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| 30 Jun 2017 | |
| Announcements |
| BROWN, William King, (Bill) Died peacefully in his sleep, in hospital, on Friday 2 June 2017, aged 96. He will be greatly missed by his nephew Iain Kirkman, Gillian Kirkman and their family, and his many friends at Tonbridge School. David Faithfull writes: Bill Brown maintained strong links with Tonbridge school ever since he left in 1939, and in recent years was a regular and well-known visitor. He would come two or three times a year, staying in School House (where he had been as a boy) and visiting various departments, where he would captivate staff and boys alike with his stories of his time at Tonbridge, and of his service during the second world war. Bill studied Physics at Cambridge, and after the war worked as an engineer and latterly as a government scientist in Naval Intelligence (a role which, true to his establishment loyalty, he refused to talk about right until the day he died). So it was natural that the department of Design, Technology & Engineering (DTE) would become one of the essential stops on every visit, and it was as his DTE guide that I first met him some seven years ago. After enduring the obligatory show-casing of the department, Bill would join me in my office where we would sit and chat until it was time to take Bill to his next ‘appointment’. We talked technical, of course; but we also talked about his exploits during the war. Bill was a Mosquito pilot with 142 squadron, Pathfinders, based at Gransden Lodge in Cambridgeshire. Their role was to carry out advance bombing raids and drop flares to identify bombing sites for the heavy bombers that were to follow. I had often heard – and occasionally used – the term “man and machine in perfect harmony”; but here was palpable evidence that it could really happen. The way Bill talked about flying his Mosquito (call sign “K-King”) showed that they must have operated as one, as a single entity, each acutely sensitive to the status of the other. In his consistently self-effacing way Bill never claimed to be doing anything other than “his job”, and the notions of bravery or heroism were anathema to him. After the war, following a stint as a flying instructor in California, Bill worked for a company specializing in fuel systems engineering, and his extraordinary memory meant that he was able to talk me through, in detail, some of the complex research investigations that he took part in. After many successful years there he was recommended for, and took up, a position with Royal Naval Intelligence, the bit of his life that none of us know anything much about. All Bill would tell me was that his work was “to do with the cold war”. Bill had a cheeky sense of humour, and a tendency to make very non-PC remarks. I would often tell him “Bill – you really shouldn’t say that!” at which point a knowing grin would appear, the effect of which was to immediately dissipate any awkwardness on the part of the quip’s recipient. For some six months before he died, Bill and I spent a good deal of time together in conversation, and during these sessions, often serenaded by Viennese music – which he loved – playing gently in the background, I learned considerably more about the man, the RAF officer and the scientist. He had a tremendous stock-pile of stories in all three areas, and a great deal of knowledge about almost everything (though his close friend in Rustington, where he lived, told me that she did occasionally have to bring his knowledge up to date somewhat). In the middle of June, a few days after my last, very brief chat with Bill, he died peacefully in hospital in Worthing at the age of 96. Bill’s only close relative (his nephew) and family, will miss “Uncle Bill”, and so will his many friends in Rustington. So too will all those at the school who were fortunate enough to meet him, or just to see him in his very old gabardine raincoat being taken round the school which he loved so much. To say that Bill was unique would be a bit meaningless; we all are. But Bill was a very special blend of intelligence, humour, dedication to duty, scientific accomplishment and – sorry Bill – bravery. (Sc 34-39) |
