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Author in search of a lost story…


The most beautiful countryside often hides the darkest of secrets;
and, having no memory of its own, is oblivious to them and utterly
indifferent. Such were my thoughts on my visit to Edale in the
heart of Derbyshire’s Peak District. Here, decades before, my
Uncle, along with five other RAF crew members, met his death as
their Handley Page Heyford K6875, an all-metal biplane- bomber,
hit the hillside above the village.

My visit was an exploration – looking for the site of the crash; a

homage to lives cut tragically short; and an attempt to restore a
faded piece of my family’s history.

A picture of my uncle – Sergeant Jim Barker, aged 26, in his pilot’s
uniform, sits on my bookshelf: a good-looking man with a bright
career ahead of him; and next to it is a photo of his newly-married
wife, Muriel. She was my aunt, my mother’s sister, and the effect
on her of Jim’s death in a vicious summer storm amid the dark
peaks was to be devastating. In her grief she lost the baby she
was carrying.

Though she never re-married, she made a life for herself and was
a precious friend to me till her death in 1997 – when at last I felt
free to satisfy my curiosity about the exact spot where the Heyford
met its end.
She had spoken little of Jim; and indeed most of what I learnt
about the Edale crash was gleaned from a slim but invaluable
volume Dark Peak Aircraft Wrecks 1 (UK: Wharncliffe Publishing,
1990; numerous editions) by Ron Collier and Roni Wilkinson.

On a bright, clear October day I descended into the valley from

Rushup Edge, itself unnervingly steep. Edale is benign but running
above it to the north is Broadlee Bank Tor; beyond that, Edale
Moor at 1981 feet and looming menacingly beyond that, Kinder
Scout, well over 2000 feet.

On the 22 July 1937 the Heyford, of 166 Squadron, was making a

navigational night flight from Leconfield. It was piloted by Sergeant
Newton W. Baker from Thetford in Norfolk. The co-pilot was
Sergeant Charles Macmillan from London; the wireless operator
was Aircraftman Harry Grey from Aberdare. Also on board were
Aircraftmen Eric McDonald and Ernest Musker – both from
Liverpool. – and my Uncle, James W. Barker of Horwich in

Doubtful design
The twin-engined Handley Page Heyford was a potential death-
box. Collier and Wilkinson describe it as ‘ungainly’ and ‘ obsolete’.
In December 1936 all but one of a flight of seven Heyfords in 102
Squadron, on a flight to Finningley from Northern Ireland, crossing
the Pennines in bad weather, crashed or force-landed. Three crew
members died.

Collier and Wilkinson write: ‘The biplane bomber’s unconventional

fixing of the fuselage to the upper wing, leaving a gap between it
and the lower wing, gave the Heyford an ungainly appearance. The
resulting distance from the ground of the cockpit did little to aid
the pilot’s view when landing’.

What was arguably worse was the fact that the Heyford had an
open cockpit, so that in bad weather the pilot was as reliant on the
navigational skills of the co-pilot as on his own capacity to see
though mist and darkness. Here then was a tragedy in the making
and it is amazing, in retrospect, that the RAF, having lost six out of
seven Heyfords in December 1936, did not ground the rest.

Searching for the spot

At the Edale Visitor Centre I asked if there was any record of the
crash on 22 July 1937. At least staff were aware of this crash and
many others in the dark peaks. ‘I want to find the exact spot
where the plane hit the hillside,’ I said.
There was a shaking of heads; after all, nature takes all things to
itself and the crash had occurred decades before. I was pointed in
the direction of Broadlee Bank Tor; and warned, ‘It’s a steep

Too impatient to find a path that would take me to the crest of

the Tor, I made a direct ascent, attempting to guess the flight path
of the Heyford. In the Collier-Wilkinson book there are pictures of
the site of the crash. A dry-stone wall had been destroyed; and
beyond, in the photo, very faintly, was the outline of distant hills.
These, I guessed, were situated to the west of Rushup Edge.

On the night of 22 July the charms of Edale were obscured by

darkness and storm. The Heyford was some 13 miles off course,
either flying along the valley from the direction of the Ladybower
Reservoire or more likely passing close to the top of Mam Tor to
the south; certainly dipping in to Edale and heading towards the

‘I looked out through the window and saw…’

Collier and Wilkinson quote a Mr. W. Dearnaly who lived near to
the pub in Edale, the Old Nag’s Head. He was on his way to bed
around 11pm when he heard the sound of an aero engine, low-
flying: ‘It was so unusual that I looked through the window and
saw a huge machine just skimming over the top of Rushup Edge,
heading for Kinder Scout.’

These were the days before radar, and it can only be guessed
whether the crew of the Heyford were aware, until the very last
minute, that they were flying off course.
According to Collier and Wilkinson, and to press reports after the
accident, the crew were letting off flares; later, official reports
asserted that this was not the case. Accident investigator Squadron
Leader Hugh Wake found, ‘having interviewed the most reliable
witnesses... the engines were running normally at the time of the
accident’. The plane ‘did not circle round or fire any lights…’

Bearing in mind the difficulty the pilot had of gauging the ground,
Sergeant Baker deserved high marks: with a little bit of luck, he
might well have dragged the plane clear of the ridge which awaited

My own ascent was more of a climb than a hike. The side of

Broadlee Bank Tor is frighteningly steep and in places the slopes
cave in as if there had once been excavations here. At the same
time, it tempts with false summits.

The Heyford was very probably only a matter of 50 feet from open
sky. Alas, the Dark Peak was to show no mercy. One wing of the
aircraft struck ground, precipitating it into the hillside.

Hands held up to their faces

Instantly the valley of Edale was lit by a fireball of such intensity
there was no chance of the crew surviving. The bodies of the six
airmen, disfigured beyond recognition, nevertheless retained the
defensive shape of their last living moments: some of the crew
were found to be crouched, with their hands held up to protect
their faces.

I scoured the high ground attempting to guess the exact spot of

the crash. At one of the ‘false crests’ I found a wall, demolished as
much by wind and weather as by any possible collision with a
crashing aircraft, but it did resemble the photograph in Dark Peak
Aircraft Wrecks 1 in which Rushup Edge across the valley was
framed by the rough curve of tumbled stone.

At that time in Edale there was a temporary camp for the

unemployed. Edward Beeley, committee member of the Hyde
League of Social Services, witnessing the crash and the flames that
engulfed the Heyford, called for volunteers. Collier and Wilkinson
quote him as saying, ‘Five men went with me and we took with us
a stretcher and an ambulance box. We did not follow the ordinary
path but made a beeline up the mountainside and it was hard
It took them almost an hour before they reached the wreck, and
they soon saw ‘that the occupants were past our aid’. What Edward
Beeley and his team of would-be rescuers saw ‘was a terrible
sight… and I hope I never see anything like it again’.

Collier and Wilkinson write, ‘With the first light of dawn the
appalling nature of the crash could be fully appreciated. The
Heyford had struck the slope some 50 feet below the summit of
the hill, ripping through the undergrowth, gouging a pit in the
black earth, before smashing through a dry stone wall’.

In his book, Peakland Air Crashes: The North (UK: Landmark

Publishing, 2006), Pat Cunningham describes the Heyford as
capable of ‘a speedy 143 mph (124 knots)’. It had earned the
nickname ‘Express’ and been ‘good value as a crew trainer’. It was
‘stable and pleasant to fly. But like all aircraft it needed airspace,
and when this was denied it, the results could be catastrophic; as
they were for the occupants of No 166 Squadron’s K6875 on 22
July 1937’.

Lucky for one

While all on board the Heyford died instantly, it could be said that
there was one lucky survivor. He was Pilot Officer D.M. Strong.
When K6875 had been allocated to 166 Squadron it was Officer
Strong whose duty it was to fly it, and to keep an inventory of all
equipment on the plane.

Collier and Wilkinson explain, ‘Although an officer, he [Strong]

normally flew as second pilot to Sergeant Baker, however having
crossed swords with the flight commander, he had been given
other duties’. His place on K6875 was taken by Sergeant McMillan.
Pilot Officer Strong survived the war, becoming an air commodore:
who knows what advancement the others may have won for
themselves in the war ahead if the Heyford had managed, in the
swirling storm, to skim instead of strike Broadlee Bank Tor.

‘…a slight error’.

After my Aunt’s death I found among her possessions a green
canvas wallet in which she had preserved newspaper cuttings
reporting the crash and letters of commiseration. In a letter to
Muriel Barker dated 29th July 1937, Squadron-Leader Wake, the
accident assessor, was at pains to correct what he seemed to see
as press misreporting: ‘I blame no one for the accident which was
due solely to the aircraft being slightly off its course and over high
ground. Had it been on its course it would have been clear of the
hills. This slight error could easily occur in conditions of low cloud,
and, as we know well, happens frequently to all of us.’
Pat Cunningham explains how easy it was in those days for an
aircraft to shift off course: ‘And if it is hard to credit that trained,
or even trainee, aircrew could stray so far off track, it has to be
remembered that they had few of the modern aids which now
more nearly make air navigation a precise science…should an
aircraft stray just one degree from its compass course, then having
travelled sixty miles it will be a full mile from its planned track’.

Bureaucracy: a callous edge

Whether Squadron-Leader Wake’s assurances set my Aunt’s mind
at rest must be left to conjecture; but other, more official letters
from the RAF, necessary as I’m sure they were, must have been
particularly distressing. One letter, dated 12 August 1937, dealt
with such mundanity as ‘preferential charges’, that is ‘Mess bill,
charges for lost RAF equipment etc.’.

I can only guess at my Aunt’s reaction to the sentence, ‘If you

would let us have back your husband’s great-coat as soon as
possible, these charges will be very small’. On 15 January 1938, a
Mr. A.W. Donald, for the Director of Accounts, wrote: ‘514997. Sgt.
Barker, J.W. (Deceased). Madam, I am directed to inform you that
a sum of £26.17.9 is held by this Department in respect of the
estate of your husband…I am, Madam, Your obedient Servant.’

Of more comfort to her was a letter of sympathy from the mayor

of Beverley, C.H. Burden. ‘We remember,’ he wrote on the day
after the Heyford crash, ‘that your late husband died on duty, and
we are grateful to those who bravely face dangers to fit themselves
for our defence’.

No commemoration
Many of us, in travelling through France or Belgium, have paused
at the war cemeteries, so lovingly preserved over the years.
Generations have been able to walk the ranks of white headstones,
simply inscribed, and muse on the sacrifice of so many, so young;
and upon the lives that they might have led.

Yet as I searched the high ground above Edale, cooled after my

climb by the October wind whistling across the valley, finding
nothing, I felt an acute sense of vicarious grief and loss – that
nothing remained, not even a white headstone buried in the
heather. I felt the victims of the K6875 crash deserved better;
indeed deserved something to commemorate them.
Could it be, though, that to pay material tribute would be to
saddle the Dark Peak with a daunting reputation, of an aircraft
graveyard, while at the same time casting a quizzical historical
spotlight on the lesser glories of the RAF?

After all, within the area of a few short miles disaster stood in
wait for the Swordfish P4223 at Heydon Head, January 1940 and
four days before Christmas, the Hampden X 3154 at Chapel-en-le-
Frith. 1941 proved a particularly bad year for Dark Peak crashes –
in January the Blenheim Z 5746 at Ox Stones, in February the
Wellington Z 8491 at White Edge Moor, in July at Crowden Tower –
Edale once more – the Blenheim 1V Z5870, in August the Defiant
N3378 at Bleaklow Stones and in December the Botha W5103 at
Round Hill.

‘Is there anywhere in the High Peak,’ I asked at the Edale Visitor
Centre, ‘where the deaths and injuries, and the colossal number of
crashes that took place, are officially recorded? Is there a plaque
to acknowledge the secrets hoarded in this lovely landscape?’

Apparently there is not; and in my view there should be; in

addition, that is, to the books written by Ron Collier with Roni
Wilkinson and Pat Cunningham which serve as impressive
monuments to the dead as well as providing invaluable
documentary evidence.

At the very least, one might expect a permanent tribute in good

Derbyshire limestone registering all the aircraft that crashed on the
Dark Peak and the names of those who died in the cause of King
and Country.

Shared grief
What is beyond commemoration and strains even at the powers of
record is the effect such tragically early deaths had on those left
behind. My Aunt was far from alone in her grief. She had kept a
very special letter, written only five days after the crash of the

This was from someone she did not know – a Mrs.Grace

Ramsden of Huddersfield. Her daughter had been married only
eleven weeks to Sergeant Pilot Wilkinson when he had met his
death in an RAF plane crash in the Lake District. In reaching out to
comfort Jim Barker’s widow, Mrs. Ramsden perhaps said it all; for
despite the loving comfort and support Dad and Mum could offer
their grieving daughter, ‘only time and her own brave spirit can
soften the blow’.
A PS is added: ‘My daughter has been going to write to you, but
didn’t know how she could comfort you, being so much in need of
comfort herself’.

How such words resonate down the years, stirring thoughts of

what might have been. Eventually on Broadlee Bank Tor I gave up
my search. I sat on the broken wall that might or might not have
been victim of the Heyford’s last moments so many decades ago.

In the valley below a group of hikers was setting out on the

Pennine Way. The Old Nag’s Head Inn, proud of its location in the
‘Switzerland of the Peak District’, promised another century of the
finest ales; and the breeze up from Edale seemed to whisper ‘Who
remembers? – not I!’

Postscript: the story continues

In 2002 Derbyshire Life magazine published a version of this
article. Suddenly my search for the site of the crash of the Heyford
was about to meet with success. Mr. Douglas Rowland of Chapel-
en-le-Frith, having read my piece, wrote informing me that as a
teenager, he, with his brothers, had visited the site of the crash
the day after it had happened.

He had rescued from the wreckage the plane’s brass data plate,
the Engine Particulars of the Rolls Royce Kestrel Series V1. It was
in perfect condition, dutifully cared for over the years by Douglas,
though the lower edge of the plate had been burnt into holes as a
result of the intensity of the fire that destroyed the Heyford.

Douglas kindly offered to take me to the site of the crash the next
time I was in Derbyshire. On a bright June day the two of us set off
from above the Information Centre in Edale to pay our respects.
Doug was turned 83 (he’s now 90), and the route up to Broadlee
Bank Tor was steep enough to tax a fit and energetic 20 year old,
but with many stops for breath on the ascent, we reached the still-
broken wall and the site where K6875 met its end.

There was indeed a kind of memorial – a circle of roughly
assembled stones, by unknown hands. There was a mesh of metal
parts and lodged among these were two crucifixes, one white, with
the word ‘Memories’ inscribed on it. As to what happened here,
who was killed on that fateful stormy night, or who had left these
sad traces of anguish and respect, there was no explanation.

It turned out that on my first visit to Broadlee Bank Tor I was

only a couple of hundred yards away from the scene of the crash.
Across from us, as Doug and I savoured the splendour of Edale, we
could see Rushup Edge over which the Heyford probably flew, 13
miles off course, its crew either desperately attempting to establish
the plane’s location or blissfully unaware of the fate that awaited

A coming home
After descending from Broadlee Bank, Douglas and I rested our
weary feet in the Old Nag’s Head. We surmised on how many
people’s lives had been altered for ever as a result of a ‘sight
On my return home to Kent I found a small parcel awaiting me,
mailed from Chapel-en-le-Frith. Douglas had made me a gift of the
precious data plate of the Heyford 6875. Framed, it now hangs in
pride of place, as polished as if it has only just been fitted – except
for the evidence of the flames that demolished the plane and its
crew. Beside it is the photograph of my Uncle Jim Barker, as real
to me as though he had penned this narrative himself.

Recommended reading
Ron Collier followed up Dark Peak Aircraft Wrecks 1 with a
supplementary volume, Wrecks 2. Pat Cunningham’s Peakland Air
Crashes: the North is impressively comprehensive and includes a
section on German aircraft crashes in the region, plus a couple of
pages dedicated to answering the question, Do Ghostly Aviators
Haunt Peakland’s Moors?, which he answers with deepest
scepticism, rejecting ‘this lurid sentimentalism that conjures up
spectral aviators’.

A retired aviator himself, Cunningham concludes by quoting Peter

Jackson, 36-years a part-time Peakland ranger and for 27 years a
mountain rescue team volunteer: ‘the Peakland moors encompass
many a truly beautiful mystique; but not a single mystery.’
Walkers interested in visiting the scenes of Peakland crashes will
find a trusty guide in John Merrill’s Dark Peak Aircraft Walks (Walk
& Write Publications, 2002).

James Watson
December 2009
Dedicated to the memory of Muriel Barker and her husband

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