Tales of My Time

By Tony Dron and Raymond Baxter

Raymond Baxter, WW2 fighter pilot, postwar radio and TV commentator at major events from motor races to great State occasions, was later the famous presenter of television’s Tomorrow’s World. Here he tells his action-packed life story with a wry and amusing eye.

From such disparate experiences as hair-raising escapes at the controls of a Spitfire over Sicily and occupied Holland to speaking to the nation while suspended in a box near the roof of Westminster Abbey, Baxter has endless tales to tell.

A renowned Formula 1 Grand Prix commentator, he also competed in and reported on 14 consecutive Monte Carlo Rallies and 30 consecutive Farnborough Air Shows where, as a veteran combat pilot, he flew a Harrier on two occasions. Baxter was the instigator of the Dunkirk Little Ships organization and still owns L’Orage, which took part in the original 1940 rescue of beleaguered British troops and in which he has returned to Dunkirk on several commemorative events. An Inland Waterways enthusiast, too, he recounts amusing adventures on canals and rivers in his ‘Otter’, a futuristic craft nearly half a century ago.

Life in the BBC, the Cold War in Germany, the Coronation, Sir Winston Churchill’s funeral, the triumphs and tragedies of Formula 1 racing and Le Mans, all these and much more are covered in a story that seems to encompass a dozen careers, let alone the lifetime of just one remarkable man. Tony Dron is a well-respected author and journalist whose work appears in The Daily Telegraph and others.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Grub Street Publishing
• Release date: Dec 19, 2005
• ISBN: 9781908117489

Tony Dron

Tony Dron is a well-respected author and journalist whose work appears in The Daily Telegraph and others.

Book preview

Published by

Grub Street

4 Rainham Close

London

SW11 6SS

Copyright © 2005 Grub Street

Text copyright © 2005 Raymond Baxter and Tony Dron

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Baxter, Raymond

Tales of my time

1. Baxter, Raymond 2. Television personalities –

Great Britain – Biography 3. Television journalists

– Great Britain – Biography

I. Title II. Tony Dron

791.4′3′092

ISBN 1 904943 32 2

Digital Edition ISBN 9781908117489

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

Typeset by Pearl Graphics, Hemel Hempstead

Printed and bound by Biddles Ltd, King’s Lynn

NB: All photographs in the book are from the author’s collection. With thanks to the BBC, British Aerospace, Imperial War Museum, Royal Air Force and various friends.

Contents

Foreword

More than 20 years ago my wife urged me to write this book, for the sake of the family. It grieves me deeply that she is not with me now, as I accede to her request. She died of cancer on 2nd September 1996. We had been married for 51 remarkable years – remarkable not least for the fact that she tolerated me for so long, and at what personal sacrifice. She was an intrinsic part of my adult life and is in the background of my mind constantly as I reminisce in these Tales of My Time.

And so this book is truly dedicated to her memory and to our family.

But the words would not have got to paper without the incalculable assistance and co-operation of my friend, Tony Dron – brilliant motoring editor and journalist, and fearsome racing driver. Eleven years ago he wrote four consecutive and very flattering articles about me in Classic Cars magazine. Thereafter I described him as my Honorary PRO, but I had no idea that he would accept with declared pleasure my plea for his assistance in what – when I came face to face with it – appeared a task beyond my current capability.

So now, for what it is worth, ‘tis done – at the rate of 4,000 words per week in writing time, not to mention my living time – and I am deeply grateful to the Almighty, as well as expert medical opinion, for the fact that I am still alive and able to tell my Tales.

Raymond Baxter,

Henley-on-Thames

Introduction

It was the voice, the voice that defines an era for so many British people. Raymond Baxter remains a hero, especially to those of us born shortly after the Second World War and much of his life reads like an adventure story. An operational Spitfire pilot throughout much of the war, he went on to become the best communicator of motor racing on radio and television and, as such, was the live commentator at countless events which have become legendary in the history of motor sport, including the Le Mans disaster of 1955 and Fangio’s extraordinary winning performance in the 1957 German Grand Prix.

As a competitor, he had hair-raising escapades on major international rallies and, as the voice of Farnborough air displays on the BBC for 30 consecutive years, he astonished us time and time again, not only with his clear descriptions of the latest military aircraft but also with his ability actually to fly some of them himself as he spoke to us.

His commentaries on great state occasions, including the Coronation and Sir Winston Churchill’s funeral, managed to convey all the relevant facts in a delivery that was not merely interesting but also a perfectly balanced mix of dignity and a reflection of the emotional feelings of the British people.

Above all, I suspect, he is remembered best today as the long-serving presenter of the science programme which rapidly became a big hit with British viewers, Tomorrow’s World.

The Tales have been told and, as I write these words, Raymond has set off for Dunkirk in his Little Ship, L’Orage, for the 2005 Return of the flotilla, remembering and honouring the desperate days of May 1940. It has been a privilege to collaborate with Raymond Baxter in recording his life story and I hope you enjoy reading it as much I have enjoyed recording it for him.

Tony Dron

Saffron Walden

Chapter 1

Opening Sequence

One evening in early March 1945 Squadron Leader Max Sutherland DFC, CO 602 (City of Glasgow) Squadron, gathered his four senior pilots to the bar at RAF Ludham. After the first round of drinks, his brown eyes blazing with challenge, he said, Listen chaps, I’ve got an idea. Our minds became concentrated; we knew Max to be unpredictable, to say the least.

At that time we were flying our socks off in Operation Big Ben – the anti-V2 campaign. On several occasions during those ops we saw the white trail of V2 rockets arcing up at incredible speed and height towards their indiscriminate targets. It made us the more determined to strike back as hard as we could. Equipped with Spit 16s we were dive-bombing every reported or suspected launch site, and dive-bombing, skip-bombing and strafing interdiction targets throughout occupied Holland. In addition we were committed to normal fighter duties, readiness, bomber escort (US & RAF), air-sea rescue, and shipping and reconnaissance patrols. Four sorties per pilot per day were not uncommon.

Just outside The Hague, said Max, is the former HQ of Shell-Mex. It is now the HQ of VI and V2 operations. I have worked out that the width of the building equals the total wing-span of five Spitfires in close formation. He paused to let it sink in. I reckon we could take it out.

Then he said, looking me straight in the eye, What do you reckon, Bax? I took a long slow draught from my Guinness and said, Might be a bit dodgy, Boss.

The concentration of heavy and light flak from Den Helder to the Scheldt was our daily experience, and later we learned that no less than 200 batteries of well-manned guns would lie in our path.

Yeah, I know, said Max. But we’ll get 453 to lay on a diversion and we’ll go in flat and low.

453 were the Australian squadron in our Wing, led by Squadron Leader Ernie Esau, another major character. They were our neighbours on the airfield, with whom we had developed a close bond both in the air and at the pub.

So it was agreed and, somewhat surprisingly, approved by Group. After a disappointing abort, because cloud obscured the target on 18th March 1945, the attack was delivered precisely according to plan. We peeled off from 453 at about 8,000 feet, crossing the Dutch coast, and Maxy transmitted the seldom-used codeword, Buster (full throttle), and Close Up.

He then led us in a perfectly judged diving arc, in which the controls became increasingly heavy and, therefore, more demanding for close formation. We flattened out at about 100 feet with the target dead ahead and square in our gyro-sights – range about 300 yards. We let go with our 2 x 20mm cannon and 0.5in machine guns and released our 1 x 500lb and 2 x 250lb, eleven-second delay bombs in our own time.

Then, as I cleared the roof of the building, I looked ahead. And approaching me at eye-level, and near enough 400mph, was this black cockerel atop the weather vane on the church spire across the road! I can see it to this day.

The PRU (Photographic Reconnaissance Unit) photograph, which we had studied, showed the church (which we were determined not to hit), but not the height of its spire. With no space to turn, I could only tweak the stick and say, in my head, perhaps two seconds later, Thank you, God.

Then the Boss damn’ near got his tail shot off. Our pre-attack briefing had been that the moment we cleared the target we should fan out, continuing at rooftop height. So five Spitfires swept at extremely low level across the centre of the Dutch capital. This, as was hoped, presented the anti-aircraft gunners with such a variety of fast-moving targets that the amount of flak we encountered was comparatively light. Unfortunately, however, Max Sutherland – as he had done on many occasions previously – decided to pull up to have a look back and assess the extent of the damage which we had inflicted with our 11-second delay bombs. This, of course, attracted the concentration of anti-aircraft fire onto him. Nevertheless, he had the satisfaction of observing that the whole of the Shell-Mex building was occluded by a cloud of smoke, flame and dust.

But, almost immediately, Max called us again, saying: Tarbrush [I think that was the call-sign], proceed as planned to re-arm and re-fuel. I have been hit. Bax, please come and have a look at the damage.

So, clear of the built-up area where the flak was, Max pulled up to about 3,000ft and, as the rest of the formation sped towards their refuelling point, I closed to him and had a careful look at his tail.

Boss, I said, you’ve got a big hit on your starboard elevator.

Is it still flyable, do you think, Bax? he said.

Up to you, Boss, I said, but I’ll keep a careful eye.

I will continue at bale-out height, he replied. Please stay close. So I did that, at about 3,000ft and on his starboard side, slightly behind and below, keeping a very careful eye on that severely damaged tail. We made it to the circuit – at Ursahl, our planned refuelling point near Ghent in Belgium – and as Max had his airspeed indicator and flaps working I remained close and watched him make a perfect landing. Then I followed him in and we had time to take a look at what we had achieved by comparing notes with our mates, who were all safely down and undamaged.

Max got a Bar to his DFC for that, and the rest of us got a Collective Mention. The BBC Nine o’clock News that night reported, During the day, RAF fighter bombers continued their attacks on selected ground targets in occupied Holland. Just so!

Years later my friend Michael Turner, the distinguished aviation artist, read about my cockerel and said he’d like to paint a picture of it. Rummaging about in my box of goodies in which I keep my logbook, imagine his delight when I found the original PRU photograph on which our attack had been based. The resultant painting was shown in the Guild of Aviation Artists’ Exhibition a few years ago and is reproduced in this book.

A few months after that Michael received a letter from a total stranger in Holland requesting my address. It transpires that, totally by chance, Aad Devisser had visited an exhibition of WWII aviation art, seen Michael’s painting and realised that he too was there on 18th March 1945.

As a 16-year-old, he was doing his best to avoid deportation to a labour camp. With his parents he lived in caretaker quarters in the Shell-Mex building. As he described it, I heard you coming . . . and looked into your eyes.

Mercifully, although we destroyed their home, he and his family survived, including the dog. Aad became my friend and before his death wrote to me of the admiration and gratitude he and his fellow Dutch men and women felt for the RAF pilots who were risking their lives for us.

Chapter 2

This is Your Life

At 11am on 14th February 1998, I was in the recording booth of a film/TV production company in Soho where I had worked many times before. But as I approached the completion of my task I became aware that something curious was going on. Recording ‘post-production commentary’, often written by myself, had been part of my job for many years, both for the BBC and elsewhere.

The arrangement is simple. The commentator sits in a soundproof booth, separate from the production team. The film, or tape, cut and edited, is projected so that both the production team and the commentator view the images separately but simultaneously. That may sound complicated but in reality it is not. Given high standards of professionalism on both sides, the commentary ‘to picture’ can and should be a routine procedure. Imagine therefore my puzzlement on this day when I began to perceive that odd things were happening on the other side of the screen.

First the producer apologised for a break because the sound-recordist had to go for a pee. This took quite a while. Then I was asked to re-record a sequence of several minutes because it was not quite right. By this time I could feel my back-hair rising.

Throughout my career in broadcasting I have taken great pride getting it right first time. I can indeed claim that, in my day, amongst BBC film crews I was known as ‘One-take Baxter’. So when, after a further pause, I was asked to re-record a few paragraphs for no apparent reason, I was on the edge of hitting the roof. Still, checking my impatience, I got on with the job.

As it approached completion and my eyes were on my monitor screen, a voice in my headphones said:

You’re approaching the finishing line, Raymond, but there’s a big red one coming up behind you. Instantly, I recognised the voice of my old friend, Stirling Moss, but how on earth did he manage to do that? I wondered. Nice one! I was considerably puzzled but then the producer, on the far side of the screen, said:

Look over your left shoulder, Raymond.

There, squeezed into the tiny recording booth behind me, sure enough, was Stirling, together with Michael Aspel, a friend and colleague of many years, and a film cameraman who had crept in without me noticing because I was so engrossed in what I was doing and, anyway, with the headphones on I was deaf to any small noises behind me.

Thus were uttered the celebrated words, Raymond Baxter, This is Your Life.

Never have I been so surprised. Immediately it was clear that the reason for my having been messed about was that the This is Your Life team had laid their well-proven plot to catch their subject unawares, in this case timed to a zero hour of noon. They most certainly succeeded, despite the fact that I had completed my job more than 15 minutes quicker than they had calculated.

Therefore, while I was totally concentrated on my work, in the street outside Michael had arrived at the wheel of a Jaguar XK120 to be met, literally on the doorstep, by Stirling. After a brief exchange of greetings, all covered on film, they entered the building together as planned. Then they had crept, undetected, into that small recording booth behind me and the trap was sprung. There was applause, I remember, from the production team who had clearly enjoyed every minute of their role in the conspiracy.

For my part, events thereafter assumed a dreamlike quality. I was absolutely delighted by the realisation that this was all happening, and to find my friend Stirling at the centre of the plot increased my enjoyment. But after the initial shock my mind turned to practicalities.

Excuse me, I said to a charming girl who was clearly in charge. When is this going out?

Tonight, she said.

Tonight? Oh my God, but what about my clothes? I was casually dressed for ‘out-of-picture’ work.

All taken care of, she said. Your daughter has given us the suit from your wardrobe she thinks right for the occasion, together with shirt, a choice of ties and shoes.

Has she, indeed? I said, and the penny dropped in a major way.

The fact that I appeared on This is Your Life, I owe entirely to my daughter, now Jennifer Douglas and a successful professional fencing coach. She and her husband, Paul, and two daughters had moved into the large house which my wife and I bought in Henley in 1985. A primary motivation for our choice was that the house included the potential for a downstairs flat. This, we hoped, might be acceptable for Jenny, then unmarried.

In fact, what happened was that when a film crew came to my house to shoot a contribution to the This is Your Life programme of Murray Walker, of all people, unknown to me Jenny had said to the producer: Why don’t you do my father?

We had the impression that he wouldn’t play, she replied.

That was a long time ago, said Jenny. The programme was different then and I knew that my mother would not have liked that at all. But I think it would be all right now.

That was the start of a quite extraordinary sub-plot. Several months later, when the programme makers approved the project, their first task was to inform Jenny without my knowledge – not at all easy when you remember that we all lived in the same house. Thereafter the speed of the operation was quite breathtaking. Only ten days elapsed between the second approach to Jenny and the programme’s appearance live on screen. There was no particular necessity for Jenny to let my son Graham know what was afoot and she gave the production team a contact list of those she thought were potential contributors.

Then, all unwittingly, my sister presented a major problem. I had arranged to go down and stay with her at Frome for a few days, returning two days before I was booked to record the commentary in that Soho film studio. Jenny dared not tell my sister under those circumstances. On the day I was to leave Frome there was widespread fog. I rang Jenny and told her I had decided to stay in Frome for an extra day. Her voice in no way disclosed what must have been her total consternation at this late torpedoing of her meticulous planning.

The film company had agreed to send a car to Henley for me on the morning of their recording so getting me, in all innocence, to the right place and the right time appeared to be a gift. But the manner and speed with which the This is Your Life team got it all together despite all setbacks amazes me to this day.

However, there I was in an environment with which I was totally at ease – a film recording studio in Soho – until this explosive intrusion by Michael and Stirling Moss. From there I was whisked away to an excellent lunch in a quiet restaurant off Kew Green. Clearly the staff were familiar with the circumstances; they’d done it all before. Thereafter to the Teddington studios of Independent Television, and I sensed at the time that I was being smuggled in. The security guards knew precisely the routine, which they had no doubt executed time and time again. Shown to my dressing room for the first time in private for four or more hectic hours, I put my feet up and began to think about what lay ahead.

I began by speculating on who might be in the programme – my family obviously – and I hoped the grandchildren; someone from Tomorrow’s World – could it be James Burke? Sadly the choice would be limited in that context. Could they get someone from my family in America? Someone from motor racing was already involved. In any event I resolved to make the most of it! Play it as far as possible my way and milk it for laughs. A male dresser came into the dressing room as promised – and boosted my morale no end by admiring my suit.

You can tell bespoke tailoring at a glance, he said, and indeed from the earlier days of Tomorrow’s World, on the advice of Mike Latham – the second editor of the series – I had bought my suits made-to-measure from Messrs James & James of Albany Street – not quite Savile Row, but close enough – and indeed over the years the brothers became personal friends of mine. Next I was taken to the studio, shown the set and told that Jenny would be sitting on my right as I entered and that I was to take the vacant seat on her right. That was the sum total of my briefing before I was smuggled back to my dressing room and told that the make-up girl would be with me in about 45 minutes; and would I like a cup of tea? Not ’arf!

I have tapes of the programme, both the unedited version and the ‘P as B’ – Programme as Broadcast – as we used to say in the BBC. Again, the sheer professionalism of the production team is in my view, as a fellow pro, just outstanding. The on-stage performance overran by more than 20 minutes, due almost entirely to my own self-indulgence, yet the necessary cuts are quite unnoticeable.

On reflection, I have decided not to attempt a transcript of the show here, the printed word in this case being but a hollow shadow of the magic of the originals. I choose the word ‘magic’ for that it most certainly was, for me – if for no-one else. Having participated in three or four other people’s This is Your Life programmes, I was fully aware of ‘the rules of engagement’. Even so, standing alone backstage and listening to the introduction, filmed only those few hours before, I felt a mounting excitement, quite different from the rising heart rate I have experienced in the few minutes before the start of any television or radio programme in which I have played a role.

Came the words, Raymond Baxter – This is Your Life. Loud applause from the audience – on cue – and from the semi-darkness behind the set I stepped into the brilliantly lit arena. There, on the right with the empty place beside her, sat Jenny, looking absolutely radiant, elegantly dressed and beautifully made up. Behind her, Paul my son-in-law; my son, Graham and his wife, Bridget; my sister, Doreen and her husband – all as I had expected. But in addition on both sides a host of friends whom I could not wait to greet – so I didn’t. Instead of sitting down by my daughter as instructed I set off on a little tour, shaking hands, leaning forward to give a kiss to my sister and to Bette Hill (Graham Hill’s widow) and finally crossing the set to shake the hand of my old friend and colleague, Robin Richards who, I was slightly shocked to see, was in a wheelchair.

Book in hand, Michael Aspel stood aside, smiling patiently and waiting – as I was sure he would – until I settled down beside my daughter. She ‘opened the batting’ by saying:

My father is incapable of growing old gracefully. Fair enough, I thought.

My sister spoke of our very happy childhood; my son spoke of his mother, describing my romance with Sylvia as the stuff that dreams are made of. I had prepared myself for what I knew and indeed hoped was almost inevitable – a picture or pictures of Sylvia. But there, on the big screen, was the only photograph we have of our wedding. I felt myself beginning to ‘choke up’ but a reassuring squeeze of my hand from Jenny helped me immeasurably and thereafter I knew I could cope emotionally. So, from now on it was fun time.

And so it proved. To this day, when I watch again a particular moment, I say to myself, Gosh, how beautiful they are. That moment came when my grandchildren made their entrance. To the left, Tom, my