Out of a clear blue sky

5 March 2016

On 5 March 1936 the prototype of  a new aeroplane, at the time known only by its registration number K5054, took its first flight from a small aerodrome in Eastleigh, on the outskirts of Southampton. The aerodrome later went on to become Southampton Airport, the plane was the first Spitfire. When Captain Joseph ‘Mutt’ Summers, chief test pilot for Vickers, taxied down the runway and opened the throttle for takeoff he made history. Neither Summers or innovative designer RJ Mitchell knew how important this pretty little plane would become.

Eighty years later a Spitfire was due to fly from Southampton airport again to mark the anniversary. We planned to go down to the shore and watch. As it happened, the weather forecast for Saturday morning was not great and no one was sure if the flight would go ahead.

On Friday morning, when I picked up my phone to go out for a walk the battery was almost dead. I’d plugged it in before breakfast but hadn’t switched the plug on. While I was cursing myself and waiting for it to charge I happened to stumble upon a notice about the Spitfire flight. Due to the unpredictable weather, there would be an extra flight that morning at ten o’clock. I looked at the clock. It was five to ten. The phone still wasn’t charged but I hoped the battery would last long enough. I grabbed it, and dashed through the house, past a bewildered CJ.
“A spitfire is going past any minute now,” I called over my shoulder as I ran through the door. CJ, phone in hand, was right behind me.

We stood at the front of the house peering into the clear blue sky waiting and listening for the distinctive sound of the Rolls Royce Merlin engine. Time passed. The spitfire didn’t. After a while I began to think I’d imagined it. A helicopter flew over. We thought about giving up and going indoors. Neither of us had coats on and it was chilly, even in the sun. We were walking down the drive when I heard it in the distance. There really is no mistaking that sound. We dashed back just in time to see the beautiful plane fly over to the west. We both took photos. In the excitement mine were nothing but blurs but it didn’t matter. We’d seen it and the sound of it sent a shiver down my spine.

Back inside, CJ made a coffee and I looked at the notice again and saw it would be coming back half an hour later. The time stamp on my blurry photos told me it had passed at twenty four minutes past ten. We quickly necked our coffees and ran back outside. If ever I wished I had a fancy pants camera with a telephoto lense it was then. Even CJ’s photos, which had at least captured the moment, were hardly clear. The iPhone camera is good but it can’t cope with a fast moving object at fifteen thousand feet.

The commemorative flight echoed the first, over Southampton down to Portsmouth, passing over the factory in Woolston where the Spitfire had been made. When Mutt Summers landed his only words about the plane were “don’t touch a thing.” It was perfect. Sadly, Mitchell never lived to see how much his plane would mean to the British people or how the people of Southampton would take it to their hearts. He died of cancer in 1937, aged just forty two.

We didn’t have long to wait before the Spitfire came back. This time it flew to our east and I did manage to get a couple of photos. It was flying high so was only a dot in the sky but seeing it at all felt like a privilege. What did people think in 1936 when a noisy plane circled over I wondered? Back then the skies were generally quiet and empty. Did they stare up like us? Were they annoyed at the intrusion into their peaceful lives?

A while later, as I walked towards the Big Bridge to collect a parcel for Commando the clear blue sky began to cloud over. Returning I passed the skeleton ship and the first hailstones began to fall. Within minutes I was in the middle of a fierce hailstorm. By the time I got my hood up there were already icy balls slipping down the back of my neck and running down my back. It was lucky the Spitfire flew when it did.

That evening, a perusal of the Southampton Heritage Page showed others had had a far better view of the Spitfire and had better cameras. There were pictures from the airport, from the shore and, my favourites, from high on the hill in Midanbury, near the Castle. Lee Applin, the photographer, kindly let me borrow them.

This morning we all piled into the car and drove down to Woolston for what we hoped would be the real anniversary flight. It was bitterly cold and the cloud was thick and low but we had our fingers crossed it would go ahead.  The whole shore road was lined with parked cars and the beach was full of people with the kind of fancy pants cameras and long lenses I wished I had. Most were looking at the sky with glum faces. At eleven o’clock it looked for a moment or two as if the sun might come out and the mood seemed to lift.

The sun didn’t last. We walked up and down the shore trying to keep warm and listening for the sound of engines. Time passed. By half past eleven, our faces were frozen and I couldn’t feel my fingers. If it did come I wasn’t sure I could even operate my phone to take a picture. Suddenly people began to leave.
“Do you think they know something we don’t?” Commamdo asked.
“Maybe there’s been something on Facebook or Twitter,” CJ said.
With difficulty I checked on my phone and sure enough there was a Tweet

It was gone half past by this time and it didn’t look good. Then I found something else saying they wouldn’t take off unless the cloud was above 1500ft. It was currently at 1100ft. If conditions didn’t change before two o’clock, they would have to cancel the flight. Shivering we waited. The clouds didn’t seem to be lifting. At quarter to twelve Commando said he was too cold to stay, he was going home, we could stay if we liked. The beach was slowly clearing. Neither of us thought the weather would change or the plane would fly.
“Never mind,” I said as we walked back to the car. “It might get better this afternoon for the  second flight from Biggin Hill. There are supposed to be two spitfires. They’re coming down the Test so we can walk over to Mayflower Park.”

Ironically, as we were driving past Peartree Green there was a tiny hint of blue in the sky and a few weak sunbeams. We got home at about five to twelve, feeling disappointed and sad for the pilots and all the people who’d worked so hard to organise the event. I’d taken my boots and coat off when Commando shouted, “quick, I can hear it!” and we all piled back outside as we were. The Spitfire was far lower than it had been on Friday. It circled us twice and we all stood in the street without coats or shoes in the freezing cold grinning like loons.  This time I managed to take some reasonable photos.

This time we knew there’d be a return journey so we went back in, got our coats and boots on and waited. It wasn’t long before we heard the distinctive engine and again we were treated to a couple more low flying loops over the house. Not long after, the hail came again. It fell so fast and so thick the decking was completely white in seconds.

The hail disappeared as quickly as it had come and by the afternoon the weather had brightened. Commando had gone out for a run. Training for a marathon takes precedence even over Spitfires. At three o’clock CJ and I began to gather our things to start walking to town. We were almost out the door when I spotted Commando’s door keys on the table. He’d gone out without them. When I tried to phone him to find out how far away he was I realised he’d also left his phone behind. He was out in just shorts and a t-shirt. It was freezing. There was no way I could go out and leave him out in the cold. CJ went on his own. He promised to get me some photos. Obviously, I was not a happy bunny.

There were crowds lining the waterside but CJ clambered down onto the shore to get a better view. In the end there was just one Spitfire from Biggin Hill. Apparently the second had technical issues and had to turn back. Even so, the one plane put on an amazing show. I know because CJ videoed it doing barrel rolls over Southampton Water.

I will let his photos speak for themselves.

The first RAF Spitfires flew from Duxford in August 1938 but it was in World War II their real value as one of the most formidable flighter planes came to light. Pilots loved the graceful, fast, manoeuvrable little planes and they were versatile, used for much more than just dogfights. Spitfires were used on the front line by the RAF and Commonwealth Air Forces, the Royal Navy, the USAAF, and ninteen different foreign airforces. Even the Luftwaffe pilots begrudgingly admired them.

RAF pilots continued to fly Spitfires until the mid 1950’s flying around 930,00 wartime sorties and 312,000 after the war. Around 22,749 Spitfires were built, 8,000 in Southampton before the Supermarine factory was bombed. No other British aircraft was built in greater numbers and the Spitfire was the only allied aircraft to remain in continuous service, production and development throughout the war. We have a great deal to thank RJ Mitchell for.

If you would like an idea of how graceful this amazing plane is, or how wonderful it sounds, check out CJ’s videos of it flying over Southampton Water eighty years to the day after that first flight from a little aerodrome on the outskirts of Southamptom.

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I promise you won’t be able to watch without grinning. I know I can’t.

Please see my copyright information before you copy or use any of the above words or pictures. This goes double for CJ’s work! He’s way bigger and scarier than me.