Ask which fighter the RAF prized most in the last year of the Second World War and most people will say the Spitfire. They would be wrong. The aircraft that its pilots rated above all others — faster on the deck than a Spitfire, deadlier against the V-1, and one of the very few Allied fighters that could run down a German jet — was the Hawker Tempest. And almost nobody remembers it.

One of its greatest pilots, the French ace Pierre Clostermann, put it more bluntly than any specification sheet ever could.

Born from a flawed brute

The Tempest grew out of the Hawker Typhoon, a powerful but troubled fighter that shook itself to pieces at high speed. Hawker gave the design a new, thin, laminar-flow wing that cured its problems and unlocked its performance. Bolted to a snarling 2,180-horsepower Napier Sabre engine, the Tempest V could reach around 435 mph — and down low, where it mattered, it was the fastest Allied fighter in the sky.

The V-1 killer

The Tempest reached the squadrons in the spring of 1944, just in time for Hitler’s flying-bomb offensive. Its speed at low level made it the ideal V-1 hunter, chasing down the buzz bombs over southern England and tipping or shooting them out of the sky. Tempest pilots destroyed more than 800 V-1s — more than any other aircraft type, working alongside the RAF’s first jet, the Meteora Gloster.

Fast enough to catch a jet

Then came the Messerschmitt Me 262, the world’s first operational jet fighter — faster than anything the Allies had. Yet the Tempest was one of the rare piston fighters that could catch and kill a 262, pouncing on the jets at low altitude as they slowed to land. Tempest pilots claimed around twenty of them. Between times, the aircraft ranged across north-west Europe as a devastating ground-attack machine.

The men who loved it

Clostermann, France’s highest-scoring pilot in the RAF, rated the Tempest the finest fighter he flew in the entire war — better even than the Spitfire and the Mustang. The wing that pioneered it was led by Roland “Bee” Beamont, who worked out the tactics that turned the Tempest’s raw speed into a war-winning weapon. To the men who flew it, there was no argument about which fighter they wanted.

Overlooked, but flying again

So why is the Tempest forgotten? Timing and image. It arrived late, served briefly, and was overshadowed forever by the graceful Spitfire that had already won the nation’s heart in 1940. Of the many hundreds built, just one airworthy Tempest exists today — MW763, returned to the sky in 2023 after a 34-year restoration, a rare chance to hear a Napier Sabre sing again.

The Spitfire got the fame. The Tempest got the job — and the quiet, fierce loyalty of the men who took it to war.

Sources: Wikipedia; Military Machine; Pierre Clostermann, “The Big Show”; Key Aero; hawkertempest.se.

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Everyone remembers Charles Lindbergh. Almost nobody remembers the three men who, a year later, flew the Atlantic the hard way — against the wind, from Europe to America — and nearly died doing it. Their aircraft was called the Bremen, and their forgotten flight was in many ways a braver piece of airmanship than the one that made Lindbergh a legend.

On 12 April 1928 they lifted off from a field outside Dublin. Thirty-six hours later they came down on a frozen pond on a tiny island off the coast of Canada, with barely two hours of fuel left — and made history.

The frontier after Lindbergh

Lindbergh had crossed from New York to Paris in 1927, riding the prevailing west-to-east winds. Flying the other way, into those same winds, was a far deadlier proposition — and it had already killed. In 1927 alone, ten attempts to fly the Atlantic east-to-west had failed, costing seven lives. The westbound crossing was aviation’s next great frontier, and a lethal one.

An unlikely trio

The crew was as improbable as the mission. Hermann Köhl was a German pilot who had flown bombers in the First World War. Baron Ehrenfried Günther von Hünefeld was the aristocratic sponsor who owned the aircraft — a frail man once rejected by the air service on medical grounds. And Commandant James Fitzmaurice was the commanding officer of the fledgling Irish Air Corps, a former RAF flier who had joined the venture at the last stage.

They took off from Baldonnel Aerodrome outside Dublin at 05:38, the Bremen groaning under some five tonnes of aircraft and 520 gallons of petrol, while the crowd cheered and, in an Irish touch, splashed holy water after them.

Lost over the ice

For much of the way the winds were kind. Then, around 900 miles from Newfoundland, the weather closed in and the compasses began to misbehave. The Bremen was blown far off its intended course, groping blind over a grey ocean and then a white wilderness of ice and rock. When the fuel gauges dropped toward empty, Köhl put the aircraft down on a frozen pond beside a lighthouse on Greenly Island, off the Labrador coast. The landing wrecked the undercarriage, but all three men climbed out unhurt.

Sixty journalists on a frozen island

Word of the landing electrified the world. The bush pilot Duke Schiller was first to reach the marooned crew; another Canadian aviator, Roméo Vachon, flew in with a pack of reporters, and before long some sixty journalists were crowded onto the little island to file the story. When the airmen finally reached New York, the city gave them a ticker-tape parade. For a brief, dazzling moment, Köhl, von Hünefeld and Fitzmaurice were the most famous men in aviation.

The Bremen itself survives, lovingly preserved at the airport of the German city it was named after. The flight, sadly, does not live on the way Lindbergh’s does — which is exactly why it is worth remembering the three men who beat the Atlantic at its most stubborn, and walked away across the ice.

Sources: Wikipedia; HISTORY; Smithsonian Magazine; The Irish Times; World Air Sports Federation (FAI); Ask About Ireland.

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Ask anyone to name Britain’s heavy bomber of the Second World War and they will say the Avro Lancaster — the Dam Busters’ mount, the star of every film and airshow flypast. Almost nobody says Handley Page Halifax. Yet the Halifax flew tens of thousands of sorties, did jobs the Lancaster couldn’t, and gave its crews a far better chance of coming home alive. It is the great forgotten workhorse of Bomber Command.

This is the bomber that lived in the Lancaster’s shadow — and, in several ways that mattered, quietly outdid it.

Overshadowed from the start

The Halifax first flew in October 1939 and entered Bomber Command service in early 1941, more than a year before the Lancaster. In all, 6,178 were built. But the head of Bomber Command, Air Chief Marshal Arthur “Bomber” Harris, never warmed to it — the Lancaster carried a bigger bomb load, and that was the number Harris cared about.

The jack-of-all-trades

Where the Lancaster was a superb bomb-truck and little else, the Halifax could turn its hand to almost anything. It towed the Horsa and Hamilcar gliders that carried airborne troops into Normandy and Arnhem — a job it did better than the Lancaster thanks to steadier low-speed handling. It flew for Coastal Command hunting U-boats with radar and depth charges, and for the Special Operations Executive, dropping agents and supplies to resistance fighters across occupied Europe.

Later marks swapped the Rolls-Royce Merlins for air-cooled Bristol Hercules radials, which shrugged off flak damage that would have crippled a liquid-cooled engine — and closed most of the performance gap with the Lancaster.

The number that really mattered

For the young men flying over Germany at night, one statistic dwarfed all the arguments about bomb loads: your chance of getting out of a stricken aircraft. The Halifax’s wider fuselage and larger escape hatches gave its crews a dramatically better shot at survival if they had to bail out.

Remembered at last

Only a handful of Halifaxes survive anywhere in the world, chief among them “Friday the 13th” at the Yorkshire Air Museum on the old bomber airfield at Elvington. It is a fittingly modest memorial to an aircraft that never got the glory — but carried more of the war’s weight than its famous stablemate ever gets credit for.

The Lancaster got the legend. The Halifax got the job done — and brought more of its crews home.

Sources: Wikipedia; Britannica; The National Interest; Yorkshire Air Museum; Bomber Command Museum of Canada.

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Most warplanes are lucky to see one war. The Douglas A-26 Invader saw three — World War II, Korea and Vietnam — the only American bomber ever to do so. Now one of these remarkable survivors has a new home: the Stockton Field Aviation Museum in California’s Central Valley has added an A-26C Invader to its collection, and it is already turning heads at West Coast airshows.

It is exactly the kind of aircraft that deserves to be kept flying: fast, heavily armed, and stubbornly refusing to become obsolete across three decades of combat.

The bomber that wouldn’t retire

The Invader first flew as the XA-26 prototype in July 1942 and reached the front in 1944, meant to replace a whole generation of earlier attack aircraft. Two big Pratt & Whitney R-2800 Double Wasp radials made it fast for a bomber, and it came in two flavours: a solid gun-nose strafer bristling with up to fourteen forward-firing .50-calibre machine guns, and a glazed “glass nose” bombardier version like the museum’s new A-26C.

After the war it was redesignated the B-26, fought again over Korea, and was even recalled and rebuilt for Vietnam as the B-26K Counter Invader, hunting trucks along the Ho Chi Minh Trail. Few aircraft have had such a long and violent working life.

A new home in the Central Valley

The aircraft, an A-26C registered N126HK, came to the Stockton Field Aviation Museum from the Cactus Air Force in Carson City, Nevada, with the help of longtime enthusiast Jan Johnson. It has since been repainted in the markings of the 386th Bomb Group, connecting it to the Invader’s wartime roots.

Restoring the glass nose, aiming for Oshkosh

The museum plans to fly the Invader in its Bomber Camp experiences and is raising money to rebuild the aircraft’s intricate glazed nose. The goal is to bring it to EAA AirVenture Oshkosh in 2026, where organisers hope to gather several A-26s together to tell the story of a type that spanned three wars.

Worth keeping in the air

Every warbird saved is a piece of history kept alive for people who will never otherwise hear a pair of Double Wasps thunder overhead. For the Invader — a design that outlived its own era by decades — a new home and a run at Oshkosh is a fitting next chapter.

Sources: Vintage Aviation News; Stockton Field Aviation Museum; Hill Aerospace Museum; Wikipedia.

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In August 1944, a young Minnesotan named Ken Dahlberg shot down three German aircraft in a single swirling dogfight, took a bullet through his oil system, and bailed out into the clouds over occupied France. Sheltered by the Resistance and — by one account — disguised as a woman, he cycled some 40 miles to Allied lines and rejoined his squadron eleven days later. The fighter he had been flying was a P-51B Mustang called Shillelagh.

Eighty-two years on, that very aircraft is flying again. In July 2026, freshly and painstakingly restored, Shillelagh climbed back into the sky and made its public debut before the crowds at EAA AirVenture Oshkosh.

The wooden club with a Merlin

Shillelagh — named after the traditional Irish fighting club — is a P-51 Mustang of the early razorback type, serial 42-106602. It served with the 353rd Fighter Squadron of the 354th Fighter Group, the celebrated “Pioneer Mustang Group,” and over four months in 1944 it flew 95 combat missions in the hands of 19 different pilots: bomber escorts to Berlin, dive-bombing runs, fighter sweeps, and patrols over the Normandy beaches.

Three kills, then a bicycle

The aircraft’s most dramatic day came on 16 August 1944. Twenty-four Mustangs of the 354th tangled with a swarm of some 80 German aircraft, and in the melee Ken Dahlberg — already a triple ace — shot down three. Then his Shillelagh took a hit, its oil pressure fell away, and he bailed out over France. What followed reads like a film: hidden by the French Resistance, he made his way back to friendly lines and was flying with his squadron again by the end of the month.

Rebuilt with the real thing

The restoration, carried out by AirCorps Aviation in Bemidji, Minnesota for the Dakota Territory Air Museum, is remarkable for how much of it is genuinely original. The team wove in an extraordinary quantity of new-old-stock North American Aviation parts — components built during the war and never fitted — and finished the aircraft in the black-and-white invasion stripes it wore over Normandy, around a freshly overhauled Packard-built Merlin engine.

Home at Oshkosh

On 18 July 2026, test pilot Warren Pietsch lifted Shillelagh off the runway at Bemidji for its first flight since the war-era airframe was rebuilt. The very next day it flew in to Oshkosh, where it stood in the warbird area as exactly what its restorers intended: a flying memorial to the men who took it to war.

Fewer than a handful of airworthy razorback P-51B Mustangs exist anywhere in the world. That one of them is Ken Dahlberg’s Shillelagh — the fighter he rode into a three-kill fight and bailed out of — makes its return to the sky feel less like a restoration and more like a resurrection.

Sources: Vintage Aviation News; AirCorps Aviation; Dakota Territory Air Museum; avgeekery; MustangsMustangs.com.

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Some aircraft are ugly by accident. The Blackburn Blackburn was ugly on purpose — and yes, that really is its name, not a printing error. A deep, slab-sided box of a biplane that looked like a garden shed had learned to fly, it is a perennial contender for the title of ugliest aircraft ever to enter military service. And here is the twist: it was actually rather good at its job.

Because the Royal Navy had not asked Blackburn for a beauty. It had asked for a flying radio room — and that is precisely what it got.

A flying radio room

In the early 1920s the Fleet Air Arm needed a carrier aircraft that could scout ahead of the battle fleet and, crucially, spot the fall of the fleet’s big-gun shells and radio corrections back to the ships. That meant carrying an observer, charts, and a bulky wireless set — and giving them room to work. Blackburn’s designer took the wings and tail from the company’s Dart torpedo bomber and bolted them to a huge new fuselage tall enough to swallow all that equipment. Elegant it was not.

Ugly, and unbothered by it

The three-man crew were stacked into that bluff fuselage: the pilot sat in an open cockpit up above the engine, the navigator worked inside the fuselage, and a gunner sat at the back with a Lewis gun on a swivel mount. A 450-horsepower Napier Lion pulled the whole thing along at a stately 122 mph. It broke the old flying-club maxim that “if it looks right, it is right” — because this looked deeply wrong and worked anyway. For a gallery of aircraft that share its affliction, see our roundup of the strangest and ugliest aircraft ever built.

The eyes of the fleet

The Blackburn first went to sea aboard the carrier HMS Eagle in the Mediterranean in 1923. A more powerful version, the Blackburn II with an uprated Napier Lion, followed, and some airframes were converted into dual-control trainers or fitted with floats. In all, around 62 were built — a respectable run for a specialist 1920s carrier aircraft.

Replaced by something prettier

Aviation was moving fast in the 1920s, and the Blackburn’s eight-year career ended around 1931 when the sleeker Fairey IIIF took over its duties. Blackburn Aircraft would go on to build a whole menagerie of famously awkward machines — and, eventually, the beautiful Blackburn Buccaneer, proof the firm could draw a gorgeous aeroplane when it wanted to.

But the Blackburn Blackburn earns its own strange salute: an aircraft so ugly it became a legend, and so useful the Navy kept it at sea for the better part of a decade.

Sources: Wikipedia; Ed Nash / Military Matters; historyofwar.org; BAE Systems Heritage; Naval Encyclopedia.

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The biggest aircraft the Axis powers ever built was not a bomber or a transport — it was a flying boat the size of a small ship, hauled into the air on six engines by a company that normally built ocean liners. And when an American fighter pilot finally sank it on a quiet German lake, he had no idea what he had just destroyed. He would not find out for another twenty-nine years.

This is the story of the Blohm & Voss BV 238: the heaviest aeroplane in the world when it flew, and one of the least-known giants of the Second World War.

A shipbuilder’s aeroplane

Blohm & Voss was, first and foremost, a Hamburg shipyard, founded in 1877 and famous for building large vessels. Aircraft were a wartime sideline — and it showed in the BV 238’s sheer scale. Six Daimler-Benz DB 603 inverted-V12 engines, arranged three to a wing, hauled a hull weighing around 85 tonnes fully loaded. It was intended for long-range maritime patrol and transport across the oceans the Reich could not otherwise reach.

Fear of a Nazi escape

By the time the single flying prototype was undergoing tests in the last months of the war, the Allies had more than a passing interest in it. A flying boat with transatlantic reach, sitting on a German lake as the Reich collapsed, raised an alarming possibility in Allied minds.

Sunk on the lake — by whom?

The BV 238 V1 was strafed and sunk while moored on the Schaalsee, and here the story splits. According to American accounts, it was destroyed in 1944 by P-51 Mustangs of the US 361st Fighter Group, led by the ace Lieutenant Urban “Ben” Drew in his Mustang “Detroit Miss.” British and German sources instead date the attack to late April or early May 1945 and credit RAF Typhoons or Tempests, whose fire set the engines ablaze until the hull broke and sank.

What is not in dispute is the twist. Drew was told he had shot up a BV 222 Wiking, a smaller German flying boat, and he believed it for decades. Only in 1974, when the BBC contacted him while researching a documentary, did he learn the truth: the giant he had raked with gunfire was the one and only flying BV 238.

A quarter-scale flop, and the end

The programme never had a chance to mature. To test the design, engineers built a quarter-scale flying model, the FGP 227 — which promptly made a forced landing on its first flight and delivered no useful data. Two further full-size prototypes were begun but never finished. When the war ended, all that remained of the largest aircraft the Axis ever built was a section of wing poking above the surface of a German lake.

For a machine meant to cross oceans, it never got further than a quiet stretch of inland water — and a footnote nobody could quite agree on.

Sources: Wikipedia; The Vintage News; historyofwar.org; Warbirds Resource Group.

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Imagine buying an airline ticket and being shown not to a seat in the fuselage, but into the wing itself — a little cabin built into the leading edge, with a big curved window giving you the pilot’s own view of the world rushing toward you. That was the everyday reality aboard the Junkers G.38, a German giant of 1929 that treated flying not as an ordeal to be survived but as an experience to be savoured.

When it lifted off from Dessau in November 1929, the G.38 was the largest landplane on Earth, beaten in sheer size only by the monstrous Dornier Do X flying boat. And nobody had ever built a passenger aircraft quite like it.

A dream sketched in 1910

The idea was older than the aircraft. Hugo Junkers had long believed that an aeroplane should not dangle its passengers beneath a thin wing, but carry everything — people, engines, structure — inside a deep, load-bearing wing. He had sketched the concept as early as 1910; it simply took two decades for engines, materials and money to catch up.

By the late 1920s, with German aviation shaking off the restrictions of the Versailles Treaty, Junkers finally got his chance. The result felt part aircraft, part flying salon.

A flying palace

The G.38 was an all-metal colossus — 23 metres long, with a 44-metre wingspan wider than many of today’s narrow-body jets. Its wings were nearly two metres thick at the root, thick enough to hold passenger compartments and small “engine rooms” where a mechanic could reach and service the motors in flight. From the wing cabins, and from two seats right in the nose, large windows offered a forward view usually reserved for the crew.

Originally the aircraft carried just 17 passengers in near-airship luxury — wide upholstered seats, a promenade area, a smoking room, a proper washroom. The four engines were buried in the wings, with only driveshafts running out to the propellers, cutting drag and noise. A second, larger machine added a second deck and room for 34.

Too grand for its moment

Deutsche Luft Hansa flew the two G.38s across Europe in the early 1930s, from Berlin to London, Vienna and Amsterdam, and the type set records for speed, endurance and payload. Technically it was a triumph. Commercially, its timing could hardly have been worse.

The Great Depression gutted air travel just as the G.38 arrived, and airlines fled toward small, cheap, efficient aircraft like the Junkers Ju 52, which would be built in their thousands. A flying palace needing big crews and heavy maintenance was exactly the wrong aeroplane for a lean decade.

Two aircraft, both gone

Only two G.38s were ever built. The first was damaged beyond repair in a 1936 accident at Dessau and scrapped. The second was seized by the Nazi regime in 1939, pressed into service as a military transport, and destroyed on the ground by British bombers at Athens in 1941. Japan built six bomber derivatives, the Mitsubishi Ki-20, but they never saw combat.

No G.38 was ever built again — not because it failed, but because the world moved on faster than the aeroplane could. For a few short years, though, a lucky few got to fly Europe seated inside a wing, watching the horizon through their own private windscreen.

Sources: Wikipedia; Vintage Aviation News; Airways Magazine; Oleg Antonov State Aviation Museum; NACA Aircraft Circular No. 116.

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On 17 May 1935, the man who would later write The Little Prince climbed aboard the largest aircraft on Earth. Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, in Moscow reporting for a French newspaper, was the only foreigner allowed onto the Tupolev ANT-20 “Maxim Gorky” — a flying colossus with eight engines and a wingspan close to a modern jumbo jet. He marvelled at it, and flew away safely.

Twenty-four hours later the Maxim Gorky was a field of burning wreckage in a Moscow suburb, brought down not by enemy or storm but by a single show-off in a tiny fighter.

A flying monument to Soviet power

The ANT-20 was built to impress. Designed by Andrei Tupolev and named for the writer Maxim Gorky, it was the flagship of a dedicated propaganda squadron that toured the Soviet Union selling the achievements of communism. Eight engines — six along the wing’s leading edge and two more stacked in a nacelle above the fuselage — hauled a machine so vast that passengers could walk inside the wings.

Inside it carried a printing press, a photographic laboratory, a film projector and a powerful radio and loudspeaker system nicknamed the “Voice from the Sky,” which could blare music and slogans down onto the crowds below. It was less an aircraft than a piece of the state given wings.

Saint-Exupéry’s last look

Saint-Exupéry’s flight was a demonstration for a privileged few, and he wrote about it with a pilot’s eye — the ease with which the 42-tonne monster left the ground, the strange domesticity of its lounges. His article ran in Paris-Soir on 20 May. By the time readers saw it, the aircraft he described no longer existed.

The hooligan’s third loop

On 18 May 1935 the Maxim Gorky took off again over Moscow, this time escorted by two small aircraft whose only job was to fly alongside and make the giant look even bigger from the ground. One of the escort pilots, Nikolai Blagin in a nimble Polikarpov I-5 biplane, decided to improve the show by looping the loop around the huge machine.

He got away with it twice. On the third loop he ran out of speed at the top, fell, and smashed into the Maxim Gorky’s wing. The giant broke apart and tumbled down, striking a dacha settlement below barely fifteen seconds later. Everyone aboard the Maxim Gorky died, along with Blagin — around 45 people in all, among them aircraft workers and their children who had been given the flight as a reward.

Rebuilt, then lost again

In the grim spirit of the time, the disaster became a fundraising drive: money was collected to build a fleet of new giants. In the end only one true successor emerged, the ANT-20bis, which flew in the late 1930s and carried passengers for Aeroflot. It too came to a bad end, crashing in December 1942 after a passenger who had been allowed into the cockpit accidentally moved a control, killing everyone on board.

Today the biggest aircraft of its age survives only as a twisted piece of metal in a neighbourhood museum and on a couple of Soviet postage stamps — a monument brought down not by war, but by one man who could not resist showing off.

Sources: Wikipedia; Russia Beyond; Vintage Aviation News; Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, “The Tragic End of the Maxime-Gorki” (Paris-Soir, 1935); This Day in Aviation.

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It looked like a four-poster bed welded out of scaffolding, and it flew by balancing on a column of jet blast. When the Rolls-Royce Thrust Measuring Rig lurched into the air at Hucknall in 1954, it became the first jet-lift aircraft to fly anywhere in the world — and it looked so absurd that the engineers who built it simply called it the Flying Bedstead.

Behind the comedy was a serious problem nobody had solved: could a jet aircraft hover on its own thrust and be controlled while doing it? The Bedstead answered yes, and in doing so it lit the fuse for every British vertical-takeoff aircraft that followed, right up to the Harrier.

Two engines and a lot of nerve

The rig was brutally logical. Two Rolls-Royce Nene turbojets were mounted horizontally, facing away from each other, their exhausts bent through 90 degrees to blast straight down through the machine’s centre of gravity. To keep the whole contraption from tipping over, engineers bled about a tenth of the engines’ compressed air out to small “puffer” nozzles at the extremities — jets of air that pushed the frame level, like a tightrope walker’s pole made of compressed gas.

On 3 August 1954, Rolls-Royce chief test pilot Ronald Shepherd made the first free flight. The rig rose, hovered, edged sideways and backwards, and set back down — unremarkable moves for a helicopter, revolutionary for a jet.

Rock steady — most of the time

With its autostabiliser working, pilots found the Bedstead uncannily calm in the hover. But it was not tame. The hardest part was controlling height, because the big Nene engines were slow to respond to the throttle, so a pilot chasing altitude could easily get behind the machine. Roll control, too, was marginal.

The crash and the cost

Two rigs were built, and pioneering flight research is rarely bloodless. The second machine crashed in 1957 during a tethered hover, killing its pilot, and Rolls-Royce’s own flying with the type came to an end. But the data had already been gathered, and the central question — can a jet hover under control? — had been answered beyond doubt.

What the Bedstead started

The Bedstead’s reaction-control idea — puffer jets at the wingtips, nose and tail to steer an aircraft too slow for its normal controls to bite — became the key to everything that followed. It fed directly into the Short SC.1, Britain’s first fixed-wing VTOL aircraft, which used a battery of lift engines to rise and a separate engine to fly forward.

The SC.1 proved that a machine could transition from hovering to winged flight and back. But carrying a stack of engines just for take-off was a dead end. The breakthrough came when Hawker fitted a single vectored-thrust engine to the P.1127, the aircraft that matured into the Harrier — the world’s first operational jump jet, and still the most famous. Every one of them kept the Bedstead’s puffer jets for control in the hover.

Not bad for a flying bedframe.

Sources: Wikipedia; Rolls-Royce / Aeronautical Research Council R&M 3336; Science Museum Group; The Engineer; Dunsfold Airfield History Society.

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