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About james

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    Sheffield Historian

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  1. Just had a look through my copy of 'A Hillsborough Camera' (JR Wrigley) and there's no picture of Hillsborough Baths- I would have thought if any book had a picture of them it would have been that one!!! Can't find anywhere on the internet to research either...
  2. How's about Dave Kilner? He's a Radio Hallam legend isn't he? I remember Radio Hallam was based in the City Centre when I was a kid, near the Sheffield Star building now? It moved to just off Herries Road in the 90's? Along with Classic Gold (is that station still going? Renamed?).
  3. ...Or too much watching Doctor Who! Anyway - I'll get a picture the next time I am in town!!
  4. Not sure what is happening to it now - JD Wetherspoon did apply for licensing for the venue - not sure of the outcome, there were a few objections. It was my understanding last year the Wetherspoons was to open the venue in November '06, but not heard anything since? Found the licensing meeting link: http://www.sheffield.gov.uk/your-city-coun...27th-march-2006 Not sure what it all means though.. EDIT: Just found it - It is to be renamed 'Rawson Spring' and is scheduled for opening as a Lloyds No.1 bar on 18 June 2007 http://www.jdwetherspoon.co.uk/pubfinder/d...utletNumber=730
  5. I went past it today... ...AND IT'S A GREEN BOX!!! I'm sure it used to be a Blue box (and I seem to have memories of it being a little further down the road) - but the Green box looks quite old? Anyway - there is a green police box by the side of the Town Hall now!
  6. There is one of the Redgates that was on the Moor, following it being bombed, on Picture Sheffield. As I remember the history of Redgates (I once read a load of info about it somewhere on the net) it started on The Moor and moved once or twice before settling where Sunwin House now is? I'll try and find more info.. It would seem that Redgates has had 3 locations: 1) Bottom of Ecclesall Road (when Ecclesall Road met The Moor, London Road, Cemetary Road and St. Mary's Gate with a roundabout - Redgates was a little way away from the junction) 2) Near top of Moor (Where Sports Soccer currently occupies, opposite Debenhams) 3) Furnival Gate (Where Sunwin House now occupies) It was a family business for some years until a gentleman bought it in the 30's - he was the chap responsible for it moving up the bomb-damaged Moor during the rebuilding process and turning it into the much grander scale that is remembered by many a kid-at-heart now. I'll try and find out more...
  7. You just mentioned the ONE word that really brings back loads of memories of childhood. 'Redgates' What a SUPERB store that was - I would only agree to go to town with mum if she would take me to Redgates. Loved the huge rack of Subbuteo stuff, as well as all the usual top-draw toys of the time. We were spilt at one bit too as I remember, as we had a 'Hamleys' virtually around the corner. I was like a kid in a toy-shop. Literally.
  8. Please tell me that website address is mis-spelled on purpose? 'compleat'?
  9. Has anyone ever written as many lyrics and songs about Sheffield? Here's one example from the recently repackaged and re-released 'Different Class' album (deluxe edition with an extra disc of bonus songs, like this one):
  10. Just found this - one of my memories of Cairo's (first time I went in?) - Radio One's 'MASSIVE Music Tour' programme (I've added a couple of pages from the programme of artists that featured at Cairo's): The tour was aimed mainly at the teen audience and was an afternoon gig on May [4th?] 1995 (exact date unknown to me, unfortunately and only gives generic dates in the programme - 4th is about the most accurate I can get it to from the generic dates and sketchy memory). The bands/artists that appeared at this gig at Cairo's [to my recollection] were: PRESENTER: PAUL ROSS DJ: NEIL JAMES Michelle Gayle Sean Maguire Those 2 Girls (Denise Van Outen in her early pop career) Deuce Ultimate Kaos Dana Dawson Richard Traviss Worlds Apart Optimystic Mary Kiani I'm almost certain I have a couple of flyers somewhere for old club nights at Cairo's (and Corporation who took the building afterwards) - If I find them I shall post them!
  11. If I went in and ended up coming out in a tunnel, I'd be vastly disappointed. I'd like to have travelled across space and time to another planet, along with a lovely assistant who called me 'The Doctor', have a robotic dog (I'd call him K-9) and eventually defeat some wierd part-robot-part-alien-brain beings. Hey, that sounds like a great idea for a TV show!!
  12. I've never seen any pictures of it - or indeed even the monument (surrounded by 10 trees, apparently, to signify each of the 10 dead crew). There are loads of accounts of the story if you look over the internet for them though - some fascinating reads from eyewitnesses and such.
  13. Hahaha!!! So did I!!! (I still do) It's still there (or was the last time I conciously looked) - I've always wanted to go inside it, see what it was like inside a Police Box, but it was always locked up. Someone once told me (don't know how true it was) that it was placed there during the miners strike so Police could be permenantly stationed where the strike was?
  14. One of my favourite - albeit tragic - Sheffield Wartime Stories. This would make a superb book or film, or even inspiration for a song (the title 'Mi Amigo' already has a ring to it), in tribute. Below is what seems a long story to post, but it's a good read - it has been abridged from a much longer story available on a BBC website (link at the bottom) As dusk fell on 22 February, 1944, a Flying Fortress fell from the sky over Sheffield, and crashed in woodland at the edge of a city park. In spite of the efforts of townsfolk, none of its crew of ten could be saved. Accounts of the incident were sparse from the beginning, and soon they became confused and embellished. Some of the mysteries surrounding the stricken aircraft's final hours could perhaps be resolved by the chroniclers of the formidable 8th Air Force. Some of them might never be explained. The paucity of information about the last flight of Mi Amigo has itself become part of the myth. Commentators have speculated that the truth is too harrowing to be lightly told. We should remember, though, that this was just one sorrow among a relentless litany of sorrows. More than 40 other aircraft, and more than 400 other airmen of the Mighty 8th, were lost on that very same day. No single tragedy could merit special attention. All of the telegrams were brief. Under such circumstances, the reminiscences that take the place of a more formal record have a poignant and intimate quality. For many years, the fate of Mi Amigo was almost unknown outside the families of her aircrew and the veterans of the Royal Air Force Association who diligently mark her anniversary. But some tales, even half-complete ones, possess a remarkable power. They endure quietly in the folklore of the community that bore witness, until they bloom in the imagination of succeeding generations. They bloom because they weigh on the heart and summon the spirit at one and the same time. This is such a story. David Harvey was not a native of Sheffield, but he had already been a resident there for fifteen years when he chanced upon a story that he found hard to believe. A book discovered in the Imperial War Museum's repository at Duxford said that a Flying Fortress had crashed in his home city, and moreover in a part of it that he knew well. Harvey was already a devoted researcher of the air war in Europe, and he was incredulous for two reasons. First, he knew that no planes of this type were stationed as far north as the Yorkshire city and that an off-course bomber returning home in distress would be expected to come down much closer to the east coast. Second, he couldn't understand why his friends (who were well aware of his interest) had never mentioned the incident. There was even supposed to be a memorial stone in a park where he had often taken his children to play. He went looking for it. The stone weighs half a ton, carries not one but two bronze plaques, stands about fifty metres from a busy café and is surrounded by ten oak trees deliberately planted to commemorate the lost airmen. In spite of this, it's deceptively easy to overlook. David Harvey didn't find it immediately, but when he did find it, he knew at once that he must tell the story. Harvey's deeply moving little book was published in 1997. It remains the only substantive public account of the legend of Sheffield's Flying Fortress. By around noon on that Tuesday in February, 1944, the 305th were over the coast of Denmark. The sky was blotted with the deadly black smoke-puffs of flak from 88mm anti-aircraft guns. Worse still, the cloud-cover was solid, and the bombers had little hope of locating their target. If the nature of the mission had been different, the bombers might have turned for home sooner. This time, though, it was imperative to maintain the threat, and so draw the teeth of the German fighter squadrons. The first wave of Focke Wulf 190 fighters came out of the cloud close to the formation, leaving the gunners little time to respond. Judging that manoeuvrability was now the most urgent need, the squadron leader jettisoned his bombs. The rest of his convoy immediately followed suit, and the unburdened bombers climbed and wheeled back out to sea. For a little while, the enemy aircraft disengaged. Close to the bottom end of Hunterhouse Road at Hunters Bar, Fred Nichols had an electrical repair shop. Jeff and Tony, for a while yet too young for their call-up, were working there that afternoon. The kids who would soon be playing football in the park were still at their lessons. Some of them might already have been thinking about those precious minutes of abandon between the school bell and the fall of darkness. In the streets nearby, there were bakers and bar-keepers, a dentist and a clergyman and many more who would all tell their stories in the days to come. For now, though, none of them can have imagined what they were destined to see. Big Week went well for the 305th. They deployed 300,000 tons of munitions for the loss of seven aircraft. Even the Alborg sortie, with a zero bomb-count, could be judged a success, since it prevented the interception of the raid on Rostock. Two planes didn't make it back from Denmark. 42/31409 went down into the sea, its engines crippled by sustained enemy fire. Mi Amigo also took heavy damage, but Kriegshauser resisted the Focke Wulfs' efforts to isolate his craft from the main formation. The plane was still airborne when the Germans fell away, with ammunition and visibility compromised. She was by now well out over the North Sea, heading west in dense cloud. Observers from neighbouring aircraft later gave a consistent, if detached, account. For whatever reason, Mi Amigo could not effect radio communication. More than one of her engines was misfiring, and her skin was in tatters. She was having difficulty maintaining altitude, and soon began to fall behind. There was no effective way to assist a bomber in this situation. Its crew could not bale out over water, since they would die of hypothermia within minutes if they entered the sea. The first battle was simply a matter of regaining land, and after that it would be down to luck and the skill of the pilot. The squadron leader did all that he could, by assigning one plane to try and nurse Mi Amigo home. That done, he lead the rest back to Chelveston at full speed. Mi Amigo was now almost alone. An hour before, the clouds had probably saved her. Now they became her nemesis. A tight escort was impossible because of the risk of collision. The nursemaid lost the stricken B17 some five hundred miles off the English coast, and, after a few minutes of tentative patrolling, the search had to be abandoned. Mi Amigo, it was assumed, had lost her struggle, and had plunged into the cold sea. Mi Amigo did not crash for another four hours. What happened in the intervening time will never be known. We can only try to piece together John Kriegshauser's dilemma from the known facts. At some point, she went off course, her flight ending a hundred miles north of her home base. This suggests that her navigational equipment was disabled, and possibly that the two crewmen in that area of the aircraft (the navigator and the bombardier) were incapacitated. The condition of the rest of the crew is unknown, though the fact that enemy fighters appear to have been able to sit on her tail and strafe her engines might mean that the tail-gunner and ball-turret gunner had also been lost. Kriegshauser must have been aware of another aspect of his crew's welfare, too. The six men behind the cockpit of a B17 were exposed to severe cold when flying at altitude (in fact they wore electrically-heated suits for this reason). Waist-gunners in particular sometimes literally froze onto the aircraft's fabric, and so injured men who could not support themselves were prone to suffer a horrible death. Mi Amigo's pilot may well have been faced with a dreadful choice. For the reason above, he would have wanted to fly at low altitude in warmer air. The damaged engines, on the other hand, might have denied him the power to ascend, so that the height he started with would be all he could ever have. We can surmise that the approach to the English coast was a slow, and perhaps irresistible, descent. The condition of the engines may also explain why Mi Amigo flew so far inland (around a hundred miles) without apparently trying to make a landing. The weather conditions give a further clue. Though it was still daylight, cloud cover was complete down to about 500 feet. Kriegshauser probably judged that he would have insufficient power to abort a blind approach, and so chose instead to fly on for as long as he could, hoping that the cloud would clear. It never did. It was just before five o'clock in Endcliffe Park. Youngsters chased their football in the failing light. They heard her before they saw her. Some accounts say that the aircraft tried to put down in that tiny green space, but that the pilot pulled up the nose when he saw the children, and hit the hill instead. Some say that it circled, that it rolled, that it clipped the trees even as it broke the cloud. Some say that the engines stuttered at the last. This can't all be true, and yet none of it really matters. All that can be said for sure is that photographs prove that the aircraft was pointing down the hill when it crashed. If Kriegshauser's last act was to save the footballers, he carried it out by bringing the plane down too soon, rather than by over flying the field. Mi Amigo shed her tail, and slewed to a halt among the trees, her wings and fuselage more or less intact. Fire broke out internally, but for the first couple of minutes the astonished onlookers were able to draw close. The children were shooed away, since at least one man's corpse was thrown clear, though no public record identifies him. Some observers describe cries from within. Some say that they begged for help, and others that they pleaded with would-be rescuers to get away. One young Sheffielder said he tried to pull an airman clear, but the man's legs were trapped and the flames consumed him. Nobody seems to have considered the possibility of live bombs on board. It was only once the fire took hold, and ammunition began to crack and whine, that the huddle of people on the hill dispersed in search of shelter. The inferno, when it came, was shocking in its intensity. An hour after the crash, as the last natural light faded away, the remains of Mi Amigo were ashes and blackened shards of metal, and all hope had gone. There is an annual service on the Sunday closest to 22 February. Wreaths are laid at the crash site. The service is read in St Augustine's at Brocco Bank. The anniversary is kept by the Royal Air Force Association. Jeff Hawkins was one of the young electrical apprentices at Fred Nichols'. His account is especially coherent and eloquent. He describes the immediate aftermath but also the scene three days later, when the authorities re-opened the park and children combed the slope for souvenirs. The clearance of debris seems to have been slapdash, for Jeff himself recovered a broken watch, stopped at two minutes past five, and someone else found a misshapen signet ring. The stream at the bottom of the bank yielded a pair of flying goggles. Charles Tuttle, Harry Estabrooks and Maurice Robbins still lie in the American Military Cemetry at Madingley, Cambridgeshire, along with nearly four thousand of their countrymen who gave their lives in the defence of Europe between 1942 and 1945. The other seven were interred here briefly, too, but their remains were later reburied in the land of their families. There are at least two h2g2 Researchers, one American and one English, who possess a copy of David Harvey's little book. This Entry can't add anything to that account, and it might never have been written, but on the evening of 5 November, 2005, the Englishman drove past Endcliffe Park, and there were trails of fire and showers of sparks in the sky above the fateful hill. Full story: http://www.bbc.co.uk/dna/h2g2/A7563783