Category: Militaria

At just 3cm by 4cm, this week’s find manages to fit quite a lot of history into a small space.

Today we have a really quite unusual pendant bearing the badge of the Royal Flying Corps. Hand-engraved silver detail stands out against a dark shell background, with the RFC initials beneath a crown and the Latin motto on a scroll below: “Per Ardua ad Astra”, or “Through Adversity to the Stars”.

We would date this piece to 1912–1918, the short period in which the Royal Flying Corps existed. Formed on 13 April 1912, it merged with the Royal Naval Air Service on 1 April 1918 to become the Royal Air Force.

Look closely at the photograph and you can appreciate the work involved. The lettering, the leaves around the initials and the tiny details of the crown all sit within a pendant small enough to hold between finger and thumb.

We don’t know who originally wore it, or whether it was a gift. That part of its story remains a mystery. But someone took considerable care over this little piece, and it still rewards a closer look.

Our thanks, as always, to Michael of Anything Military for sharing another interesting find from the world of collecting.

At just 5.5cm across, this little clock is a reminder that some of the most interesting pieces of wartime history can be remarkably small.

Aircraft clocks of this type were fitted to many British aircraft during the Second World War, including the famous Spitfire and Hurricane. There was no single standard clock used across every fighter. Making components interchangeable and allowing different versions to be used helped keep wartime production moving.

This example has three fixing points which allowed it to be mounted directly into an aircraft’s instrument panel. Its black face carries the usual hour, minute and second hands, but also features a distinctive pair of red hands.

These are known as “dummy hands”. They could be set separately – commonly to record the start time of a flight – giving the pilot or navigator a useful visual reference while airborne.

Turn the clock over and much more of its story is revealed. The reverse carries the Air Ministry ‘AM’ marking, a clock speed regulator and the serial number 12766/44. Those final two digits give us the year: 1944.

For collectors, however, condition is not simply a question of whether the clock still works. Examples such as this are generally worth less than £100 whether working or not, and originality can be far more important. A clock that has been opened, altered or heavily repaired can lose much of its appeal and value.

Add documented provenance linking one to a particular aircraft or individual, though, and a seemingly modest instrument can become something much more significant.

It is exactly the sort of object that makes collecting militaria so fascinating: small enough to hold in your hand, but once part of the working cockpit of a wartime aircraft.

How does a badge go from official to unofficial?

The Late Arrivals Club badge was created during the Western Desert campaign for RAF airmen who had bailed out, been shot down or force-landed, then walked back to their unit through the desert.

Their exploits became a valuable morale boost, and RAF public relations officer George W. Houghton gained permission from Lord Tedder to present them with a winged boot badge.

That permission applied only in the Middle East theatre during the campaign. Outside it, and after the fighting had ended, the badge was considered unofficial.

Fewer than 500 of the first type are thought to have been made. They were locally cast from aircraft alloy, with two loops on the back.

On this example, those loops have been removed and replaced with a German award stickpin, possibly from a miniature Panzer badge. German awards were often made in stickpin form for civilian wear.

It is a fitting alteration. The RAF men who earned the winged boot had been fighting Rommel’s Afrika Korps, so using part of a German tank badge to secure it adds a particularly personal twist.

This small wartime leaflet carries a chillingly direct message. Dated 12/44 in the bottom right corner, with the code 374/12/44, it appears to be a German propaganda leaflet aimed at advancing British forces in the final winter of the Second World War.

The front design is stark and memorable: “Good Luck! 1945” sits above a cartoon soldier walking a tightrope, while below him rises a red forest of bayonets, skulls and bones. The reverse is even more unsettling. Under the heading “Here we go again!”, the text leans hard into fear, exhaustion and homesickness, asking soldiers how many of their friends will still be alive by the end of 1945.

Propaganda leaflets were used by all sides during the conflict, but this example has an extra point of interest. On close inspection, the paper has a rippled, lightly raised corrugated texture, similar to modern absorbent tissue. This was not merely decorative. It may have helped tightly packed leaflets separate and disperse more effectively when fired from an artillery shell.

By December 1944, Germany had lost air superiority, making artillery delivery a practical alternative to airborne drops. That detail turns this from a simple paper survivor into a fascinating object of psychological warfare: a message designed not just to be read, but to land at a soldier’s feet.

Every squadron of the Royal Air Force carries its own identity in the form of a distinctive badge, often referred to as a crest. These embroidered insignia are more than decoration – they are compact pieces of history, shaped by tradition, service, and the personalities behind them.

In the years leading up to the Second World War, such patches were commonly worn on coveralls, marking out affiliation and pride. Many designs echo the earliest days of aviation, when markings were painted directly onto aircraft, often improvised, sometimes personal, but always meaningful.

No. 48 Squadron offers one of the most intriguing examples. Its red triangle, still central to the crest today, traces back to the First World War, when pilots would paste Bass beer bottle labels onto their aircraft while on operations. What began as a small, human touch became permanent heraldry. Behind that symbol sits an extraordinary record. Formed in 1916 and deployed to France in 1917 as the first squadron equipped with the Bristol Fighter, No. 48 Squadron counted 32 aces among its ranks. It drew pilots from both the Royal Flying Corps and the Royal Naval Air Service, with a belief at the time that naval aviators were among the very best, given the added challenge of landing on a moving ship at sea.

Other crests are tied to defining moments. No. 617 Squadron, forever linked to the Dambusters raid of 1943, bears the image of a breached dam, a direct reference to its wartime legacy. In contrast, the Air Operations School adopts a bee and honeycomb, reflecting the complexity and coordination found in nature itself.

Collectors are often drawn to the craftsmanship as much as the stories. Early UK-made silk examples, with their fine detail and texture, are particularly desirable. Some favour pieces that show signs of service wear, valuing the connection to those who wore them, while others prefer pristine examples, a preference often seen among American collectors.

Each crest tells its own story – a blend of symbolism, history, and identity, preserved in thread.

A coin of the realm sometimes ends up with a story far beyond its original purpose. This Egyptian silver 50 piastres coin, dated 1917, offers exactly that.

Originally struck as currency during the First World War, one side of the coin has been carefully removed and engraved with the details of a British serviceman. The inscription records F. White, service number 467151, of the Royal Army Medical Corps, specifically the Territorial force, marked here as RA(T)MC. A small decorative motif of a rising sun above three pyramids adds a subtle Egyptian flourish, perhaps reflecting the coin’s origin.

The reverse still shows the original design: the Arabic inscription and denomination of 50 Piastres, framed by a wreath and dated 1917. The transformation of the coin into an identity disc gives it an entirely different significance.

During the First World War it was common for soldiers to wear official identity discs around the neck. However, many also carried or wore privately made identification pieces such as wrist bracelets. French and Belgian soldiers frequently used this format, and British servicemen sometimes followed the same idea. The intention was simple but sobering – to reduce the risk of being left unidentified on the battlefield.

The statistics of the conflict underline that concern. Roughly one in three who served became casualties, and among those losses a significant number still have no known grave.

Personalised identity pieces like this engraved coin offer a poignant glimpse into that reality. Carried in service and tailored to the individual soldier, they often open the door to fascinating research into a single life within a vast global conflict.

American identity discs from the Second World War are among the most recognisable pieces of twentieth-century militaria, yet even they evolved as the conflict intensified. This early matched pair to Joseph S Swierszcz tells a fuller story than most later examples.

Stamped with his full name and service number – 12087834 – the discs also record T43, indicating his tetanus shot in 1943, along with the complete name and address of his next of kin: Mrs B Swierszcz, 2093 Mohegan Ave, New York, N.Y. It is that level of personal detail that marks these out as an early-war issue.

As American involvement deepened, reports emerged that German forces were broadcasting captured prisoners’ home addresses over the radio. In response, identity discs were simplified to include only name, number and tetanus year. Earlier discs bearing full next-of-kin details were soon discontinued, making surviving examples like this pair increasingly desirable.

Both discs are identical, machine-punched from one side. The shorter chain was designed so one tag could be removed if a soldier fell, leaving the second for identification. The small groove opposite the chain hole simply secured the blank in the stamping machine – despite the persistent myth that it was meant to hold the disc between a soldier’s teeth.

A modest object in size, perhaps, but rich in personal history and wartime adaptation.

One of the enduring pleasures of Charing Cross Collectors’ Market is that it rarely delivers exactly what you expect. Not every find is a medal or a rare coin. Sometimes it is a piece of kit that feels quietly familiar, yet turns out to have a story stitched into every seam.

The British Army side cap, officially known as the khaki field service cap, can trace its origins back to 1894. Designed to be practical rather than decorative, it was worn angled on the head so as not to be knocked off by a rifle or bayonet. Its less formal nickname, “chip bag”, hints at how soldiers themselves viewed it.

An unusual feature of some examples is the unfolding construction, which allowed the cap to be pulled down slightly for a degree of weather protection (see below). While never intended as a substitute for a helmet, it was a small concession to comfort in often uncomfortable conditions.

The cap received its last major official recognition with its adoption as part of the Home Guard uniform in 1940. Period photographs show Home Guard units wearing locally appropriate regimental badges, reinforcing the strong regional identity that defined these formations.

The example shown here is particularly intriguing. It carries a General Service badge alongside two Polish buttons, and is marked by a Glasgow maker dated 1939. Taken together, these details strongly suggest issue in Scotland to a member of the Polish Free Forces who trained there during the early years of the war.

As the conflict progressed, the side cap gradually gave way to the more practical beret, and by 1947 it had largely disappeared from service, surviving only in a handful of pre-war regimental colour traditions.

At first glance, the large silver rosette sometimes found mounted above the Mons clasp on a 1914 Star ribbon can look like an odd embellishment. In fact, it tells a very specific story about early wartime administration and how honours evolved in real time.

The Mons clasp itself was awarded to those whose service included the period between 5 August and 22 November 1914, covering the opening engagements of the war, including the fighting around Mons. Later, it was decided that a large silver rosette would be worn on the ribbon bar only, not on the full medal, to denote entitlement to the Mons clasp when the ribbon bar alone was worn on the tunic.

Originally, however, the silver rosette was intended to be a distinct award for 1914 Mons service in its own right. Service papers from the period even refer to men being “awarded the silver rosette”. This intention was later downgraded, and the rosette became purely a visual indicator of entitlement to the Mons clasp rather than a separate honour.

That administrative shift explains why some servicemen chose to wear the silver rosette directly on the medal ribbon itself, positioned above the clasp. They were, quite literally, wearing what they had been told they were awarded.

The accompanying official notice, sent out with medals, makes this transition clear, stating that the question of awarding a silver rosette was still under consideration. As with so many early First World War distinctions, the details were being finalised after the fact.

These small variations offer a fascinating glimpse into how honours were defined, revised and understood by the men who wore them.

The badges shown here come from the long, slightly untidy transitional period after the partition of India and Pakistan in 1947. Although independence redrew borders overnight, armies don’t reinvent their insignia quite so quickly. For several years, units on both sides continued to evolve their emblems, borrowing heavily from British patterns while gradually developing national identities of their own.

One quick rule of thumb: badges featuring the three lions of the Ashoka emblem are almost always Indian and firmly post-1947. Pieces incorporating a star and crescent will be Pakistani, also post-independence. Both countries inherited a large number of British designs and, in many cases, simply altered the headings. “Royal Signals” became “Indian Signals,” crowns disappeared, and the lions took their place. It wasn’t until 1954 that Pakistan formally adopted its own state emblem, so earlier Pakistani insignia can look quite experimental by comparison.

There are exceptions. Victorian designs featuring the Star of India were often left largely untouched, and a handful of small unit badges continued in their earlier forms with only minor changes. But as a broad 90 percent rule, lions for India and star-and-crescent for Pakistan will guide you well.

Most examples from this era were cast rather than die-struck, with lugs formed as part of the main body in brass or alloy. That construction style alone is often enough to place them firmly in the early post-partition years, when rapid expansion and local production dictated both materials and methods. For collectors, these transitional badges offer a fascinating glimpse at two new armies finding their visual identities in real time.