When
discussing aviation today, everyone has heard of the ‘black box’, also known
as the flight data recorder. Few however, even those who work in the industry,
recall the first black box, which performed an entirely different function.
This
black box was born out of desperation. It was the summer of 1918 and the war was
going well, with victory in sight. But at one lone aerodrome they were truly
desperate. The cause of this situation was a young Lieutenant, a man with the
right family background to ensure a flying position, but with an ineptness at
handling aircraft which rivalled the abilities of the squadron’s mascot, a
goat named Mr. Punch. His name was Arthur Streeb-Greebling, a confused
individual who, after sampling frog’s legs at a reception hosted by the French
government, had developed an unseemly interest in expanding the culinary
possibilities of anuran amphibians. They took another unusual turn when an
American Doughboy from Georgia gave him a peach.
The
future of aerial reconnaissance began one morning as our unlikely hero taxied
his Sopwith Camel toward the field. The port wing contacted the mess hall,
tearing off the outer few ribs. Procuring another mount, he again set out on his
assigned patrol, swerving to miss the workers clearing up his previous
indiscretion. The resulting contact of his starboard wingtip with the C.O.’s
office took another aircraft out of service. An engine-destroying nose-over
dispatched a third Camel, and with it the immediate flying aspirations of the
young man.
Desperate
to find him some way of securing his place in history, lest his well-connected
family should start asking questions, the C.O. allowed Streeb-Greebling to
indulge an idea which he had presented earlier; an aircraft dedicated to
airborne photography. The three forlorn Camels were placed at his disposal, and
work commenced on joining them together. This, it was thought, would perhaps
mitigate the tricky handling characteristics
of
the aircraft by making it more stable. It would also allow for the carriage of
the unit named the Black Box, which was a wooden structure outfitted as a
self-contained darkroom operated by a single crewman, whose job it was to take
photographs and then process them in the air, dropping them on return as they
passed over headquarters.
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The
obvious name for the new creation was the Bactrian, and as such it was as
ungainly looking as its namesake. The first two Camels were joined at the
damaged portions of their wings, and outer sections were cannibalized from the
third to provide extra lifting surfaces near the tips. The Black Box was then
placed on the lower mainplane. The new aircraft was repainted an unusual green
colour, symbolizing Streeb-Greebling’s penchant for frogs.
The
initial foray was the final undoing of the Lieutenant. Rather than trying to
photograph enemy positions, they cautiously experimented with allied
installations. Hoping to impress the upper echelons they flew over a meeting of
the general staff taking place at a chateau and snapped what were, for the time,
some high-resolution pictures, which were then processed on board and dropped
down for the perusal of the assembled commanders. Early into the meeting one
Brigadier Sir Hartley Smythe-Barrington, an aristocrat with a hitherto
impeccable pedigree, had excused himself on the pretence of conferring with his
Regimental Sergeant Major. Unfortunately the first photo viewed by the group
showed, in the back garden, the bare buttocks of Sir Hartley nestled between the
equally bare legs of a young serving girl.
When
last heard from Streeb-Greebling was looking for land in the Yorkshire moors
with a plan to possibly retire there.
Dave
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