Frenchman and overcame some towering obstacles before crossing the threshold into motoring myth.

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When the BBC wanted a cool new detective they gave him an Alfa.

Alexandre Darracq entered the booming French car making industry during the 1890s and, like so many others, chose motor racing to advertise his wares. It took him almost a decade to crack race engineering, but in the dying days of the city-to-city events on the public highway, Darracq’s ‘light cars’ became a force to be reckoned with.

Employing the celebrated French cyclist Henri Farman to drive his ‘light cars’, Darracq presided over victory in the voiturette class of the 1901 Pau-Peyrehorade and Nice-Salon-Nice races. This brought considerable interest from a London investor, who also introduced Farman to what would be a long and fruitful relationship with British industry. Farman soon left mother earth to become a celebrated aviator, while Darracq and his backers went in another direction.

They soon realised that slaving away to produce small numbers of bespoke cars and motor cycles would never be as profitable as volume production. Thus Darracq’s light cars grew even lighter as he made them cheaper and their performance became even more polished. It’s worth noting that the 1904 12hp Darracq that was immortalised in the movie Genevieve was the Golf GTI of its day.

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Movie icon ‘Genevieve’ was one of Darracq’s sporty voiturettes

At a shareholders’ meeting in London during 1906, the decision was made to commit to building a new and bigger factory to increase production still further. It was decided that northern Italy was cheap enough, well connected to the rest of Europe and with a well-educated workforce.

Darracq himself chose the location beside Via M.U. Traiano near Milan. The road was named after the Roman emperor Trajan but the factory was rather less grandly named after a nearby trattoria that Darracq had taken a shine to: he called it Portello.

It was unfortunate, then, that in 1907 the bottom fell out of the European car market amid a series of economic tsunamis just the last of Portello’s brick work was being finished off. Darracq decided to cut costs even further and skimped on parts but this only served to make the Italian-built cars fiendishly unreliable. Customers took their trade elsewhere

Darracq very publicly fired the British factory manager at Portello and brought in some local talent to help restore the factory’s reputation. The new man was called Ugo Stella and his solution was a drastic rebranding exercise. He took on a loan of half a million lire from the Banca Agricola Milanese and offered to buy the factory, renaming the company as Anonima Lombarda Fabbrica Automobili – or ALFA for short.

Not much was changed in the company structure, however. The British investors were still part of the package and Alexandre Darracq was listed as a director of ALFA. The cars that they began to produce were also to Darracq’s designs… at least until the appointment of new chief designer Giuseppe Merosi in 1909.

The first of Merosi’s cars was the ALFA 12/15, a large but rather sporty model, which debuted in 1910. Throughout 1911 interest in the new car picked up, particularly among enthusiastic drivers and amateur racers. This led the ALFA factory itself to try a few forays into the racing world, which grew all the more serious when Merosi’s new 40/60 model appeared. This car would provide the basis of a full-house Grand Prix challenger in 1914, although it would not compete in anger.

Another designer had also joined ALFA to work alongside Merosi on engine development. This was Antonio Santoni, who wanted to enter the burgeoning aviation market by building the first aeroplane to fly across the Alps. His engine was revolutionary because it featured a supercharger that he himself had patented – one of the first forced induction units ever recorded. Sadly, Santoni was beaten across the Alps by one of Louis Blériot’s monoplanes.

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Giuseppe Merosi’s ALFA 40/60 competed before and after WW1. Here, Merosi sits at the wheel of the 1914 GP car.

Then came World War 1 and Italy was forced into battle alongside the British and the French. With nobody buying cars and without any military contracts to sustain its workforce, ALFA went bust very quickly. The Banco Italiana di Sconto, which had become ALFA’s main source of funding, sent in an administrator to take over the failing factory: his name was Nicola Romeo.

Romeo had come from a relatively humble background in Naples, trained in engineering and had set about making himself a fortune. He had begun to realise his ambitions of wealth by importing cheap American farming equipment in kit form, knocking it together and selling it on at a profit.

Romeo networked and made alliances with banks and officials. And he made a lot of money. When Romeo arrived in Portello, he did so with a contract for the provision of 10,000 artillery shells per day and set about rehabilitating ALFA under a new guise: Alfa Romeo.

This was a process that Romeo forced through despite some misgivings from within Portello. The north/south divide in Italy is sharply drawn and there was a considerable clash of cultures between the mannered metropolitans of Milan and the swashbuckling brigand from Naples. Giuseppe Merosi and a number of other senior ALFA men flat-out refused to work with Romeo, but were eventually convinced to remain at their posts. The company survived the war from within Romeo’s engineering empire.

In 1918 the guns fell silent but Italy was in chaos and there was a surge of popular support among factory workers for a Russian-style revolution. To counter this worrying threat, and funded by allied powers such as Britain, the Fascists under Benito Mussolini would take brutal action to quell any Communist activity.

It was a protection racket on an industrial scale, and in hindsight Italian industry was often at the mercy of both parties. Alfa Romeo’s factory in Portello was brought to a standstill by an uprising… which Mussolini’s men quickly countered.

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Big fires and big sticks were part and parcel of Italian industrial relations in the 1920s

The factory went back to building Giuseppe Merosi’s cars and to promote them it returned to competition. The war had inspired a good number of young men towards adventure and risk taking of the kind that motor racing could offer them, and a nucleus of drivers was built up in 1919-20 including the aspiring opera singer Giuseppe Campari, engineers Antonio Ascari and Ugo Sivocci plus a precocious 22 year-old called Enzo Ferrari.

Together they and their cars were managed under the Alfa Corse banner by Giorgio Rimini – an imposing (many would say terrifying) Neapolitan who had long sat at Romeo’s right hand. In 1920, Giuseppe Campari scored the first victory for Alfa Corse when he took the chequered flag at the Circuit of Mugello, driving one of Merosi’s pre-war 40/60 models. It would lead towards a succession of ever-more important race wins and ever-greater honours for the team.

Of which there will be more in Part 2…

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Nicola Romeo (centre) visits the Alfa Corse pit garage, to the delight of Enzo Ferrari (right)

Dunkirk and the fog of war

If there is one question that has been aimed at the S&G’s hearth more than any other in the past few months, it is whether or not Christopher Nolan’s Dunkirk is a lot of Tommy-rot. There are two ways to answer this – either ‘yes it is and it’s a damned disgrace’ or ‘yes it is and it’s a fine old film’.

Let’s stick with the latter interpretation – with apologies to Daily Mail readers in the congregation.

It’s a fine old film because it hits its marks like ducks in a barrel. It draws tears of elation. It draws squirms of mortal terror. It inspires both woe and breathless admiration. Moreover, it deploys Elgar’s Nimrod with the sort of quiet gravitas that has long-since escaped our national culture. It reeks of the right sort of Britishness.

But in a historical sense it’s a bit of shambles, yes.

The first and most glaring omission is tobacco. Not one pipe or cigarette is seen in the course of 106 minutes. According to a dear old mucker who works in the business they call show, it is now a policy at Fox to completely exclude such evils from all and any of its products, lest the studio be exposed to law suits for encouraging people to take up the cancerous weed.

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Dunkirk survivors in 1940

Yes, you read that right.

Looking at images of the real events (above), one could be forgiven for thinking that the only excuse open to the Luftwaffe for not wiping out the British Expeditionary Force was the impenetrable fog of Capstan Full Strength that hung above them. Whether it was the soldiers on the beaches, the captains of little ships, the shipwrecked soldiers hooked out of the oggin or even the wounded on their stretchers – everyone was drawing comfort from the muzzy tang of tobacco to settle their nerves and steel their resolve.

So while cinematic sinews were stretched to get the costumes and equipment right, they might as well have dressed everyone in onesies and given them Kalashnikovs thanks to that omission.

Then there’s the question of Spitfires – or more accurately the gliding Spitfire, which is the area in which most S&G regulars have shown most interest.

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Spitfires at 500 feet… give or take

Its progress isn’t easy to follow – and not helped unduly by the fact that the Spitfire scenes are chopped up and replayed from the vantage point of each different narrative within the film. By the end, the gliding Spit seems to zoom silently from one side of the screen to the other like the ball in a rally between Murray and Nadal. But here’s the gist:

Having buzzed around over the Channel at a claimed 500-1,000 feet (albeit with lovely aerobatic shots stitched in from several thousand feet higher), one Spitfire runs out of fuel. It glides the full length of the beach, then turns and glides back even faster than before to make an interception. It then appears to turn again before taking a long and lingering descent to the shore.

Right there you have an answer. A ton of Rolls-Royce Merlin is very hard to keep aloft for its own sake – and all the more so when the weight of fuel and ammunition is no longer there to help trim the aeroplane out.

Let’s not forget, also, that the Spitfire’s beautiful wing was never the most stable gun platform. One pilot memorably described it as ‘shaking like a wet dog’ when the eight Brownings were fired. Which is really not the behaviour that one needs from an aeroplane when gliding at 400mph at rooftop height. And after gliding around for half an hour or so with no fuel, what exactly is it that causes the aeroplane to burn so fiercely on the ground?

Oh, that’s right: a smouldering look from Tom Hardy. It certainly did the trick for most of the ladies in the audience, but it’s Hollywood hokum of a sort to make Errol Flynn proud.

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Spitfire pilots have a smoke and ponder their optimum glide ratio

But at least the Spitfires are there. And they did run out of fuel. And many of their pilots did drown while trying to escape their cockpits. And, yes, many irate soldiers and sailors did claim that the RAF had hung them out to dry.

In fact Dunkirk was disastrous for many Fighter Command units – not least the Spitfires of 610 Squadron, where losses among the bright young boys of Cheshire were proportionally as great as those of a Pal’s battalion on the Somme. Not many engagements were at 500-1000 feet, though. Certainly not for an entire patrol. Their job was to get up high, get behind the bombers, shoot them down before they reached the beach and scoot off home to refuel and rearm before doing it all again… three or four sorties per day.

While we’re at it, let’s address the thorny issue of the Indian soldiers serving in France in 1940. In total there were three companies of the Royal Indian Service Corps in France, who were employed in domestic roles far behind the lines. It has caused outrage in some quarters that the stories of the drivers, batmen, cooks and runners do not dominate Dunkirk as a movie. Yet the only story to be told of their war is that of their ethnicity – which is indicative of the sort of tokenism with which historical study has been besieged. It is insanity.

All that aside, and despite the lack of destruction apparently suffered by the streets of Dunkirk (it was a flaming, broken and bombed-out mess), all the women on ships large and small (they weren’t), and the soldier emotively reading out Churchill’s ‘we will fight them on the beaches’ speech from the paper (a day before he had even delivered it!), Dunkirk is a really good movie.

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Brilliant acting, ahoy!

Separate what is essential from what is not – or in other words: if Kenneth Branagh, Mark Rylance or Cillian Murphy are in shot, pin your ears back and savour the moment. Don’t forget to whoop and cheer for Sir Michael Caine’s cameo. And be bloody impressed not only by the inspired move by Harry Styles’ handlers to place their teen warbler amid this chaos, but by as strong an acting debut as can be remembered… from within an entirely credible and brutally-told sub-plot. Apparently this boy’s got it all.

And don’t forget Nimrod. Ever.

Henry Hope-Frost

Known to many as ‘Fever’ and known to millions as the ever-enthusiastic voice of Goodwood – and practically every other gathering of treasured motor cars and motorcycles – Henry Hope-Frost has died. The S&G offers its most heartfelt condolences to HHF’s young family and his many friends in our industry and beyond.

The world is a greyer place today.

In the 1990s, a generation of motor sport journalists, photographers, PR people and broadcasters all arrived together in a lump. I would say fully-formed but that’s probably stretching the truth somewhat. We were schooled together by the likes of Andrew Marriott, Jonathan Gill, Tim Collings, Steve Madincea, John Colley and Peter Foubister – all of whom saw something of value in us.

And our good fortune was most often narrated by Henry who, long before he was employed to broadcast further than the end of the bar, was telegraphing exuberantly. Nothing was ever simply ‘good’. Or ‘enjoyable’. Or ‘skilful’. One didn’t ‘look forward’ to something, or ‘look back upon’ anything. It was all simply ‘fever’.

Our paths first crossed on the British Rally Championship, which was not the first environment in which you’d naturally place the towering, public school ebullience of HHF. The S&G was there as Škoda’s media person; telling the giant-killing stories of our little 1600cc Felicia and encouraging the press to be enthusiastic about seeing it in the sublimely skilled hands of former World Rally champion, Stig Blomqvist. This was grist to Henry’s mill and no mistake – or as he put it: ‘massive fever’.

Probably the defining image of HHF at that time was at the press gathering in Douglas before the highly-charged 1997 British Rally Championship finale on the Isle of Man. As ever, a good crowd of Manx folk had come to see the cars lined up, gather autographs and get ready for the coming event. Henry was booming over the public address, utterly enraptured by the spectacle to come and the knowledgable crowd.

One of the men in the frame for the title was Volkswagen’s Alister McRae, who was in monosyllabic form as he considered the challenge ahead. Henry went at him with both barrels, eager to elicit some ‘fever’ for his audience while the rest of us in the travelling media pack tittered and laid odds on whether Alister was about to throw him in Douglas harbour.

In the end, HHF wore down the granite-hewn McRae gruffness. Job done. Although later on Alister was spotted gurning and moving his fist up and down in a well-known gesture behind Henry’s back while he grilled the eventual champion, Mark Higgins. If he’d noticed, Henry would doubtless have taken that as a considerable feather in his cap!

From that day to yesterday the patented, unyielding enthusiasm of HHF was simply part of the furniture. After writing for Motorsportretro.com together in its early days and helping out Foub at the RAC, there were too few opportunities to catch up – a cheery hello and quick word when being dragged round the Guildford shops by our respective offspring, or at the too-few events where we were both in attendance. I saw him last at Race Retro a week or so back, nattering with Jonny Gill and Paddy Hopkirk.

‘I won’t interrupt now, I’ll catch them later,’ thought I. Sadly it was not to be. We were ploughing the same furrows for much of the time; self here at the S&G and with Henry presiding over Goodwood’s prodigious online output. Different ways of approaching a deeply-held passion. We shall all be the poorer without him.

London’s Classic Car Show

It’s that time of year again. London’s Excel is throbbing to the sound of delightful engines and shimmering in the glow of highly polished coachwork. For the next three days, there will be many things to enjoy, from Phillip Glenister and a lot of TV cops’n’robbers cars to virtually every breed of racing Porsche.

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The London Classic Car Show and Historic Motorsport International are together in one gigantic hall. Up and down the middle is the Grand Avenue, where a vast array of cars from the 1920s to the 1990s will be running.

Star of the show will be Nigel Mansell, who will be on hand regularly throughout the public days. As well as the man himself, there’s also a goodly collection of his cars, such as the Lotus-Renault 95T that he pushed over the line at the 1984 US Grand Prix in Dallas and his mighty title-winning Williams-Renault FW14B from 1992.

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There are still plenty of tickets available to book online, which costs less than paying at the gate. In fact you can book online using your phone whilst you’re in the Excel and save yourself a few quid. The wonders of the Internet!

As part of the Historic Motorsport International experience there are a series of feisty forums in which those who build, race and occasionally attempt to manage the process of historic racing. So to find out what makes them tick, who’s got a GT40 with FRIC and why traction control on a Lotus Cortina is a very bad thing, then this is the place to be.

Here are some of the shiny things that caught the S&G’s eye while wandering. Do go along and enjoy the show.

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