This edited article about the gramophone originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 704 published on 12 July 1975.

A child in the ‘Sixties playig  LPs on a stereo record player

“Is it a British or a German submarine? We must be able to hear the difference!”

This was the awesome task set by R.A.F. Coastal Command when they approached the Decca gramophone company during World War II. It was a secret assignment and called for a record to be produced which could be used as a training aid to familiarise airmen with the subtle differences made by the sounds of the enemy and our own submarines.

Difficult as the problem was, Decca came up with the answer – a record with such a wide range of sensitive sound that it was completely satisfactory.

Intensive research had produced an exciting new recording technique, stretching the gramophone’s capabilities to a greater extent than ever before. Adapted later for musical reproduction after the war’s end, the process became known as “ffrr” (full frequency range recording,) and Decca took it as their trademark.

It was not long after the war, that another kind of battle began, this time between the rival recording companies.

In 1948, Columbia Records of America held a Press Conference in New York to launch a revolutionary idea, invented by Dr. Peter Goldmark, called the LP (Long Playing) record. Their new 12-inch disc turned out to be made of non-breakable vinyl plastic, played at 33 and a third r.p.m. on microgrooves and lasted 23 minutes per side. It had about 250 grooves to the inch instead of about 80 in the 78 r.p.m. record.

Read the rest of this article »

This edited article about Alfried Krupp originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 699 published on 7 June 1975.

To British Tommies in the Great War the very name Krupp sounded like a shrapnel burst. Picture by Frank Bellamy

The flares from the RAF Mosquito pathfinders lit up the chimneys above the huddled factory roofs. German anti-aircraft shells flashed in a dark sky criss-crossed by the white, weaving ribbons of searchlights. The roar of the approaching Lancaster bombers grew louder. Then the ground trembled as bombs blasted the huge arms plant.

In the garden of his 300-roomed mansion, Villa Hugel, on the outskirts of Essen, Alfried Krupp and his guests watched the raid. At its height, amid the roar of high explosive, he led them through a maze of corridors to his underground bunker.

In the morning, the dead and wounded in the shattered Krupps complex were counted. Most of them were inmates from concentration camps and prisoners of war forced to work for the Nazi arms machine. Krupp had no difficulty in obtaining labour: he replaced the casualties many times to maintain record weapons production despite the British night raids over the Ruhr. For Krupp dispersed his plants throughout Germany and so avoided crippling damage.

Retribution for Alfried Krupp, as for many Nazi leaders, came in 1945. On April 10, Alfried sat down to a game of skat, a German form of bridge, in which one player pits his skill against two others. Allied artillery barked around Villa Hugel yet Krupp ignored the noise and won a small fortune from his guests. The next morning, he was arrested by American troops, but not before he had kept them waiting. He refused to appear until he was impeccably dressed as befitted a Krupps senior executive.

It was two years before he and other directors were brought to trial before a United States military tribunal in Nuremberg, charged with plundering Nazi occupied lands and using 100,000 prisoners as slave labour.

On July 28, 1948, Alfried Krupp was sentenced to 12 years imprisonment and forfeiture of his entire property. But he spent only three years in jail and even there, with his imprisoned directors, he held weekly board meetings to study reports on world trade and, in particular, steel production.

The US High Commissioner in Germany, John McCloy, announced on July 31, 1951, that Alfried Krupp’s sentence had been revised, following a review of the evidence and a reappraisal of personal guilt. He was freed and the confiscation order revoked, signalling once again the rise of the Krupps empire.

The British had always thought of the Krupps family as the sinister armourers of the Kaiser in the First World War and Hitler’s merchants of death in the second one. On the other hand, the Germans had always regarded them with respect and esteem as the founders of social security in the early 1800s, when they created a comprehensive welfare scheme with pensions for the factory workers. It was a family with a proud history dating back to the 16th century, the mainspring of German industrial and social development, creating armaments down the centuries along with other heavy industrial goods that gave them untold millions.

But it was not until the 1800s, that Krupps began to dominate the German industrial and political stage.

When Friedrich Krupp died on October 8, 1826, he left his 14-year-old son, Alfred, the secret of making high quality cast steel with a small workshop in which production was almost at a standstill.

Despite his youth, Alfred accepted the challenge. He took complete charge of the firm. It prospered under his guidance with production expanding after four years to include the manufacture of steel rolls.

Alfred designed and developed new machines, invented a system for making spoons and forks and devised plant for turning out currency. At the first world exhibition in London in 1851, he put on show the largest steel ingot ever cast, weighing 4,300 lb.

With the appearance of railways, Krupp really expanded, turning out rolling stock, establishing collieries, ore mines, blast furnaces and even setting up a laboratory for testing steel. In fact, just to prove how good it was, he decided, like his relatives before him, to turn to making guns.

At first, no one in Europe was interested in his weapons. It was not until 1856 that the first orders came from Egypt. Belgium bought Krupp cannon in 1861 and Russian orders arrived two years later.

When Krupp guns thundered in the Franco-German war of 1870-71, the firm was nicknamed: “The Arsenal of the Reich.” Yet the output of peaceful goods always outpaced the production of armaments in those early days. And all the time, Alfred Krupp kept a benevolent eye on his workers, building houses, hospitals, schools and churches for them. When his father died, there were a mere seven workers in the small Krupp workshop. When Alfred died in Essen on July 14, 1887 he had 21,000 employees.

Under the direction of his son, Friedrich, the firm continued to expand. By the time he died in November, 1902, the staff had doubled. Then the pattern of control began to change. For Friedrich left two daughters, the eldest of whom, Bertha, became the sole heiress.

In 1906, she married Gustav von Bohlen und Halbach, a diplomat, who was subsequently authorised by Kaiser William II to change his name to Krupp, the right to be carried on by his heirs.

To British Tommies in the World War One trenches, the very name of Krupp sounded like a shrapnel burst. By then, Krupp had 151,000 workers turning out fantastic amounts of arms, including the huge guns that bombarded Paris from 75 miles away in 1918. They were named “Big Bertha” after Gustav’s wife.

In the aftermath of war, Krupp manufactured more rolling stock, locomotives, lorries and, of course, weapons. In politics, Gustav was always wily and ready to support the ruling power. He backed Hindenburg against Hitler and changed promptly to throw his weight behind the Nazi leader when he took control. Gustav was believed to have served on various Nazi organisations; he certainly received titles and awards, including the gold party badge.

But as the last war wore on, the tall aristocratic figure with the spade beard and moustache ailed and his son, Alfried, assumed increasing control of the firm.

Gustav was, in fact too senile to be prosecuted with war crimes after the Allied victory, although charges were considered. He died while his son was in prison.

When the Krupp factories were ultimately returned to Alfried, he was ordered by the Allies to sell off his iron and steel properties. But the order was never carried out. Alfried Krupp always pleaded failure to find a buyer and after the order had been extended repeatedly, it was finally lifted altogether.

Alfried Krupp, who died in 1967 when the firm had a turnover of £475 million, created from the ashes of war a new future for the Krupp empire. In 1973, it made a net profit of £16 million, boasted a total sales bill of £1,612 million and a work force of 70,000.

There are more than 150 factories and mines producing 12 per cent of the Ruhr steel and making every kind of machine from ships to diesel engines. And there are the weapons and the roses and orchids, too.

The weapons are made for NATO. And the flowers? The roses and orchids come from the lush grounds of Villa Hugel in their hundreds of thousands. Even the most beautiful and delicate of blooms make money for the Krupps.

This edited article about Cleveland originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 694 published on 3 May 1975.

George Stephenson’s successful locomotive on its inaugural run on the Stockton and Darlington railway

It was a proud day for the directors of the Stockton and Darlington Railway when George Stephenson climbed into the cab of his Locomotion No. 1, the steam engine that was to pull the first train in the world carrying passengers.

Although the coaches were little more than boxes on wheels, and the steam and smoke from the locomotive billowed over the passengers, it was an historic occasion. But before this opening on 27th September, 1825, there had been a board room battle between directors who wanted horses to pull the coaches and those who wanted to use steam.

Although steam locomotion was new and untried, the go-ahead members of the board won the day. George Stephenson, the pioneer railway engineer of his day, was appointed “motive engineer” and proudly drove the first train at a speed of about 15 miles an hour over the new track.

Since that day, railways have spread all over the world. But they had their beginning in the town of Stockton, which is in the new county of Cleveland.

Read the rest of this article »

This edited article about Graham Hill originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 691 published on 12 April 1975.

Graham Hill escaped the massive pileup at the start of the 1966 Indianapolis 500 which he won, by Graham Coton

In an old time silent comedy film, it would have doubled up the audience with helpless laughter. But it was real . . . and it was dangerous. Ace racing driver Graham Hill leapt from his car in the Monte Carlo Grand Prix when flames began leaping from beneath his car’s 25 gallon fuel tank.

Realising that if he did not put the flames out, he would not have a car for the forthcoming Dutch Grand Prix, Hill rushed back to the car. Pulling out its tiny fire extinguisher, he directed its uselessly small jet at the flames.

While he was doing this, a Frenchman ran up with a big fire extinguisher. “Saved,” thought Hill. But he did not anticipate the silent comedy film touch that was to follow.

With Hill’s costly racing car enveloped in flames, the Frenchman stopped and began studiously to read the instructions on the fire extinguisher.

Hill rushed at him, snatched the extinguisher from the bemused man and put out the fire himself.

Incidents like this have enlivened Hill’s career on the Grand Prix Circuits. He rode in 175 of these races between 1958 and 1975 and in a nine year period he competed in 90 consecutive Grand Prix. All of this takes terrific stamina. Yet this apparently fearless man knows what it means to be afraid.

Read the rest of this article »

This edited article about Oxfordshire originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 689 published on 29 March 1975.

A picture history of Oxford by C L Doughty

Everyone loves their own county the best, and in Oxfordshire it is easy to see why. At either end of it rise rolling lines of hills – Chiltern ridges capped with woods to the south-east, the lovely Cotswolds to the north-west.

Between the two lies the central plain, chequered by fields, and criss-crossed by streams.

Oxfordshire is the enchanted county. Its villages lie hidden down narrow winding lanes, groups of stone-built or brick-and-timber cottages with musical-sounding names – Nettlebed and Little Rollright, Sibford Gower, Broughton Poggs.

Early last year, the county’s boundaries were extended so that it now includes part of what was formerly Berkshire, and has added greatly to its total population. Abingdon, which is now in Oxfordshire, is an ancient market town with the remains of a 7th century abbey.

It is six miles from the city of Oxford which lies on the central plain. It has been a seat of learning since the twelfth century, and the colleges, with their towers and domes and “dreaming spires,” started a century later.

Read the rest of this article »

This edited article about aviation originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 686 published on 8 March 1975.

John Moore-Brabazon became the first Englishman to fly; the plane was a French Voisin. Pictured above in later in life, he was created Lord Brabazon of Tara. Picture by Ray Calloway

John Moore-Brabazon heaved on the rudder control of his kite-like struts-and-wire aircraft. A powerful gust of wind had struck the fragile craft from one side, tipping it over to a precarious angle.

Brabazon applied all his strength to the control in his battle to remain alive and claim the title of the first Englishman to fly in England. But he was too zealous. The rudder broke, leaving him in mid-air with a machine he could not control.

There was nothing to be done but to leave the machine to glide down, canted at an angle of thirty-five degrees. A pattern of ditches and dykes danced before Brabazon’s eyes as the plane sank earthwards.

Suddenly it struck the ground heavily on the tip of its left-hand wing. As the effects of the impact shuddered through the machine, wires and struts snapped like pistol shots. Hurtling through the air came the engine, which had been torn from its moorings, so close that its heat almost signed Brabazon’s hair.

Apart from being bumped, bruised and dazed, Brabazon was uninjured. He found himself imprisoned by the plane’s wires and being licked by two dogs which had chased him during the flight.

As he sat, bemused amid the dogs’ adoration, Brabazon knew that he had succeeded. During this week-end of 29th April to 2nd May, 1909 he had flown an aeroplane in his own country and made history by being the first to do so.

Read the rest of this article »

This edited article about Ettore Bugatti originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 685 published on 1 March 1975.

A Bugatti racing car (top) by Peter Jackson

An Arab prince wrote to France to order a new car. This was in 1933 and the car he chose was no ordinary car, but a Bugatti that cost, in those days, the almost unbelieveable sum of £6,500. He wanted a catalogue, but instead he got back a letter that was short and to the point. Before his order could be accepted, he would have to go to France and arrange for an interview with Monsieur Bugatti. And as for a description of the vehicle he might then be allowed to buy, the man that the motoring world knew as Le Patron, “The Chief”, noted chillingly, “I have never considered it necessary to publish a catalogue.”

Ettore Bugatti, the genius behind France’s legendary sporting motor car, had put one more customer in his place.

Bugatti’s competitors claimed that Le Patron’s motto was “The customer is always wrong.” This was perhaps unfair, but there has almost certainly never been a car manufacturer who treated his public in such a lordly way, So far as he was concerned, he built the cars he liked. If people wished to buy them, well, that could possibly be arranged.

Italian by birth, the son of a family of artists, Ettore had decided while in his twenties that his own future lay with the beauty of machines rather than paint. Consequently, he had headed for France, the centre of the rapidly developing motor industry. In 1909, he hired an old dye works and started to make cars of his own. Not only did he make them but he also raced them, for so far as Bugatti was concerned, a car was judged by the craftsmanship that went into it and by its competition success.

He had served an apprenticeship at a factory in Milan; but Bugatti was no theoretical engineer. He had no time for mathematical calculations. One either knew what was needed or one didn’t. One told by the look, the feel, the sound of a piece of machinery; the look most of all. Just because Bugatti made cars didn’t mean that he wasn’t following the family tradition. His father made superb furniture, his brother magnificent sculptures. He, Ettore, made beautiful cars.

Read the rest of this article »

This edited article about aviation originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 685 published on 1 March 1975.

Supermarine S6 seaplane by J H Batchelor

Six seaplanes skimmed over the water off Southampton and roared into the sky. At the controls of one of them was Flight Lieutenant H. R. D. Waghorn. As he gained height, Waghorn saw below him the 50-kilometre circuit of the Schneider trophy race marked by pylons mounted on destroyers.

Waghorn and the two other R.A.F. planes in his team began to lap the course at ever-increasing speeds. Competing against them was a strong team of Italian air force officers flying three red-painted Macchis.

The R.A.F. were flying two S6 and one S5 machines, designed by R. J. Mitchell for Supermarine Aviation. These were slim monoplanes mounted on big floats.

At first, Waghorn’s blue and silver streamlined plane answered well to the controls. It was making a record time, although a Macchi M-52 was proving a close challenger.

Waghorn mentally thanked the mechanics who had worked like demons to fit a new cylinder block in time for the competition. They had been toiling on it during the night before the race, and Waghorn had never expected it to be ready in time.

By their non-stop efforts, the men had finished the job with only two hours to spare.

Read the rest of this article »

This edited article about speed kings originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 683 published on 15 February 1975.

Eyston and his Thunderbolt (frames 4-6) by Ferdinando Tacconi

Magic names spring to mind, like Cobb and Campbell, when one thinks of the speed kings scorching along the tracks in their high speed cars. But one man who put in a great bid to become the fastest man on wheels – and succeeded many times – was George Eyston. In the 1930s, this skilled racer set up 12 international class G records in his M.G. Magnette car.

Unlike motor racing, in which the horsepower of the cars taking part is fixed by international rules, the land speed record is simply the fastest speed anyone can reach in any type of car. The design of the car, the power of its engine and the distance over which it travels are not taken into consideration.

However, because of the problems involved in driving their monster cars, the drivers usually select the shortest possible distances for their record attempts.

Rules are applied which state that these short bursts of high speed must be timed over the measured distance (usually a mile or a kilometre), first in one direction and then in the opposite direction. The car is then timed electrically on each of its two runs and its speed calculated. The final speed is the average of the two runs.

Both runs have to take place within a time limit of one hour. This is to ensure that should there be a tail wind in one direction, adding perhaps several miles an hour to the car’s speed, the driver cannot wait for the wind to drop before heading back into it on his return journey.

Attempts on the land speed record go back many years, but there were many more attempts to raise the top speed for a land vehicle during the ’20s and ’30s than in any other period of motoring history.

Read the rest of this article »

This edited article about wind power originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 681 published on 1 February 1975.

An English windmill by Ronald Lampitt

For many thousands of years until the age of modern propulsion, wind has been the prime force whereby man was able to move across vast stretches of water. Nearly all the great explorations across the oceans of the world were made under sail. The kind most commonly used was the rectangular sail or square sail. It hung from a pole or crosspiece called a yard, the yard being fastened to the mast by a loop.

Later on, people improved on this simple principle and varied it in many ways. A Dutch engineer, Simon Stevin built a four-wheeled carriage with sails, plus masts which was able to move up and down the seashore and could carry 26 people, in comparative comfort. The Dutch always had the reputation of being a seafaring nation and from about 1400 to 1800, the Netherlands pioneered most of the leading improvements in sailing ships. To them is attributed the invention of the jib and gaff-sail.

In the nineteenth century, American ship builders built a series of tall-masted ships called clippers. These were renowned for their sailing capacities but in turn, they were dependent on their unseen ally, the wind. If the wind was in the right quarter, records could be set up, but if the wind failed, the ship would languish. From this, arose the phrase “in the doldrums”. (The Doldrums is a belt of calms and light variable winds.) The steamer which succeeded the clippers or schooners was, of course, not dependent on the wind. With its own built-in power unit, it could plod on, through fair weather or foul.

The wind was also harnessed for driving windmills. These were generally used for grinding corn or pumping out waterlogged agricultural land so that more food could be grown. It has been assumed that windmills were a Continental invention and that travellers from the British Isles stumbled upon them. But according to contemporary records, one of the earliest mentions of a windmill occurs in documents which are concerned with the Third Crusade, (1189-92). One of the earliest definite records on an English mill is dated 1191.

By the eighteenth century, the local grinding mill was an integral landmark of the rural scene. A mill could usually generate about 30 h.p. while the sail turned at the rate of 12-20 revolutions per minute.

Windmills were composed of three types. “Post” mills mainly in Suffolk, “smock” mills in Kent and “tower” mills in Lincolnshire and the Isle of Ely. In good conditions, a mill could grind ten bushels an hour.

Industrial civilisation killed the windmills and now most of them remain only as picturesque survivals. By 1957, there were only thirty millers left, and by 1964, only 21, (in Britain).

But the day of the wind power is not entirely over. Wind pumps still help many farmers to get water and the winds propel an increasing number of pleasure yachts in our present age of leisure. And if you still don’t believe in the power of the wind, we suggest that you try and put up an umbrella in the teeth of the wind. We think that you will find that the wind will win!