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Only the Makers NameOverlay E-Book Reader
Ray Blyth

Only the Makers Name

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Produktdetails

Verlag
Dolman Scott Publishing
Erschienen
2012
Sprache
English
Seiten
198
Infos
198 Seiten
ISBN
978-1-905553-98-3

Kurztext / Annotation

Only The Makers Name is the poignant and reflective memoir of acclaimed Flying Instructor Ray Blyth.
Spanning the years of his childhood growing up in a small terraced house on the outskirts of King?s Lynn in the county of Norfolk surviving the Kings Lynn Blitz as well as many childhood adventures, he writes vividly of his early life underscored by his undying ambition to fly.
Inspired by an early Fun Flight on the beach at Hunstanton with his father, Family tragedy is soon to strike leaving him alone to set forth on the fulfillment of his dreams.
Following many years of hard effort he becomes a flying instructor clocking up thousands of hours of flying time, but not without sacrifices of many kinds.
A serious air accident leads to many months in hospital , and as he begins the long and agonising road to recovery uncertain he will ever be able to fly again he is faced with a recuperation process that demands every bit of his resourcefulness as he is tested to his emotional and physical limit time and again.
An amusing sometimes hilarious biography for enthusiasts of flying whatever your background this is also the story of one mans brave fight against all the odds while retaining dignity and compassion.
?There I was old boy, upside down with nothing on the clock bar the maker?s name.?

Textauszug

CHAPTER 1.
In the beginning.

I lay on my back unable to move any part of my body with the exception of my right arm. Although heavily sedated I could still feel the waves of pain that surged up my legs and through my body with monotonous regularity. The drugs had the effect of detaching the pain in some way, it was still there, but somehow didn't seem to matter. I had been in hospital for three months, and virtually unable to move, I had memorised the number of bricks, windowpanes, and every countable detail of the small ward I was in.

The first six weeks, or thereabouts, had been spent in the intensive care unit of the Radcliffe Infirmary Oxford. Memories of that period were blurred and confused: Kind faces, sympathetic voices, bottles of red and clear liquids hanging from odd shaped structures over my head, severe pain, and the relief that came shortly after periodic injections somewhere in my back. Day and night seemed jumbled into one, and I had little idea of what was happening.

But now, in the small ward adjoining the main section of 'C' ward in the Radcliffe Hospital, I was able to think more clearly. Of one thing I was certain, I had been in a serious aeroplane accident, and was lucky to be alive.

Several surgeons had taken a look at me since my arrival, and to date I had undergone two major operations on my legs. I wasn't quite sure of the full extent of my injuries at that time, but I did remember with crystal clarity that I had been mentally prepared for the possibility of having one, or maybe both of my legs amputated. The ward sister assured me that the surgeons would do everything possible to avoid amputation, and I would now be in the hands of Mr J.D. Morgan who was one of the finest consultant orthopaedic surgeons in the country, a man whom, over the next two long and painful years, I grew to respect and trust implicitly.

It wasn't long before my confused mind cleared sufficiently for me to comprehend the unthinkable: I would probably never fly again. From then on that single thought was foremost in my mind. In reality, I should have been more concerned with the possibility that I may never be able to walk again, which was probably much nearer the mark!

Drugs play peculiar tricks on a person's mind: terrific highs, devastating lows, depressions and hallucinations, but today I felt a kind of calmness, and I was able to think a lot more clearly than at any time since the accident.

Prior to the crash I had been the Chief Flying Instructor of 'E' flight at Oxford Air Training School where we trained pilots for many of the worlds airlines.

Having been born in a very poor area of King's Lynn during the slump of the 1930s, it had been a long arduous struggle over many years for me to realise my childhood dream of becoming a pilot. Now it seemed that all had been taken away from me in a matter of seconds.

How had all this begun? My thoughts wandered back in time to my earliest childhood memories...

I was born on the 30th January 1931 in a small terraced house on the outskirts of King's Lynn in the county of Norfolk. My earliest memories were of the very narrow cobbled street where I lived, and the smell of freshly baked bread from the small bakery on the corner. I clearly remember the old gas lamps that lit our tiny street in Winter when the frost sparkled on the windowsills and heavy snow deadened the sound of horse drawn vehicles busy about their business as Christmas time approached. Those happy times were indeed my earliest cherished memories.

Number five Wellington Street was a small terraced house with two very small rooms on the ground floor known in those days as the "front room" where no-one was allowed to set foot except on Sundays and Christmas Day, and the living room.

A small outhouse had been attached to the rear of our house that served as the kitchen and doubled as a bathhouse when requ

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