There are a number of books on the subject of the effects of the two great wars of this century on British memory, and other books have dealt with subjects such as propaganda on and deception as they concerned both the enemy and the home front. No such studies exist on the Korean war, though later conflicts involving Britain, especially Suez in 1956 and the Falklands incident of 1982, have attracted a lot of attention. This paper, while by no means the definitive study of British public opinion and the Korean war, can serve as a preliminary look at the subject, especially in the early part of the conflict.

It is a subject which has long held an interest for me. I can remember as a small child becoming aware of the world outside my immediate family on two occasions. The first was a radio report of the death of Tommy Handley, a well-known British comedian, who had come to prominence during the Second World War. This was in 1949. The next was an account, again on the radio, of a refugee column in Korea, probably in late 1950 or early 1951. I can now no longer be sure who the reporter was but, having read his accounts of the war and heard extracts from some of his broadcasts, I suspect that it was René Cutforth, who went to Korea in late 1950 as the BBC's special reporter. Interestingly enough, in the light of some of the evidence below, I have no memory of any newspaper coverage of the Korean war, though I do remember the Daily Mirror headline “Whose finger on the trigger?” used in the 1951 general election campaign.

That radio broadcast sank into my subconscious, only to be revived by going to Korea and beginning to take an interest in Korean-British relations. However, there seems to be a general lack of material to help trace British public attitudes to the Korean war. There have always been a number of assertions about what the British people thought about Korea, some of which are mentioned below, but there seems to be nothing which records private views rather than public claims. Then almost by chance, I came across a useful source of original material which, so far as I know, has never been used for Korea. This material forms part of the Mass-observation Archive at the university of Sussex.

A growing body of theoretical and historical work on the modern nation state and on its attendant nationalist ideologies and discourses has made us increasingly aware over the past two decades of the ‘constructed’ nature of national cultures and of the sacrifice of regional cultures often involved in the assertion of the nation state's hegemony. Japan seems a particularly clear case in point: before 1868 its body politic was a loose federation of several hundred feudal domains, each with its own more or less distinctive history, traditions and cultural identity – in other words, a heterogeneity of cultures making for a strong sense of regional autonomy. After 1868 a policy of cultural homogenization accompanied and facilitated the policy of political unification and centralization imposed by the new Tokyo government. Of course, tensions between centre and periphery in Japan did not begin in 1868: since the Yamato clan first imposed its rule over other clans in the 4th and 5th centuries AD, such tensions have been a central dialectic of Japanese history. But there is a significant difference after 1868: using all the institutions and technologies of modernity, the Meiji government initiated a process of political and cultural integration and homogenization that was unprecedented in its totality. Never before in Japanese history had the balance of power tilted so overwhelmingly onto the side of the central government and the central cultural establishment. And, thus, never before had regional cultures been so thoroughly marginalized and even threatened with extinction. To take one obvious example, a modified form of the Tokyo dialect became ‘standard Japanese’ and all other dialects became marginalized as ‘regional dialects’, soon to be consigned to the realm of the humorously quaint, folksy and old-fashioned, the language of old people but not of ambitious youth.

Again, of course, Japan is not alone in this – it is often compared to Italy and Germany as another ‘late-developing’ nation state, a product of late nineteenth-century imperial nationalism. But it was ‘latedeveloping’ only in comparison to West European and American models – in the Asian context Japan was a pioneer. Indeed, what makes Japan's case particularly striking is the fact that, because it was an Asian nation, and because its feudalistic social and political system survived until the mid-nineteenth century, its sudden ‘leap’ into modernity covered more ground in less time than that of any Western counterpart.

INTRODUCTION

One of the most noteworthy facts about D.T. Suzuki is the remarkable success of his writings in English. As has often been pointed out, these varied and numerous works were almost single-handedly responsible for the rise of an interest in Zen among leading Western philosophers and psychologists of the prewar period, as well as for the much more widespread ‘Zen boom’ among artists, writers, and eventually the public at large from the 1950s onwards. The major contemporary American poet Gary Snyder has described Suzuki as the ‘most cosmopolitan Japanese thinker of the 20th century’ and asked: ‘Can you think of any Japanese person who has done as much as he has to affect the rest of the world?’

How can we account for this remarkable success? It seems to me that Suzuki was ideally suited to be a cultural translator – that is, a translator not just in the narrow linguistic sense, of particular texts, but, in a much wider sense, a translator/interpreter/transmitter of ideas, of cultural values, of spiritual and aesthetic sensibilities, and of the many other immaterial elements that constitute a complex and ancient cultural tradition. More than any other scholar and writer of the age, he was able to bridge the wide cultural gap which existed between Japan and the West in the early twentieth century. It was an achievement that required a rare combination of talents, abilities and even life experiences: not only a profound practical and scholarly knowledge of Zen Buddhism and its vast cultural-historical context, an equally wide and deep knowledge of Western culture, and a consummate mastery of English prose style, but also a prolonged period of residence in a Western country, prolonged enough to give him an intimate feel for the way Westerners think and express themselves. All these factors came together to enable him to create works in English that had enormous appeal to Western readers.

Another relevant factor no doubt was the cultural milieu of the early twentieth century, especially what has been called the ‘inward turn’ of Western culture, as manifest in the rise of the psychological novel, symbolist poetry, the psychology of the unconscious, the modernist stream-of-consciousness novel, surrealism, and so on. The moment was obviously right for an interest in Zen as another, and indeed very direct and methodical, form of ‘inward-turning’.

To be invited to publish a selection of one's writings is a great honour, and I am most grateful to Paul Norbury for suggesting that I should do so. Making a workable selection has not been easy. Preparing the selection, I kept coming across pieces that I had completely forgotten about. Most were short comments or reviews, but one or two were quite substantial.

I have a certain diffidence about the project. While I did receive a proper academic training, and, since retiring from the Diplomatic Service in 2003, some short periods teaching at university level, I am not an academic, more a pushy amateur. Some describe those in my position as “scholar diplomats”. It is not a term I would use, certainly about myself. Neither is it a term that the British Diplomatic Service would have much time for. Years ago, I came across a reference to Montague Paske-Smith, (1886–1946), a Canadian in the (British) Japan Consular Service, and who, as he moved around from one quiet post to another, wrote a series of historical works, some of which have stood the passage of time. I cannot now find the exact reference, but from memory, a senior member of the Consular Department in London noted that Paske-Smith had not been sent to a particular post so that he could write books. No time for “scholar-diplomats” then. It is not clear whether or not this view was conveyed to Paske-Smith, who continued to publish.

My first task was to make a representative selection of the whole. Since published volumes tend to have a longer life and a higher profile than journal articles or reviews, I have not included extracts from them. However, included are a few journal articles that have been reprinted. Selecting reviews to include was a particularly difficult task. There are so many of them, going back a long way. My first published piece was a review of China and the Christian Colleges, by the American scholar, Jesse Gregory Lutz, which appeared in the Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies in February 1973.

It did not appear without a struggle. By 1973, I was a member of what was then the Research Department of the Foreign and Commonwealth Office (FCO), working on Chinese foreign policy, for which, to be honest, I had the barest of qualifications.

From 1871 onwards, the government of Meiji Japan began a campaign against the treaties of 1858 to 1869 which was not to end until all the old treaties had been revised in Japan's favour. The main aims of this campaign were the restoration of tariff autonomy and the end of extraterritoriality. The details of the negotiations which took place at the various conferences on treaty revision from 1882 onwards are becoming better known as the archives have been made available to scholars. But the campaign against the old treaties was not just a question of formal negotiations. In order to achieve success at the conference table, the Japanese set out to make the operation of the old treaties unworkable as far as the clauses relating to extraterritoriality were concerned. They were not wholly successful in this campaign, largely because they appear to have decided not to press home their advantage in order not to jeopardize their main purpose. But by the beginning of the 1890’s, the Japanese Government had effectively made clear to the foreign diplomats in Japan that extraterritoriality could not continue much longer.

The main methods used by the Japanese, partly at the prompting of foreign legal advisers, was a rigorous re-examination of the old treaties and a determined insistence on the letter of them. Faced with the disintegrating government of the bakufu and the Japanese lack of knowledge of international law, strong ministers such as Sir Harry Parkes had found it easy to push the ‘rights’ of the foreign powers beyond what a strict interpretation of the treaties would allow. In many cases this was no bad thing in that it allowed for the better government of foreigners in Japan. But these supposed rights were an obvious target for the Japanese.

From the very beginning of the Meiji period, the Japanese Government began to fight to regain its lost powers. It introduced a new legal system, embracing both criminal and civil codes, modelled on western ideas of jurisprudence. At the same time, the Japanese began to show an interest in asserting control over foreigners. By the middle 1870’s, almost in spite of themselves, they had brought under their jurisdiction the non-treaty power subjects in Japan. At the same time, they began a campaign to make the new Western-style regulations introduced from 1869 onwards binding on foreigners.

Christianity in South Korea tends to wear a solemn face. It began with Roman Catholicism learnt from China, which led to savage persecutions and many martyrs, some now made saints. The Catholics were not daunted but tended to keep a low profile; there was not much talk of ecumenism at the end of the 19th century. In Korea, the dominant Christian ethos was Protestant, particularly Methodist and Presbyterian, and while individual missionaries might be fun-loving, merrymaking was confined to tea or coffee. The French Catholics no doubt had wine, and the tiny Anglican mission was not beyond dropping in on their next-door neighbours at the British Consulate General for a whisky or two; generally, however, the missionaries frowned on alcohol and smoking, an approach still followed by many Korean Christians today.

Then, 80 years ago, there arrived the Columban Fathers, an Irish missionary order with, if Kevin O’Rourke is to be believed, an approach to life that was much more in keeping with at least some of Korea's traditional approaches. And why would one not believe him, since he is himself a Columban Father, who has lived in Korea since 1964? He is more than just that. He is a poet in his own right and an accomplished translator of Korean verse, and he has now written this book. It is not easy to define. Partly, it is an anecdotal account of the Columban Fathers in Korea in war and peace, relayed with a storyteller's verve. In the 1930s, British officials in East Asia looked upon them as a threat to British security interests. Yet, on the ‘Death March’ to the Yalu River after capture by the North Koreans in 1950 at the start of the Korean War, it was Columban Bishop Thomas Quinlan who calmed a distressed George Blake (yes – that George Blake) by telling him that if he had ever had a son, he was the one he wanted. Most of the tales are of priests outwitting the bishop or curates outwitting the priests, and struggling with life in lonely remote parishes with barely adequate Korean. The mortification of learning that you had asked the congregation to come to Mass the following Sunday without their trousers, rather than without fail. The whisky may have helped.

Thanks to these magazines, I can consume a city like any other packaged product.

Birth of a City Magazine

In the 1970s, Hong Kong gradually developed into a cosmopolitan city as a result of its rapid economic growth. As the media and entertainment industry grew exponentially in Hong Kong in this decade of changes, there were more and more channels for multimedia stardom. Rising stars spawned new trends among fans who emulated their styles – from fashion to hairstyles – and increased demand for cultural industries products and consumption goods offered new opportunities for magazine journalism. Although there were some magazines such as Ming Pao Weekly and youth journals such as The Chinese Student Weekly and The 70's Biweekly, Hong Kong was yet to have a city magazine at that time. ‘City and regional magazines have always fitted uncomfortably into traditional imaginings of magazine journalism,’ as noted by Miglena Sternadori and Susan Currie Sivek, and ‘their function often is to promote a positive image of their areas and construct a cheerful local identity – comfortable environs for both readers and advertisers.’ Seeing a niche market opportunity, young pioneers Koon-Chung Chan (aka John Chan), Peter Dunn, Henry Wu, and Joseph Yau founded a city magazine originally entitled The Tabloid [Haowai] in September 1976.

According to Chan, the idea to produce The Tabloid could be traced back to The Chinese Student Weekly, The 70's Biweekly, and The Youth Weekly. Influenced by the ‘counter-culture’ of those publications, The Village Voice and other similar publications left a deep impression on Chan while pursuing further studies in Boston in 1974.

Visiting or working in the Democratic People's Republic of Korea (DPRK – North Korea), you quickly become aware of the allpervasiveness of music. Stay in a hotel in the capital, Pyongyang, and you will be woken up at least once a week, except in winter, by a band playing on the street outside. The music will be in a standard format; almost certainly in march-time, and vaguely familiar – perhaps Russian? It will be the same at a concert or to a theatrical performance. Listen carefully, however, and you realise that it is not any piece of music that you know. To understand this, and much more about the DPRK, readers now have Keith Howard's comprehensive English language account and interpretation. Howard has had a long and distinguished career as an authority on Korean music. Much of his writing has been on traditional music in the Republic of Korea (ROK – South Korea), from its origins in court and religious rituals through to today's vibrant popular music, but he has periodically looked at the music scene and the role of music in the DPRK.

He outlines the difficulties of such a study, shared by all who look at a country that is better known in caricature than reality. There are major problems in anything that involves politics, but everything involves politics. The historical record is unreliable since it changes to suit current needs. “Traditional” songs are adapted to present needs, and even ROK pop music, officially anathema, may be used with new words. All this is presented as “traditional music”. The emphasis, in theory, is on the music of ordinary people; the music of the court and other forms of what might be called the classical Korean tradition, which are studied and performed in the ROK, are rejected. Yet much of what passes for traditional in the DPRK is derived from late nineteenth and early twentieth century sources, including Viennese waltz, Japanese popular music from the colonial period (1910–1945), Christian hymns, and Western brass band music. Many Korean musicians active in the early years of the DPRK trained in Japan. Although they were eventually purged, their influence remained. At the same time, those early years saw a determined effort to collect real traditional songs, even before a similar movement in the ROK. Much was lost in the process.

Why are we often nostalgic for the 1980s? It is because it was similar to our adolescence.

In the Prime of Youth

After the Television Broadcasts Limited (TVB)-inspired The House of 72 Tenants (1973), a remake of a 1963 film of the same title, unexpectedly grossed HK$5.6 million and broke the then box office record set by Bruce Lee's Enter the Dragon (1972), Cantonese cinema seemed to bounce back from rock bottom low in a market dominated by English and Mandarin films – there were no Cantonese film productions in Hong Kong in 1972. As this was the only Cantonese production out of the ninety-four Hong Kong films released in 1973, it was indeed a pleasant surprise for Cantonese pop culture. It also successfully brought Cantonese films back to Hong Kong cinema. In 1974, out of a total of 101 Hong Kong films, twenty-one were Cantonese productions. The highest-grossing films were Cantonese productions, including the monumental Games Gamblers Play (1974) by the Hui Brothers – Michael Hui and Sam Hui. Even with the success of some Cantonese films, ‘Hong Kong's film industry was still regarded as somewhat depressed’ in the mid-1970s, ‘particularly by young filmmakers who had just returned to the territory after graduating from film schools overseas’. Besides the Hui Brothers’ Cantonese comedies and kind of language-neutral wave of kung fu films triggered by Bruce Lee (his films were dubbed into Mandarin when they premiered in Hong Kong in the early 1970s), Hong Kong cinema had still yet to find new impetus in terms of talents and film genres. It was therefore believed that the Hong Kong film industry had reached a stage of shortage, and a new crop was yet to come.

The foreign communities in China and Japan in the days of the treaty ports and foreign settlements – roughly the century between 1840 and 1940 – have inspired many publications. These range in style from a variety of novels (of very varying quality) to serious scholarly studies, and date from the 1850s onwards. Some contemporary accounts have also stood the test of time and are reprinted frequently. But when one looks at Korea, the scene is bleak. There are, indeed, some original accounts of Korea that have enjoyed the occasional revival. Judging by what is in print, or has been in recent years, Isabella Bird Bishop's writings seem still to find a ready modern audience, as do the memoirs of the American diplomat William Sands. But, compared with what is available on Shanghai or Yokohama, this is small beer. Donald Clark's account of the foreign community in Korea is, therefore, very welcome.

Clark himself comes from a missionary family and was brought up in Seoul, now the South Korean capital. That background has served him well in two previous books about Seoul and its monuments, which also touch upon the foreign community in passing. One was written with his father in the late 1960s, the other was co-authored with James Grayson, the current Professor of Korean Studies at the University of Sheffield. He is also the author of a work that will be known to few in Britain, about the Seoul Foreign Cemetery, which performs for Korea, the functions of the British Association for Cemeteries in South Asia, a group well-known to many members of the RSAA. In writing this book, he has clearly been aided by the existence of family papers and he also knows well the records of the American missionary groups. He makes good use of these and also of US official records. As a Korean scholar, he is also in a position to draw on the small amount of information available from Korean books and articles. He has also made use of British official records in the Public Record Office, but not the smaller, but still interesting, collections from missionary sources. So there is still work to be done!

What Clark has done so far, however, is to provide a fascinating account of a small but very diversified community. Korea was always unusual in East Asia, in two ways.

I. MISHIMA AND BOWIE

No major twentieth-century writer had a stronger sense of the constructed, mask-like nature of personal identity, wrote more obsessively about it, or acted it out more publicly or flamboyantly in the ‘performance’ of his own life than Yukio Mishima. Both personally and professionally, he intrigued and dazzled the Japanese public by playing, often with great success, a dizzying array of roles and by assuming, often at the apparent risk of inconsistency, a number of different and sometimes contradictory personae: a high-cultural novelist, playwright, essayist and film-maker who was also a low-cultural bitplayer in gangster movies and devotee of body-building; an extoller of suble Japanese aesthetic and spiritual traditions and critic of ‘Western materialism’ who himself lived an opulent lifestyle in a kitsch ‘anti-Zen house’ (as he called it), full of faux-Greek statues, garish rococo furniture, and Victorian bric-a-brac; a ‘perverted’ sadomasochistic homosexual (according to his own self-depiction) who also played the part of a dutiful son and staid married man and father; an eminent, internationally famous man of letters, often named as a leading candidate for the Nobel Prize, who ended his life as a sword-wielding right-wing terrorist attempting to stage a coup d’état – the ‘act of a madman’, as the Japanese prime minister, among others, described it. One could extend this list even further, but perhaps the point has been sufficiently made. Mishima presented the world with such a diverse array of personae that one naturally wonders which, if any, was the ‘real Mishima’. As one of the Western Japanologists who knew him best remarked: ‘Mishima struggled hard to find a persona in which he felt comfortable – like a man in search of a perfect suit of clothes’.

It was perhaps this flamboyantly performative aspect of Mishima's life and work that David Bowie initially found so attractive – just as he was also attracted to the kabuki theater, another flamboyantly performative aspect of Japanese culture.

Rows of cardboard boxes at the back of the aircraft on our 1982 Seoul to Seattle flight, each with a baby going to a new home, first made us aware of the Korean international adoption business. Arissa Oh examines how it began and why it has continued, even if children from other countries now attract more attention.

The 1950–1953 Korean War broke up families. Adoption was not unknown in Korea but was a family matter. If there was no male heir, a family might adopt from another branch of the family. This excluded girls, while a widespread belief that it would be difficult to incorporate an outsider into a family added to the problem. Most orphans ended up in poorly equipped and often badly run institutions. A new problem, as in Germany and Japan, was mixed race ‘GI babies’. Koreans prided themselves on their racial homogeneity and looked askance at such children. President Syngman Rhee's government searched for a solution. Publicly this was done out of compassion. Behind the scenes, a harder attitude prevailed. There was no wish to spend money even on Korean children, never mind those not regarded as Korean, and since children derived their status from fathers, the GI babies were a US responsibility. Many Americans were willing to accept this. Stories about orphans in Armed Forces’ newspapers were taken up by the domestic press. Some GIs informally adopted their half-Korean offspring or persuaded family members to do so, using special acts of Congress until a Refugees Relief Act was passed in 1953. Few of the normal adoption procedures were followed, which worried professionals. But the Korean government had found an answer to its problem and established a Child Placement Service in 1954. This was not to send Korean children abroad but to enable GI babies to be returned to the land of their fathers. American Christian communities took up the cause, which appealed to their sense of family values and responsibility.

It was Christians who turned the slow trickle of GI babies into a flood, and one in particular. This was Harry Holt, a lumberman from Oregon, of strong evangelical beliefs. By the mid-1950s, he and his wife Bertha had six children but, moved by the stories from Korea, they adopted eight GI babies via a special bill. They went to Korea as missionaries and realized that there were more orphans than just GI babies.

In May 1872, in the absence on leave of Sir Harry Parkes, the British minister in Tokyo since 1865, the chargé d’affaires, F.O. Adams, signed the lease for a plot of land outside the Hanzomon gate in Kojimachi. Parkes had been searching for a site for the British legation in the city proper since at least 1867, but it was not until the spring of 1871 that he found the site he wanted, close to the Imperial Palace. As he explained on leave in November 1871, he had undertaken to lease it, without approval, rather than lose the opportunity. Assistant surveyor Boyce at Shanghai showed less enthusiasm than Parkes, but indicated it would do. It was close to the ‘official offices and residences of the Native Government’ and the palace. The rental, Mexican $5 per 100 tsubo, or Mexican $900 (£200) a year was fair and reflected the usual rate. (Parkes minuted: ‘Not the usual rate, but an unusually modest one in Japan’.) In the assumption that Parkes's actions would be approved, he had drawn up plans for the buildings, and was ‘happy to say that they have … all received the approval of the Minister and officers more immediately concerned’.

A permanent lease was signed in 1884. Just over 10,833 tsubo or 42,898.68 square yards was made available for the legation and ‘for no further use free of any charge whatsoever except the rent.’ This was six silver yen – the yen having replaced the Mexican dollar by 1884 – per 100 tsubo, or Yen 652.32, (£200), due annually on 1 July. The lease contained a never invoked clause allowing for the reversal of the land if needed for defence against ‘a foreign or a domestic enemy’

Parkes's main wish was that his house should have a veranda on the north side, and a tower to serve both ‘as a cool retreat on summer evenings’, and as a lookout point. Boyce believed that the minister's proposed two storey house would be able to withstand ‘the slight shocks of earthquake occasionally felt’, since the palace gates and walls had done so for many years.

They came to dance, but ended up getting an education.

Dance, But Not As Usual

As mentioned in the Prologue, dancing symbolized the lifestyle of Hong Kong with the saying ‘horse racing and dancing will continue, and capitalist lifestyle will remain unchanged,’ in which dancing referred to dancing at nightclubs – a nightlife that showcased the city's success in the capitalist world-economy. Besides the dancing that would continue after 1997 according to Deng Xiaoping, some other dancing venues became chic trendsetters of not only the territory but also neighbouring regions. While the never-sleeping city saw big spenders in money-squandering ‘hostess’ nightclubs, disco was also seen as a kind of dance that shaped another dimension of Hong Kong's nightlife in the 1980s. Derived from ‘discotheque’, a type of dance-oriented nightclub that first appeared in the 1960s, disco became not just the preeminent form of dance music but also a culture of nightlife in Hong Kong in the late 1970s. In the aftermath of Saturday Night Fever (1977; premiered in Hong Kong in 1978), the disco wave was triggered in the territory, which later proved to be important in propelling pop idols to stardom. If nightlife was ‘one of society's few sanctioned antidotes to the monotony of the day-to-day, or what the French call le quotidian’, then disco as another kind of dancing in Hong Kong made the nightlife of this never-sleeping city even more diverse and fascinating. Interestingly, if nightclub dancing was seen as representing the lifestyle that was promised not to change after the handover in 1997, nightlife at trendy discos evinced a quickly developing pop style that uplifted the city throughout the decade.

With the end of the First World War in November 1918, thousands of airmen and aircraft were suddenly redundant. This, and the fact that the war had revealed possibilities for the use of aircraft far beyond those envisaged by most people in 1914, prompted much talk of a new age of air travel. In the British case, the air seemed to offer a new way of linking the various parts of the empire more closely at a time when it had grown even larger than in pre-war days as mandated territories in Africa, the Middle East, and the Pacific were added to India and the dominions and colonies strewn across the oceans. 1919 and 1920 witnessed an outburst of air shows and daring exploits as the small machines that had been developed for use over the Western Front were recycled for more peaceful uses. Air enthusiasm spread far and wide, and by 1921 successful flights had taken place to Canada, India, South Africa, and Australia. Societies such as the Royal Geographical Society and the Royal Central Asian Society, the forerunner of the Royal Society for Asian Affairs, held meetings at which flying was hailed as the future of exploration. The possibilities seemed endless. Mail would be whisked around the world, allowing the most distant empire builder to feel in instant touch with home, while ‘home’ itself would be much more easily visited in the comfort of an airship or an aeroplane. This proved to be far from the case. Derring-do by ex-military pilots in exmilitary aircraft proved difficult to turn into passengers on seats or, in the case of airships, the cruiser-type lounges that were to be provided in the sky. Funding was difficult in the hard times which followed the end of the war. The high hopes disappeared as company after company went bankrupt. Aviation continued to make its mark, but, as far as official Britain was concerned, it was the Royal Air Force which mattered, not the civilian companies. Yet, much concern was expressed as foreign airlines, including even Lufthansa, the flag carrier of the recently defeated Germany, picked up the passengers to Europe that it was felt by right should be flying British, and the empire routes were pioneered by the Dutch and the French.