The icing on the cake was that back then the leadership of the BBC was in turmoil, which prevailed during most of my time there. The former chairman of the Board of Governors had died in office. His deputy, Sir Robert Lusty, presumed the succession to be his. But Labor prime minister Harold Wilson had other ideas. He wanted an even tamer national broadcaster.
Rather than confirming Sir Robert, Wilson transferred his friend and admirer Sir Charles Hill, almost immediately to become Lord Hill, across from the top of BBC’s fierce rival Independent TV to chair the BBC board. There was chaos.
Sir Robert Lusty resigned. Several lifelong veterans went with him. The powerful post of director general was held by a former giant of journalism, Sir Hugh Carleton Greene, brother of novelist Graham Greene, who had set up North German Radio after 1945 to teach the old principles of rigor, integrity, and impartiality. He was the last journalist to head the BBC, and thus to protect the News and Current Affairs Division.
The best German news organization for years was the one he left behind him, but twenty years later in London, he was being sabotaged, and eventually he, too, quit in disgust.
As with any ship, when there is chaos on the bridge, vices were adopted belowdecks. Talentless little empire builders proliferated, using all the Machiavellian tricks of office politics instead of a dedication to the business of news. But at the time this was far above my pay grade and seemed of small interest. Only later did I learn about office politics, just as they effectively destroyed me.
Newcomers began by learning the techniques and technology of tape-recorded radio interviews, working out of Broadcasting House under the aegis of the Head of Home Correspondents and Reporters, one Tom Maltby, a good and honorable man.
Then I secured a transfer to TV news, based way up in north London at Alexandra Palace, whence BBC TV News was beamed to the country. This involved learning about reporting directly into a lens, working with cameramen and sound recordists, and being part of a three-man team.
I recall Alexandra Palace, or Ally Pally, with affection. Being away from the hornets’ nest, it was informal and clubby, consorting with veteran newsreaders like Robert Dougall and just-arrived young women like Angela Rippon. But I still wanted to go back to foreign reporting and to resume being a foreign correspondent. There were still masses more world I wanted to see.
Still, that summer of 1966, out of Ally Pally, I did cover one good story.
A head came round the door and asked, “Anyone here ever flown in jets?”
“Yes.”
“Do you get airsick?”
“No.”
“Only we have an invitation to fly with the Red Arrows.”
These were and remain the spectacular aerobatic display team of the Royal Air Force, centerpiece of just about every air display, with visits right across Europe and the United States.
“Are you interested?”
Is the chief rabbi Jewish? I was out of the door like a greased ferret.
A DAY WITH THE ARROWS
My assigned cameraman was the really marvelous Peter Beggin, a veteran who had been all over the world with his camera around his neck. We drove in two cars to the West Country and found the base of the Red Arrows display team.
Back then, they were flying the Folland Gnat, a converted trainer with two seats, fore and aft, originally for instructor and pupil. We introduced ourselves and were taken out to survey the Gnat. It was very small and very narrow and, of course, bright red. Near the tails were the canisters that, for the final “bomb-burst” display, would stream long plumes of red, white, and blue smoke.
The tight confines of the cockpit did not worry me, but they were a real squeeze for Peter. He was built like a truck, with immense physical strength, which he was going to need.
His handheld camera was a heavy and bulky Arriflex weighing, I suppose, about ten pounds. Beneath it was a spike, and this would slot into a socket embedded in a canvas harness to be worn around the neck and shoulders. With this in place, he could squint through the lens to film the sky, the horizon, the landscape below, and the rest of the squadron flying in tight formation around him.
The problem was the G-forces we would encounter. Pulling 6 G, that camera would weigh in at sixty pounds, all dragging downward on Peter’s shoulders.
We spent the morning in extensive briefings in the crew room, being taught everything that would happen and a variety of emergency procedures if it all went wrong. But if either of us brought up, well, that would just be our problem. No stopping for wax-paper bags. We smiled bravely.
It is perhaps a tribute to the informality of those days that no proof at all was needed that we were fit to fly. No medical, no check for a heart murmur. Our role was clearly
to be strapped in, then to sit tight and shut up. The radios were strictly for those terse instructions from team leader to the rest tucked into his wingtips.
Finally we were led out, and we slid into the seats. Peter was third down, starboard side, so he could see the rest of the team in formation round him. I was to fly with the leader.
It took time to get Peter settled in. Two sweating flight sergeants stood on either side of his cockpit, pushing and shoving as he went deeper and deeper. Then the harness. Then the Arriflex into its socket. When the Perspex canopies came down, there seemed to be nothing inside his but him and his camera. We taxied out to takeoff.
The instructions from the leader, coming through my headphones, were very terse: one syllable, two if he felt talkative. All the maneuvers were simply code words and everyone knew exactly what they meant.
There were nine in the team, taking off as a five and a four, then uniting into an arrow formation once airborne. Thus we climbed to about 10,000 feet. The sky was a cloudless blue, the fields of Gloucestershire a patchwork of green. It seemed quite sedate on the way up. When he was ready, the leader muttered, “Close up.” A wingtip appeared a few feet from my left and right eyebrow. I had done formation flying, but this was very close indeed. For twenty minutes, the two wingtips would not move an inch. Across a few feet of racing air, the other two Gnats were as if bolted on. The rest were out behind them.