This isn't an ideal lineup. The British weeklies sometimes break down into one with a higher and more irenic tone and one that is, uhm, more vigorous. The Aeroplane is the latter, and, loathsome as I and I think pretty much any other sane people, find its long-term editor, C. G. Grey, it does make for brighter copy. Unfortunately, long past schoolboys stole so many numbers of The Aeroplane out of the UBC library that the run is incomplete, and we won't be joining Grey until July.
There is a similar contrast between Engineering and The Engineer, from which the former split back in 1866. The Engineer is more engaged in everyday events and much more interesting than Engineering, and its editor isn't a hateful racist who has to spin out endless pages of copy in the down weeks. Unfortunately, UBC's run of The Engineer is in offsite storage and currently inaccessible, and I'm not so burdened with time that I can run out to Metro and read their run in Vancouver's Coliseum-inspired public library that you might remember from Battlestar Galactica. (It really is the only building in this city besides the SFU main campus building, otherwise known as "every alien city ever.") Engineering is boring, but it's what I've got, is what I'm saying.
So the conceit of this exercise is that you've --no, wait, one-- has just met Neville Henderson at a New Year's Party. He's convinced that Hitler is about to launch a new adventure, and talked one's ear off about the strength of the Luftwaffe and how the Air Ministry was refusing to take it seriously. An Air Marshal wandered over and complained that the Treasury Secretary was "determined to save enough money to pay Hitler an indemnity after we're defeated." The rebarbative editor of The Aeroplane was drawn in. He felt that British aircraft production could easily overtake Germany's, if it had not already, and that Hitler was no threat. (Unlike, he continued, Bolsheviks, Jews, Asiatics, French, the Celtic fringe, speed limits, safety regulations for aircraft --and, well, that was the point that you made your polite regrets.)
Now it's the morning after, and you're at your club. Sitting across from you is a fellow who made a fortue on the Air Boom of 1936, pumping-and-dumping shadowy new concerns. "Bring me the aeronautical papers," you tell a passing waiter. You'll find out what's what soon enough.