Bertrand Russell and the Plane Crash
How Earl Russell, aged 76, swam for his life in a Norwegian Fjord
Bertrand Russell tends to get short shrift around here, but there is something to be said for a balanced perspective, so let’s tell the story of how he managed to escape a sinking plane, which surely must show him in a good light. Except, now I've researched the story, I’m not sure it does show him in a good light. There’s just something a bit off about the way he talks about the incident in his autobiography. His tone, given the circumstances, is a tad too jolly. It could be a British stiff upper lip thing, I suppose, or maybe I’m just being overly precious, and there’s no problem. Let’s see what you think.
The incident itself was serious. On October 2nd, 1948, Russell was on board a flying boat on a journey from Oslo to Trondheim, when it was caught in a crosswind on landing, and crashed into a bay. Nineteen people were killed; Russell, seated in the smoking section near an exit, survived by swimming towards rescue boats.
This is how Russell described his rescue to a Sunday Dispatch reporter on the day after the disaster:
Like the others, I found myself in the water as the plane sank. And, like them, I had to swim until a number of boats put out and picked us up. I don’t suppose I was swimming for more than about a minute. For one who has been swimming regularly for about 70 years, it wasn’t much. I have not been injured at all. I thought for a while as I stood on the pier wrapped in blankets that I might be in for a cold. I was to have given a series of lectures to the Students’ Union tonight, and would have been quite fit and ready to do so. (Sunday Dispatch, October 3rd, 1948, p. 1)
Russell provides some additional details about the incident in his autobiography. I’ll quote at length because I want to make a point about it at the end.
When our plane touched down on the water it became obvious that something was amiss, but none of us in the plane knew what it was. We sat in the plane while it slowly sank. Small boats assembled round it and presently we were told to jump into the sea and swim to a boat – which all the people in my part of the plane did. We later learned that all the nineteen passengers in the non-smoking compartment had been killed. When the plane had hit the water a hole had been made in the plane and the water had rushed in. I had told a friend at Oslo who was finding me a place that he must find me a place where I could smoke, remarking jocularly, ‘If I cannot smoke, I shall die’. Unexpectedly, this turned out to be true. [...]
We were rowed to shore to a place some miles from Trondheim and thence I was taken in a car to my hotel. Everybody showed me the utmost kindness and put me to bed while my clothes dried. A group of students even dried my matches one by one. They asked if I wanted anything and I replied, ‘Yes, a strong dose of brandy and a large cup of coffee’. The doctor, who arrived soon after, said that this was quite the right reply…
I was astonished by the commotion caused by my part in this adventure. Every phase of it was exaggerated. I had swum about one hundred yards, but I could not persuade people that I had not swum miles. True, I had swum in my great-coat and lost my hat and thrown my attaché case into the sea. The latter was restored to me in the course of the afternoon – and is still in use – and the contents were dried out. When I returned to London the officials all smiled when they saw the marks of sea water on my passport. It had been in my attaché case, and I was glad to recover it. (Autobiography, Chapter 14: Return to England)
The point I want to make is that there is not a single expression of regret or sympathy for the 19 people who lost their lives. That’s odd, isn’t it? The only time he mentions the deaths of 19 people who were sitting only a compartment away is in the context of a jokey anecdote about how smoking saved his life (which he later repeated in a television interview).
The tone he takes suggests he considered the whole incident an entertaining adventure. His seeming complete emotional detachment from the deaths of his fellow passengers, the lack of any expression of regret or sympathy, the jaunty tone, the absence of even a smidgeon of survivor’s guilt, is suggestive of psychological oddness (even allowing for generational differences, and so on).
Maybe I’m reading this wrong, but I don’t think so. You’re in a plane crash, people die, surely you say just something to indicate that it was actually a tragedy? Not convinced? Well, I missed out this bit from Russell’s autobiography:
My lecture was cancelled as the man who had been intended to be the Chairman had been drowned. Students took me to a place in the nearby mountains where they had an establishment. In going and coming, they walked me about in the rain and I remarked that Trondheim was as wet out of the water as in it, a remark which seemed to please them. (Autobiography, Chapter 14: Return to England)
What do you think now?
Purely anecdotal experience, but this is in keeping with my interactions with British folk of a certain type.
For many years (nearly 20), I worked with an Englishman at a consultancy in the US. He was a very well mannered, well educated person - son of an upper rank Army officer, public school, first-class honors degree from Oxford, multiple post-grad degrees. I don’t know his exact age, but I recall he came to the US in the late 70s shortly after completing his first grad degree. In terms of sheer intellectual horsepower, one of the smartest people I have ever met. Also liked and respected by everyone in the office.
One week, he fails to show up for work (he was high enough in the organization that he didn’t need to make excuses for an absence). He comes back about 10 days later. We all remarked on his absence, expressed concern, and asked the cause. He responded in a chipper almost joking tone, “My mother kicked the bucket. We had to bury her.” And he didn’t say anything else about it. Ever.
My opinion: You’re judging Russell according to standards that did not apply in 1948, to a man of his social class. Nor did they apply to men where I was brought up, in 1958 or 1968.
Both his reported comments and in his autobiography he seemed to me quite clearly playing it down. Both are dispassionate and bare descriptions of his experience. Eulogy’s about the dead were not appropriate.
Playing the amateur psychiatrist on such scant evidence is foolish.
And now I’ve written the above it occurs to me that I’ve responded to social media click bait – something ridiculous or provocative, just more words than usual or Fbook or X.