“His aircraft is
his last resting place”: the affective archaeology and emotional materiality of
Hudson A16-191 in Proceedings of the Second
International Conference on Aviation Archaeology and Heritage – November 2024, edited by Hunter W.
Whitehead, Natasha J. Heap, Daniel J. Leahy, BAR Publishing, 31 March 2026
Below is the unedited, submitted
text of the above chapter.
It addresses military death and bereavement, and contested
memorialization. It refers to potentially distressing subjects such as the
presence of unrecovered remains and the emotions of death and bereavement.
Unless otherwise specified, narrative of
the crash and aftermath and all quotations are taken from court of inquiry
proceedings and witness statements on National Archives of Australia: A11083,
906/59/P1 and the confirmatory memorandum on NAA:A705, 163/121/179.
*****
A detachment of
three Hudsons from 32 Squadron, Royal Australian Air Force (RAAF) were flying
from Townsville to Bowen, Queensland at the conclusion of a tiring period of
anti-submarine patrols. Flying conditions were bumpy, and, as two of the
Hudsons changed positions in formation, they collided. A16-194’s pilot applied
hard back-stick and went into an open spiral spin. He levelled out at about 100
feet from the ground, then crash landed, sliding to a standstill on the edge of
a salt pan. 194’s crew survived but it later exploded. Meanwhile, A16-191
plummeted. Its burning tailplane was badly damaged; pieces flew off as it
descended. A witness watched the Hudson crash into mangroves about eight miles
from Giru, a small township near the coast. Flame and smoke billowed skywards.
Sergeant Maurice Cooper, the pilot; observer Sergeant Herbert Gillam; and the
two air gunners, Pilot Officer John Jewell and Sergeant James (Jim) Herman,
were all killed. Their mortal remains were not recovered.
Aviation—or aeronautical—archaeology is
concerned with the “material remains” of flight; objects related to aircraft,
aviation equipment and infrastructure, and aircrew (Shanahan 2018:1). It is
increasingly interested in the intersection of aviation materiality and human
behavior to better “understand social, cultural, and technological aspects of
the past” (Whitehead 2023:1). Daniel J. Leahy has noted that “an aircraft wreck’s value as an historic
artefact from which information about the aircraft itself and the circumstances
of its loss cannot be understated” (Leahy 2021:32). The “emotional turn” has influenced how we interpret this historic object
and its aviation materiality. As Peter Hobbins (2019:43) notes, physical
artefacts “can evince both the affective experience of flying and the
historical geography of airspace.” Indeed, while recognizing that enthusiasts
and souvenir hunters have threatened the integrity of many sites, Vince Holyoak
and John Schofield (2002:2) highlight the emotional and cultural significance
of aircraft crash sites—their status as sacred sites and war graves, their
commemorative value, and their significance for the bereaved as last resting
places.
A16-191’s
crash zone is a well-known cultural landscape. In the last two decades, it has
been the subject of radio and television programs and newspaper articles. It has
been visited frequently and wreckage has been photographed, graffitied,
collected, displayed, and appropriated for aircraft restoration. But the site
has not been archaeologically or forensically interrogated. I am not an
archaeologist and did not walk A16-191’s crash zone. My approach in this paper
is interdisciplinary—I draw on historical, personal, and photographic records
and interpret objects of material culture to explore the affective dimensions
of aerial warfare and its aftermath. Following Sarah Tarlow (2000:713–746), who
explores the archaeology of death and burial and has argued the place of
emotion in archaeology, this paper focuses on Hudson A16-191’s affective
archaeology and emotional materiality. I discuss the tension between those who
believe the crash zone is a war grave, sacred site, and place of sacrifice and
should remain untouched, and those who have removed wreckage for museum
exhibits and repurpose. I also examine Giru’s Bomber’s Memorial, an artefact of
emotional heritage dedicated to A16-191’s crew.
Devastating
loss
Flight Lieutenant
John Kingsford-Smith pinpointed wreckage from the air late in the day of the
crash. Situated in a mangrove swamp, it was isolated and difficult to access;
Kingsford-Smith deemed it “almost impassable country.” The next day, a land
party of three civilians accompanied by dogs travelled by car, then boat, and
then foot to the wreckage. Kingsford-Smith, ferrying RAAF Station Townsville’s
senior medical officer, Squadron Leader Ian Cuming, to the site, directed them
to it by air. The five men witnessed wreckage strewn across a radius of three
or four hundred yards. Cuming concluded that the Hudson had broken up in the
air because parts of the turret, tailplane, and nose cone were unburnt. Some
wreckage lay in a large circular hole which Cuming surmised had been created
when A16-191’s bombs exploded on impact.
The
search did not extend beyond about 100 yards of the wreckage. The party found
secret papers, a kit bag, a parachute bag, the pilot’s identity disks, and a
few other personal items. The dogs also sniffed out “small unidentifiable
fragments of a human body.” Such “little evidence,” Cuming determined,
suggested that the airmen had been “badly smashed up:” it was “not enough to
account for the four occupants.” In spite of a thorough search as far as they
could penetrate, the party failed to locate any further human remains.
An
accident inquiry convened to examine the circumstances surrounding the accident
found that all of A16-191’s occupants “were killed, presumably instantaneously
although no complete bodies were recovered.” (Findings of the Court 1942).
Because it was not concerned with the unrecovered human remains, the court did
not pose the question of what happened to them. Accordingly, witnesses did not
reveal what they had done with the small fragments. An RAAF memorandum compiled
four months later states that “no burial was carried out” (Confirmatory
memorandum 1942). Yet the Department of Air’s casualty section implied an in situ aircraft interment. Advising
that it “was impossible to recover” any mortal remains “for burial” and
extending the Department’s condolences to the Herman family, the secretary,
Melville Langslow observed that “It will be a source of pride to you that … his
aircraft is his last resting place” (Langslow 25 July 1942).
Twenty-eight-year-old
Jim Herman from Adelaide, South Australia, came from a close-knit family. His
parents were still reeling from the recent death of his brother in similar
circumstances when they received word that their eldest son had also been killed.
Jim’s sweetheart, Barbara Wheaton, “vividly” recalled the day the family received
the telegram. The Hermans were shattered. “The loss of two sons” and brothers
“in three months” was overwhelming (Hillam 2003a). “[I]t really devastated the
family” (Jill Sheppard “Lost men, lost planes” 2008).
Australians
are habituated to burials of the absent dead in faraway graves. For much of our
military history, our war dead were not repatriated for home town burial
(Alexander and Ariotti 2025). “Distant grief” was the foundation of our
post-Great War bereavement culture (Ziino 2007). As such, the Herman family
accepted official notification that Jim’s Hudson was his last resting place.
They grieved his death, but did not suffer the same anguish of uncertainty they
felt in relation to his brother who had been declared “missing but believed to
have lost his life;” his remains never “recovered for burial” (Langslow 3 April
1942). The Hermans drew comfort from Langslow’s sympathetic words; from the
belief that the mangrove crash site was “Jim’s grave … and the grave and final
resting place of the other three boys” (Jill Sheppard “Lost men, lost planes”
2008). They thought it fitting that Jim was interred with his comrades, within
the wreckage of their aircraft, the symbol of their service and commitment to
the cause. More than that, the Great War dead were buried close to where they
had fallen (Ziino 2007:2–3). In their emotional imaginaries, the wreck site
interment accorded with that tradition of battlefield burial.
Sites
of remembrance
After Barbara
Wheaton recovered from the original shock, “24th May became a day to remember
with sadness.” “[L]ife went on,” however. She spent three years in the WAAAF,
married, raised four daughters, was widowed, and married again, both times
happily. But Barbara—now
Hillam—never forgot Jim
(Hillam 2003a).
In
the late 1990s, Barbara’s daughter, Kay, started researching the crash. Old
timers shared their personal experiences of 24 May 1942. One or perhaps more of
the civilian searchers had told
locals that human remains had been “buried underneath the wing of the plane”
(“Lost men, lost planes” 2008) and, over the decades, those stories became
absorbed into local lore, shaping collective memories and the town’s abiding
belief that the aircrew’s mortal remains had been buried under the Hudson’s
starboard wing (Bruce Hurst 19 April 2024, pers. comm.).
The bodily residue of A16-191’s crew is believed to be buried beneath the starboard wing. As well as marking the interment, the wing clearly shows the red, white, and blue pre June 1942 RAAF roundel. 7 April 1983, unknown RAAF photographer. Source, Barbara Hillam via Jill Sheppard.
On
behalf of Barbara, Kay lobbied the Giru townsfolk to establish a memorial to
A16-191’s crew. They readily agreed. The creation of a new “sacred place”
(Inglis 1998) in Brolga Park, close to the town’s war memorial, an existing
commemorative space where Anzac Day services are conducted, belonged to
Australia’s great tradition of citizen-initiated memorials arising in the wake
of the Great War, and continuing after the Second. These became surrogate
graves for the absent dead, providing a place for the bereaved to mourn, pray,
and remember their loved ones. A “memorial is one way we could pay tribute” to
the dead airmen, and to “remember the four,” stated Ennio Gazzola, secretary of
Giru’s Lion’s Club, the memorial’s designer (unattributed clipping May 2003).
Thomas Laqueur (2015:413, 13) maintains that in the “age of necronominalism”
bodies “bereft of names … are unbearable.” So too are unmarked monuments. The
names of A16-191’s dead were inscribed on the Giru memorial, ensuring they will
not be forgotten.
The
Bomber’s Memorial was dedicated on 24 May 2003. Barbara wept as she stood in
front of the “wonderful monument” (Hillam 2003a), overcome by memories and
emotion (Chandler 2003). Earlier that morning, she had conducted a personal
ritual of remembrance. She stood at the launching area from where boats travel
into the mangroves, including the May 1942 search party. “It was so beautiful
and peaceful,” a powerful geographical and spatial connection to her former
sweetheart (Hillam 2003b). Later, at the ceremony, wreckage and monument became
one in Barbara’s emotional imaginary as she “sincerely” thanked “the people of
Giru” for “their guardianship … of this sacred site.” With these words, we
realize that Barbara was not solely present in Brolga Park. In her imagination
and heart, she was at Jim’s last resting place. As proxy for Jim’s surviving
siblings as well as the extended Herman family, Barbara later emotionally
connected them to Jim’s places of memory through her account of her
experiences, copies of her address, photographs of the event, and images of the
wreckage, given to her by members of the RAAF who had previously visited the
site. This, she hoped, would “quietly close the chapters on the last 61 years”
(Hillam 2003a).
Bomber’s Memorial, Brolga Park, Giru. Dedication ceremony 24 May 2003. Unknown photographer. Source, Barbara Hillam via Jill Sheppard.
In
early 2009, Channel 7’s Sunday Night
program filmed a segment entitled “The Tomb Raider” to be aired on the Anzac
Day weekend. It featured A16-191 and focused on the removal of aircraft parts
and artefacts relating to the dead crew. Emphasizing the human element of the
fatal crash, Channel 7 invited Jim Herman’s niece, Jill Sheppard, and a nephew
of pilot Maurice Cooper, to attend a short commemoration. Recent rains had made
A16-191’s wreck site inaccessible so the service, conducted by an air force
chaplain, was held in Hudson A16-194’s debris field (Sheppard 2009a). (This was not made clear to viewers.)
The airmen’s family members laid wreaths and
poppies on a large piece of 194’s wreckage. It was not A16-191 but at that
moment it became 191, providing an emotional connection to the dead airmen and
their shattered aircraft. Jim’s niece was transported, through imagination and
empathy, to the aircrew’s final moments. “I can only imagine what went through
their minds as the plane went down.” She was visibly affected by the landscape.
“It’s very moving,” she reflected. “Just the incredible loneliness and
remoteness” (“The Tomb Raider” 2009). Following the service, they helicoptered
to A16-191 and hovered long enough for the family representatives to drop their
wreaths onto one of the Hudson’s wings. Later, they visited the Bomber’s
Memorial and placed four poppies near the RAAF insignia (Sheppard 2009).
After the remembrance ceremony, family representatives were flown to A16-191’s wreck zone where they dropped wreaths. The area had recently received heavy rainfall and the wreckage was partially submerged. 15 April 2009, photographer Jill Sheppard. Source, Jill Sheppard.
There
was an element of contrivance about a media-arranged ceremony at a different
crash site to be broadcast as part of a program exposing a “tomb raider”, but the
emotion of participants was genuine. Moreover, the post-ceremony wreath
dropping was a private, unfilmed, ritual of remembrance, and like the Bomber’s
Memorial dedication, had an element of closure. A16-194’s wreckage, standing in
for that of A16-191, emotionally linked the representatives (and by proxy,
their families) to the dead airmen and their shattered aircraft. The affective
archaeology of both crash sites was revealed.
RAAF site visit
2008
The Giru
community have long told stories of human remains located in and beyond the
crash zone (Andersen 2002; ARES 2008). In February 2008, ABC journalist, Ian
Townsend, visited the site to record a segment for his Background Briefing program, “Lost planes, lost men”. He was
accompanied by a local who claimed that, in the early 1960s, he had seen “toe bones, in a boot, and a part of skull, the top part
of the skull” about half a mile from the wreckage. He “never touched them, left
them as they were”—unburied (“Lost men, lost planes” 2008).
Shortly
after the program was aired, another local contacted Air Force noting that
A16-191’s wreckage “is being pilfered bit-by-bit.” Of greater concern, however,
was the presence of bodily remains and that the “site is, in fact, a grave and
it is being desecrated.” He requested that the area “be consecrated by an appropriate RAAF clergyman” and marked
as a “gravesite” (ARES 2008). Air Force, however, did not endorse site
commemoration, consecration, or marking: they considered that signage would do
little to deter pilfering (COORD2 2008). (The site remains unmarked.) They did,
however, deem it appropriate to “Conduct search for human remains”; attempt “to
confirm anecdotal reports of [their] location”; and “determine the viability of
recovering” them (Acting COORD2 2 December 2008).
The team, comprising air force
personnel and a local who believed he could lead them to the place of burial,
was dispatched in late 2008. Despite its remit, it did not consist of
forensic experts or archaeologists (Robert 2014). Their task was daunting. The crash zone was large.
Wreckage was widely dispersed and bordered by mangroves. The searchers
helicoptered to A16-191’s bulkhead. Half an hour later, they were off to the
wing section. The party of four could not overturn it, nor pull it “to one side
for further inspection … underneath” (Acting COORD2 2008). We are not sure
whether they tried to move one wing or both as the report is ambiguous. The
survey team took photographs of the wreckage and recorded GPS
coordinates for the three dispersed locations containing the bulkhead section,
wing section, and wheel/brake assembly. The mangroves were impenetrable so, after almost two hours at the site,
they left.
The survey team found no buried or scattered
remains within the wreck zone or beyond. The leader later concluded that “If
any human remains are still present … a thorough … exploration for recovery …
would be very difficult.” Unpredictable tidal waters, distance from Townsville,
problematic access and “thick mangrove terrain”, mud, crocodiles and
mosquitoes, and the possible presence of unexploded ordnance meant a mechanized
site survey (given the limitations of human-powered excavation) would be a
logistical and safety nightmare. As such, the team leader did not endorse
further investigation (Acting COORD2 2008). While the wing grave does not fall
within the Office of Australian War Graves’ official definition of either a
collective or individual war grave, “Air Force considers it to be the ‘natural
grave’” of A16-191’s crew. “As such, Air Force intends to leave the site
undisturbed as a sign of respect for [those] who died there” (Supplementary
advice 2014). In the decades since the site visit, Air Force’s position has not
changed. Its remit is to identify missing aircraft—which A16-191 is not—and, in light of credible evidence, recover
remains only where it is possible and practical to do so (MacGregor et al.
2021).
Affective
transgression
Subject to
natural weathering and frequent flooding, A16-191’s wreckage has deteriorated.
The cultural landscape has also been irrevocably changed due to human
interaction. Despite its inaccessibility, it has been visited frequently. Parts have been grafittied and
tampered with. Comparing a 1980s visit with one in 2003, a former air force
member noted that “most of
the wreckage … outside the mangroves had been removed” (Bruce Hurst 12
April 2024, pers. comm.).
Some of those parts are
now lost,
some have been acquired into museum collections and for restoration. Exhibited
aircraft wreckage can legitimately provide a touchstone to historical events
(Ireland et al. 2020:15). Curatorial interpretation for exhibition or
education, can be a better way of honoring memory than leaving them to degrade
naturally or through human interference. Indeed, this view was conveyed by RAAF
personnel to Jill Sheppard, representing the Herman family, at a meeting in
August 2009 to discuss the Giru wreckage (Sheppard 2009b). For some,
restoration to tell another story, enabling others to be remembered, would be a
fitting fate and, indeed, approximately 75 per cent of the tailplane has been
incorporated into the Queensland Air Museum’s Ventura A59-96 restoration. But
telling the Ventura’s story obliterates A16-191’s Hudson identity, its 32
Squadron service career, and its connection to the deaths of Cooper, Gillam,
Herman, and Jewell (Ireland et al. 2020).
Exhibition
can also be ethically problematic if the items on display are closely connected
to the dead and their burial site, or if they are obtained unscrupulously:
“unregulated souveniring or profiting,” wrote the RAAF chaplain who officiated
at both the 2003 and 2009 ceremonies, “denigrates the memory of those who died”
(Melrose 2002). While Channel 7’s Sunday
Night program included a memorial service, its main focus was on the
ethical implications of artefact removal from a place of burial. One of the
scenes was filmed at the then RAAF Museum Townsville (now RAAF Base
Townsville Aviation Heritage Centre). Here, the viewer sees a civilian volunteer presenting items
held in the museum’s collection, emphasizing their connection to the dead
airmen and the wing burial. He showed a section of the fowler flap which, he
said, “was sitting on top of that painted wing section,” and “a landing-light
housing from one of the wings—that actually comes
from the gravesite,” he added. He held up an object, “a human reminder”
of the crash. “Part of a flying boot. This is the remains of one of the
aircrew’s flying boots.” The program host, making it clear he was speaking to the eponymous “tomb raider,”
later (erroneously) declared that the site was “a war grave because there are
four young men buried there.” He questioned the curator’s right to “take
artefacts and pieces of that wreckage away desecrating the site.” But, the
volunteer museum curator told viewers, “[W]hen we originally brought this stuff
here it was to actually display it so we could actually honor these men.” The
relics may have been intimately linked to aircrew death but the museum
recognized their commemorative value. The curator’s actions, however, were
pilloried. One interviewee dubbed him a “grave robber.” Another stated that the
Hudson was the airmen’s “coffin.” “[W]hen you take a piece” of the aircraft,
“you’re taking part of their coffin. That is a terrible thing to do.” (All
quotes from “The Tomb Raider” 2009.)
When
the Herman family saw the sole of a flying boot on their television screens,
they were appalled. For Jim Herman’s siblings, family representative Jill
Sheppard explained, it was “pretty confronting stuff” (Shearer 2009). The
memory of their brother’s death was still raw, even sixty-six years later. On
screen, Jim’s younger sister Jessie flipped through old photo albums. “I still
think about it—it’s being
a sacred site”. For her, the wreckage was a place of sacrifice: “They gave
their lives at that young age.” The thought that human remains had been
tampered with, or removed, was shocking. “I wish it could just remain as a
sacred site. I hate to think it will be pillaged.” Jessie implored prospective
visitors to “Please respect people who gave their lives for their country and
leave things alone” (Jessie Morgan “The Tomb Raider” 2009). Jim’s sister’s plea
recalls Charles Bean’s reaction when encountering “relics of men” on the Great
War battlefields. “It seems to me”, Bean opined, “that the finest memorial of
these men was that they lay where they lay, marking the lines of [their]
astonishing struggle” (Bean 1948:68). Indeed, Jessie and the extended Herman
family consider the wreckage to be a powerful memorial (“Lost men, lost planes”
2008).
Newspaper
articles published after the program aired reiterated Jessie’s entreaty. They
claimed that “war remains” had been looted by “scavengers” (Shearer 2009). The
“sacred site”, the “gravesite’ (“Sacred site” 2009) had been desecrated
(Shearer 2009; Andersen 2009). The crew’s last resting place may not officially
be a war grave but technicalities do not matter. Emotionally, A16-191 is a war
grave, a sacred site and a place of sacrifice. It is a site of affect. Removing
aviation relics or bodily remains from such hallowed ground is affectively
transgressive.
Culturally
and historically significant materiality
Although A16-191
is Jim Herman’s last resting place and should be honored as such, the Herman
family also recognizes it as an object of cultural heritage. In April 2010,
representing Jim’s surviving siblings as well as the extended Herman family,
Jill Sheppard applied for A16-191’s crash site to be entered as a place in the
Queensland Heritage Register. Jill described the crash, noting that the site
had been degraded over the decades, detailed 32 Squadron’s anti-submarine
activities in the area, and stated that it not only told the story of
Queensland’s frontline defense, but that A16-191, with its anecdotal reports of
a wing burial, was possibly “unique” in that it is a Second World War
“land-based wreckage and gravesite.” She also highlighted its heritage
importance to the people of Giru who had established a memorial to the crew,
and who had “grown up with the stories about the crash.” She noted that “the
local nomenclature of Bomber Creek is a constant reminder of the presence of
the wreckage and the remains of the crew” (Sheppard 2010). Her application
failed as she “did not demonstrate that this crash is a WWII site of state
heritage significance.” The delegate, however, acknowledged A16-191 as a
“cultural resource” of “local heritage importance” which “is afforded special
protection” because it lies within a national park (Burns 2010).
The
Hudson’s broader heritage value might not be recognized but its materiality is
historically significant. The RAAF acquired 247 Hudsons between January 1940 and May
1942. Constructed by the Lockheed Aircraft Corporation, they were part of the
American Lend Lease defense aid consignment. Hudson Mark III serial
number A16-191 was delivered on 5 April 1942. It was assigned to 32 Squadron on 11 May
(Richardson and Wood 2021:95–99). Globally, only a few complete Hudsons exist.
Australian examples include wrecks at Hyland Bay and Milingimbi Island (NT);
two restored machines at Temora Aviation Museum (NSW) and the Australian War
Memorial (ACT) (the former is flight-capable and is part of the RAAF 100
Squadron Temora Flight Collection); and two partial Hudsons in storage at RAAF
Museum, Point Cook (VIC). A16-191’s extant parts in the RAAF Townsville
Aviation Heritage Centre tell their own story of service and death. The wreck
zone wings, however, have significance not just as a marker for a grave but as
an exemplar of a specific period scheme: the upper wing surface white, blue and red roundel, though faded, is
evident. Red started disappearing from Allied camouflage and marking schemes in
the pacific theatre after June 1942; both the Temora and AWM Hudsons sport the
blue and white roundel.
While many Australian
terrestrial wreck sites have been archaeologically surveyed (Jung 2016;
Aitchison et al. 2019), A16-191 has not. Photos of the wreckage and debris
field, however, exist and the Hudson has been filmed on at least two occasions.
These images and film, spanning three decades (1983, 1985, 2002, 2008, 2009,
and 2016), visually
tell a story of natural and human site interference. They reveal part of
A16-191’s British serial number, BW677, as well as the white, blue and red roundel. They
indicate that some parts have been graffitied. Some have moved position;
wreckage may have been piled up at one stage. But they are part of a dispersed
archive, scattered between private and RAAF collections, and wherever old film
footage lurks; perhaps my digital archive is the only place these images
co-exist.
As
television presenter and archaeologist Neil Oliver (Coast 2017) said when he
walked the site in 2016, and was visibly sensorially affected by the wing
grave, perhaps it is time to “return to the light a story that has for too long
been in the shadows.” With appropriate authorization under Queensland
conservation legislation, professional interrogation of the extant wreckage
could verify or disprove conclusions reached by witnesses and the original
search party regarding the collision, crash, and explosion. Other important
questions could also be answered. What cultural and non-cultural changes have
taken place over the decades? How has the wreckage deteriorated? Exactly what
has been removed from the site? What’s left? And has the site been contaminated?
After the Channel 7 program, doubt was raised about the “human reminder”, the
boot sole. Someone pointed out that it was made of rubber so was not standard
uniform issue. The civilian curator retrospectively speculated that it must
have been left by a site visitor (Andersen 2009).
Although the
wreck zone has been subject to periodic flooding archaeology may well determine
whether or not a wing burial took place and, more significantly (though
probably unlikely), if any of the “little evidence” of human remains still
exists. But what if forensic specialists locate bodily residue? What would happen
to it? When they first learned of the possible removal of human-related
artefacts from the site, the Herman family made it clear that they objected
(Jessie Morgan “The Tomb Raider” 2009). While recognizing they could “only
speak on behalf of Jim”, they “would not wish him to be disturbed” (Jill
Sheppard “Lost men, lost planes” 2008).
Other than Jim’s
in-laws, Jim’s generation are now all dead. His nephews and nieces are in their
sixties and seventies. They bear no personal or intergenerational grief but
they feel a sense of obligation to ensure their uncle’s death is acknowledged,
that his remains are treated honorably. Is, then, possible relocation of bodily
residue if found, removal of the wing—or other aircraft parts—something these
memory custodians would want? Is their emotional connection to wreckage as
grave and sacred site too strong to resolve the tension between curatorship and
the first generation’s desire for the site to be left alone. Air Force respects
the Herman family’s wishes. But what about the families of Jim’s crew members?
What would they want? Without investigation, there is no debate. A16-191
remains a last resting place.
Neil Oliver
appreciated the poignancy of aviation dead sheltering under a metal bird’s wing
(Coast 2017). If the Hudson’s wings are to lay undisturbed, protecting her
crew, what of the rest of A16-191’s scattered wreckage? While nothing can be
removed without a permit, given continuing site degradation, it could be argued
that extant aircraft parts should be
preserved and incorporated into museum collections in their own right, as they
are at the RAAF
Townsville Aviation Heritage Centre, rather than as spare parts for
other restorations. They could be curated to tell the story of aircraft and
crew, revealing their historical, archaeological, heritage, and emotional
significance. At the very least, aviation archaeologists could photograph the
wreckage, investigate cultural and non-cultural landscape changes, and
interpret the wreckage to compile a crash narrative. They could record
A16-191’s post-crash “biography”; it’s historic, material, and emotional story.
No-one,
as far as I am aware, has any emotional connection to A16-194’s debris field
(other than as a stand-in for A16-191), because its crew survived. It is not a
last resting place. Here then, is a complex intersection of materiality and
affect. A16-191’s wreckage is physically fungible but, through the emotions of
those who mourn and remember its crew, it has become non-fungible. It is a site
of affect, a locus of ethical responsibility. It is also an artefact of
historical significance, dispersed across a cultural landscape with a distinct affective
archaeology and materiality, and emotional heritage.
Giru’s Bomber’s
Memorial is also a site of affect. The memory marker monumentally,
iconographically, and emotionally links to A16-191’s crash site and wing
burial. It recalls the story of the crash, “the four” who “died instantly on
impact” and their unrecovered bodies. It incorporates the RAAF eagle insignia
referring both to the crew’s military service and their in situ interment. It articulates a final affective message from
the people of Giru iterated in the hearts of those who continue to mourn them:
“May you rest in Peace.”
Close up of the dedication panel, Bomber’s Memorial, Brolga Park, Giru. 24 May 2003. Unknown photographer. Source, Barbara Hillam via Jill Sheppard.
Crew photos, not in the chapter
Sergeant Jim Herman
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Pilot Officer John Jewell
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