After the seemingly traditional leanings of Nº 1934, WT Author returns to the studio to work on the spiritual successor for Nº 1914 but this time taking to the skies in the form of a pilot watch. Cockpits, aircrafts, rust.
- Head dimensions: 45mm width x 50mm length x 12.5mm depth.
- Citizen 9015 automatic calibre / Ronda 513S quartz movement.
- Limited to only 125, 100 & 25 watches depending on colour.
- Serial numbered watch back, screen print & book.
- Grade 316L stainless steel.
- Custom numbered enamel screw down back.
- Signature red crown with embossed WT Author trademark.
- Sapphire coated mineral lens.
- Handmade Italian leather strap fitted with stainless steel buckle.
- Recyclable packaging with exclusive artwork.
- 2-year limited product warranty.
- Built in Britain with British or imported parts.
- One time manufacture. Once it’s gone it’s gone.
Set in 1940 British airspace, our Nº 1940 pilot watch is now available with the latest chapter from WT Author’s book and comes with a signed screen print with corresponding number.
Launched Wednesday, 20th September 2017, the Nº 1940 pilot watch for men by WT Author is available for general sale through our store from £350.
Set six years after Author’s fourth collection. Nº 1940 pilot watch marks the Battle of Britain – the military campaign of the Second World War when the Royal Air Force defended the United Kingdom against the German Air Force attacks from the end of June 1940. Our signature silhouette takes on an aggressive aesthetic by referencing aircraft gauges of the era. Each watch is finished beautifully with our refined 22 mm handmade leather strap.
Utilising matt surfaces the pilot watch measures 45 mm across, 50 mm high including the lugs with an overall case depth of 12.5 mm. The dials utilise indices taking influence directly from 1940’s aircraft panels and are enhanced with Author’s unique hour markers.
Each finished product utilises a unique dial design that brings high contrast, with traditionally formed custom-made hands. The aviation watches have been modernised with a bespoke “casino chip” enamel screw down back, signature red aluminium crown embossed with our brand’s iconic trademark and Swiss Made Ronda 513S quartz movement.
Each Nº 1940 leather pilot watch strap has been handmade in Britain using vegetable tanned dyed through shoulder. The rich colour which is treated with waxes and oils offers a distressed effect which lightens in colour when folded or turned. The natural grain is left intact to show all the growth marks and unique character to give a distinctive antique look with this mellow feeling skin. The strap has been designed and manufactured to fit a 22mm lug width with an overall thickness of 3 mm and is embossed with the WT Author ‘A’ trademark. Each strap is completed with a polished stainless steel buckle and finished with rounded, burnished strap edges.
With the land ravaged, we take to the air…
The fingers of darkness continue to stretch across the continent. Networks of smouldering battlegrounds, decaying veins, reach across the landscape.
Pressure is mounting on Britain to concede the mainland and abandon her allies. We sit on the edge of an abyss, searching the bleak panorama for the faintest signal of hope.
The RAF has suffered huge losses but the enemies’ celebrations are short-lived; a long war lies ahead. Shipping ports and coastal convoys have been wiped out – later redirected to incapacitate RAF fighter command. But bombers are not unstoppable. We have radar.
15 september 1940, 11 a.M.
Believing that the RAF is near breaking-point, the enemy has doubled the scale of assault. Time is running out to retrieve the precious secrets hidden throughout the British isles. Two huge waves of bombers hurtle towards London; a destructive swarm tearing across the channel with the sole objective of reducing the capital to rubble. With London in ruins, the spirit of the nation will collapse.
Our man tears through the sky, his Hawker Hurricane flanked by the bravest of men. He sees the enemy – no more than a grey smudge – through the rattling pane of his cockpit window. There’s little protection up here from the opposition, the spray of their bullets, the fall, sea, fire… god.
Entirely at odds with the looming contest, the view ahead is almost serene. The soothing pink of the clouds as they catch the late morning light is soft and welcoming. A spectrum of refracted colour dances across the windshield as he peers warily from wing to wing…
…Onwards they soar, carving ahead with inevitable dread. Too much time to think.
Gradually he begins to distinguish the individual german bombers, each flanked in formation by a pair of protective fighters, charged with the duty of delivering their explosive cargo to the target.
The sound of clattering echoes off the hollow vessel like the rattling of torrential rain across a tin roof; gunners relentless in their determination to bring everything down at any cost. He heaves on the cyclic grip and his plane banks steeply into the cloud line. Drawing an enemy fighter with him, he continues to climb, twisting and flipping his aircraft like a suspended acrobat. The moisture in the cloud streaks his vision and instinct takes hold.
Every turn is met with a silhouette of terror as he fires indiscriminately upon the dense fog of Messerschmidts.
Opposition aircraft weave in defence as he locks on, fires, destroys. An intense storm of ammunition rains down across his path as he nimbly negotiates a route through the sky, clear of metal and menace. He dives steeply knowing his hurricane can easily outmanoeuvre the messerschmitt bf 100 at this altitude. But now he has two tails… and a third.
He hears a spray of bullets pepper the undercarriage of his aircraft. Sparks streak from the sheet steel as the intensity of the onslaught escalates. He lunges to the left and down further, flirting with a stall, attempting to dart in the least expected directions. But his pursuers are skilled and overwhelming in number. His screaming engines are subject to intense fire and inevitably a fireball engulfs the starboard cowling, releasing plumes of dense black smoke.
The smell of fuel surrounds him as flames lick at the cockpit and fry the circuits of his crude control panel.
This is an end.
A calm finale to an electrifying symphony.
He pulls the release lever and bails from the cockpit, into the eternity of the sky and back once more to the infinity of his life.