Author's note.
It was the morning of Monday 7th May 1962. A few early risers were wandering about the the remains of a smashed airliner, trying to take in the destruction and come to terms with the chaos and confusion that had so recently come to this peaceful place. The site was open with a gaping hole in the wire netting of the RAF compound. The tracks of rescue vehicles, fire engines and visitors cars were clearly visible on the ground. A small boy quietly opened the back door of his parent's Morris Minor, climbed out and swiftly crossed the track, heading for the fence. After clambering up the bank and through the hole in the wire he set off to follow Dad, wherever he might be going. Suddenly the gorse bushes, which had formed a near impenetrable barrier to a five year old, opened into a vista of open hillside - and there in stark relief was a maelstrom of smashed aluminium, debris and wreckage. The child didn't go too far into the wreck but spent a long time examining larger parts that had broken free from the remains of the plane, being aware of the tragedy, but not fully understanding the significance of what had happened the day before. A wheel and tyre, the mass of coloured cables hanging out of the back of one of the smashed engines, the shattered remains of the fuselage and tail all provided particular interest. The other images, the black burned ground, bits of aluminium, smashed luggage, personal effects littering the site and the heavy smell of burned oil and plastic did not really have their full effect before the boy's parents realised he was missing and he was hurried back to the car.
I had seen rather a lot in those few minutes and have never forgotten.
Many years later I decided to discover what really happened. There followed a year of findings, revelations and 'happenings' - and some scarcely believable coincidences - perhaps there might be more to the story than 'controlled flight into terrain' as they say in the airline business. The precise details of how we obtained those crucial details that enabled the story to be pieced together are not really suitable for publication on the Internet, and add little to the published facts. However as the final part of my research, an e-mail was sent to one of the broadcast companies - we had hoped to do a documentary on the accident - and the person who received it was personally and very directly involved - closely related to one of the flight crew, and looking for answers that our research provided. If the message had not arrived on that day, he would never have received it. It seemed too that there was unfinished business that could perhaps be concluded by some kind of formal tribute to all those involved.
After this unexpected meeting, we began work on the second part of the project and the idea of a memorial website was discussed. Having written the text and loaded it onto the server, I returned to the hillside to photograph the old radar station. Looking out to sea and plotting the track where the Dakota had flown along the valley I said partly to Gill and partly to myself 'These people need a memorial up here'. It seemed impossible at the time. Then after the response to the site's launch on the 40th anniversary, and the increasing interest in the subject, together with the fantastic support of the survivors, relatives, aviation enthusiasts and historians - and of course Roger Bunney's behind the scenes work and dedication, it became a possibility.
You know the rest.
The author his and long suffering wife.