With his encouragement Pop was able to get things moving, and in mid-1965 we at Bristol received a party of Romanians led by an energetic and extrovert air force officer, General Ispas. They at once expressed an interest in the Viper turbojet, which as an original Armstrong Siddeley design had powered Petter’s Midge prototype at 1,640 lb thrust. By the time we made it a Bristol Siddeley engine it was in large-scale production for such aircraft as the Jet Provost, Aermacchi MB.326 and SOKO Galeb jet trainers and the HS.125 bizjet, at ratings around 2,500 lb. Along with the Viper we had inherited some fine engineers, including Johnnie Marlow, who remained chief engineer on the Viper until he retired, and E. A. Macdonald who took over all compressor research at Bristol. In ten years we took the Viper to 3,000, 3,300, 3,750 and 4,000 lb thrust, and now it is in production with an afterburner at 5,000 lb, and the new Mk 680 version will be more powerful still! Getting on for 6,000 have been sold in countries all over the world.
I had already visited Yugoslavia, a country which had built up a busy aircraft industry with the Viper-powered Galeb trainer and Jastreb light attack aircraft. The factory was at Mostar, in the south, near Sarajevo where in 1914 Archduke Ferdinand was assassinated, triggering off World War 1. The footprints of the young assassin are cast in concrete at the spot. He could hardly have missed, because the street was only just wide enough for one carriage, and I stood there in deep emotion thinking of the millions who died as a result of this single act.
The Yugoslavs merely bought Vipers from us, but Romania wanted to make the engine. So between 1965 and 1975 I had to make many visits to Bucharest. I was always received with the greatest goodwill and soon began to make friends. On the morning of my first visit I was quietly dressing in the Inter Continental Hotel when I was informed that the General was waiting for me in the foyer. I quickly joined him and his entourage, and instantly a large tray of cognac, coffee and sparkling water arrived. After this we moved on to the newest and largest engineering works in Bucharest, making steam and hydro-electric turbines. We retired to the boardroom where a large tray of cognac, coffee and sparkling water was served. After a tour of this factory we moved to the Aeronautical Institute, where I was to give a lecture at 11 am. On arrival a large tray of cognac, coffee and sparkling water appeared, and we chatted amicably, with George as the indispensable interpreter. Suddenly, in walked Coanda, to a round of applause from us all. I found him a quiet, cultured gentlemen, obviously delighted to see people from Bristol. As soon as we all sat down again — guess what? A large tray appeared, soon followed by several more. I am told the lecture was a great success, but my memory of it is somewhat clouded by the lunch which followed, where wine flowed like water and we also consumed considerable quantities of tuica, the local plum brandy. No better first day in a Communist state could be imagined.
Bucharest had held a romantic appeal for me ever since, as a young man, I had read of the affair of Lord Thomson, the Air Minister who died in the R.101, with Princess Bibescu. I loved to walk around the city, though it looked very run down, rather like Paris in 1945. Rambler roses brightened up the wide old boulevards and garden-filled squares, but so many things cried out for attention. On my first visit there were almost no cars, the only transport being trams. I wandered through the great salons of the famous Hotel Athenee, with their faded decoration. I would have liked to stay there, but George decreed that we were expected to use the new Inter Continental, where we might as well have been in Chicago.
Few shops had anything to sell, and there were no window displays. In particular the ladies were having a thin time: only the plainest of dress fabrics and clothing, and no silk or nylon stockings, no make-up and not even face cream. On the other hand, there seemed to be adequate food, and certainly good meat and fish. But I did not have too much time for sightseeing, because I was subjected to many interminable barrages of questioning on the merits of the Viper. On numerous occasions George and I would go to the Technical Import Corporation and have meetings with officials, but in my experience it is difficult in Communist countries to find the man who has the power of taking a decision, and next to impossible to find one who is willing to take the responsibility of actually doing so. But with George’s diplomacy and Coanda’s backing we gradually moved up the hierarchy, meeting ministers, then the Prime Minister George (Gheorghe) Oprea.
On one visit I was delighted to receive an invitation to meet the Vice-President, Emil Bodnaras. Emil was an old-guard revolutionary who had been an army general, but he was imprisoned for Communist activities and spent eight years exiled in the Soviet Union. When I met him he was nearly 70, but prided himself on keeping his stocky figure in first-class shape. We formed a great rapport together, and he always attended the grand dinners that George would organise for us at the Inter Continental. The first time he came there was a great commotion, with security men searching the kitchens and hotel rooms, and guarding his entrance. The British Ambassador — who, with his staff, was always most helpful to us — also used to attend, and at the end of each dinner we used to arrange for the two great men to sit undisturbed so that they could discuss affairs of state.
Occasionally the Vice-President would entertain me in his own home, which was a modest suburban house (but in a guarded road). It was filled with mementoes of his dealings with the Russians and Chinese. He it was who managed to persuade the Kremlin to take the occupying Soviet forces out of Romania; an accomplishment not equalled by any other Warsaw Pact satellite. He then made many visits to Chairman Mao and Chou en Lai in China, and the close alliance between the two countries certainly led to a respect for Romania in Moscow. He was delighted when I called him “The Winston Churchill of Romania”. If only I could have had a tape recorder at our many friendly chats I would really have had an historic tale to tell.
Our intimacy with the Vice-President made George and me VIPs. George had an uncanny knack of self-effacement, only to materialize the moment the negotiations reached a difficult point. He entertained generously, not only people involved in business but also a steady stream of others. Some were old friends whom the revolution had reduced to penury; they would sneak into the plush hotel, have a good meal on George and leave rejoicing with a 100-Leis note. Others would come to George in the coffee room to request help on every conceivable topic, and in a babel of different tongues. Quietly, without any condescension or arrogance, George would get things put right, even though the plaintiffs’ troubles were through no fault on his part. We were indeed fortunate that George chose to represent Rolls-Royce and British Aircraft Corporation (now British Aerospace).
Shortly after Sir Kenneth Keith arrived on the scene I asked him whether he would come with me to Romania and Yugoslavia. Hitherto I had never been able to get the Top Brass at Derby to show interest in such an insignificant place (in their opinion) as Romania, but Kenneth replied ‘Certainly, when shall we go?’ George was in his element organizing this visit, and Kenneth was treated royally, ending with a meeting with President Nicolae Ceaucescu. The President sat on one side of the magnificent room in the former royal palace, with his Inner Cabinet on his right and Kenneth, myself and George on his left. Suddenly Kenneth said ‘Mr. President, why are you entering this expensive field of aero engine manufacture, when you could much more easily buy direct from us?’ You could have heard a pin drop. Such questions had been asked before, and we had always received a waffling reply. But in his quiet voice the President said ‘Well, we are not aiming to be a competitor of Rolls-Royce, but we would like to be a son.’ What a charming answer!
It transpired that both men were keen hunters. Almost the only thing Kenneth had never hunted was a bear, and the President invited him to do just this. At Bucharest Airport the President’s helicopter was waiting, and it set us down on a plateau high in the Carpathians. We stayed the night at a lovely hunting lodge, where the national head gamekeepers joined us. It was at a place called Cheia, mid-way between the vast Ploesti oilfields and the aeronautical works (and ski resort) of Brasov. Nex
t morning the bear party set out, but I said I had a non-aggression pact with bears and instead enquired about trout-fishing. In fact we drove over mountain tracks until we reached a trout farm, where I picked out a couple of dozen beauties fresh from the icy water. That evening Kenneth trudged in, with no bear. He asked me how I had got on, and I replied ‘Not too badly.’ He asked how many I had caught, and I replied that it was about two dozen. ‘You damned liar’, said Kenneth, ‘you’re pulling my leg!’ I said ‘Nonsense, they’re cleaning them in the kitchen for dinner’. My hosts did not let on, and I kept a totally straight face all through the meal. Later he discovered where they had really come from, and he got his own back next day by bagging two big brown bears.
On the way back from Romania Kenneth and I toured the Yugoslav facilities. They made cars in Belgrade and their light strike and trainer jets at Mostar, but they had imported the Viper engines. Now we felt a wind of change rippling through the scene, and we learned that not only did the two countries wish to collaborate 50-50 to build a really capable tactical combat aircraft but they both wanted to share in making the Viper engine, and in the latest and most powerful version. So Rolls-Royce now had two important licensees, and after a prolonged effort the twin-jet strike fighter, called the Orao (Eagle) in Yugoslavia and the IAR-93 in Romania, became an accomplished fact. So tight was the control on the 50-50 share that two prototypes had to make their maiden flights on the same day, one in each country; that day was 31 October 1974. Production machines followed from 1981.
The Romanians also took a licence for the British Aerospace One-Eleven jetliner and its Rolls-Royce Spey engines, and both these giant programmes were carried through to very successful production. George’s patient hammering away for ten years was behind it all, and I am delighted to report that in late 1983 the collaboration between the various partners could not be closer.
On one of my last trips to Bucharest I invited Vice-President Bodnaras to visit England. I had the pleasure of collecting him in our 125 bizjet. He was like a schoolboy let loose on holiday, and especially admired our pretty little villages. On a more nostalgic note, I also got Coanda to visit us, and he went back to the office in Filton House where he had worked on the Prier monoplane in 1912. He was coming to the end of his days, but before he left us he made a tape recording for me of his pioneering period in Paris and Bristol, and this is in the archives of the Royal Aeronautical Society.
Emil Bodnaras was destined to pass on soon afterwards, but before he died he told me ‘You ought to visit China.’ I told him that I would like to, especially as I had been appointed a professor there so many years earlier, but that their restrictions would make it impossible. A few weeks later, in early 1972, a party from the Chinese office in London (they had no ambassador at that time) came to see me. I was up to my neck in RB211 problems, and must have been a rather preoccupied host, but I was all ears when they invited me to visit China. My colleague John Oliver, who had been in Peking (now written more accurately as Beijing) helping sell the Trident airliner, said there was no need to worry as it would take more than six months to get a visa. I forgot about it, and was astonished when in April an official invitation arrived.
To me China seemed as remote as the Moon, a completely unknown quantity. I felt I must do all I could to foster goodwill and create interest in Rolls-Royce engines. So I made up a team of four, Alan Newton and John Oliver from Derby and myself and Trevor Powell from Bristol, and collected a mass of slides and films which had all been published in the lectures and technical symposia that we were in the habit of giving. We flew from London to Sri Lanka (Ceylon), spent the night at the Pegasus Hotel on the shore of the Indian Ocean (and one of the most beautiful places I have ever visited), and flew on to Canton by Pakistan International, which apart from Aeroflot and Air France was the only airline to fly to the People’s Republic. We were seven hours late getting away from Colombo, and after a 5½-hour flight arrived at Canton at about 9 pm local time.
I felt quite apprehensive when I first set foot on Chinese soil. The feeling was not dispelled when we got to Customs and Immigration, for there we found fierce-looking young men and women in khaki uniforms, all with revolvers at their waists, giving each passenger a thorough going-over and opening all their baggage. My heart sank as I thought of our massive amount of engine literature, slides and films. I presented my passport, trying to look much bolder than I felt. At once the young official reached under his desk, produced a slip of paper, read it, and waved our whole party through, baggage and all!
We had missed our connecting flight to Beijing, which at that time was a single flight each day departing at 1 pm, so we were sent on to Shanghai in an Ilyushin 18 turboprop. We arrived at about midnight and were given tickets for our first Chinese meal at the airport hotel close by. We paid no money, and in China tips are not expected. Next day we flew on to Beijing, where we arrived at about 4 pm. We were met by a top-level delegation from the Machinery Import Corporation, which later became the Technical Import Corporation, and by Derek March, Commercial Counsellor at our embassy.
While our baggage and passports were being processed we were taken to a big, airy lounge and served with cups of tea. After polite exchanges about our health and journey the head man said, ‘You are our guests. Now what is your programme?’ I replied, ‘We have come to tell you about Rolls-Royce engines and technology, and we wish to know whether we can be of service to the development of aviation in China’. This was received with approval, and, it being Thursday evening, it was agreed we should begin lecturing at 9 am on the following Monday. Without more ado we were taken to the Minh Su Hotel, where we had splendid accommodation. I had a magnificent suite, furnished in Victorian style, with every comfort — except air-conditioning, and this did not matter as the weather was like a good British summer.
I was informed that the Romanian Ambassador would like me to call upon him, and it was nice to get such a message in this seemingly alien land. There were almost no cars; everyone, in their millions, rode bicycles. The only cars were large and rather ugly black limousines copied from a Russian design and used by top officials. Two were placed at our disposal, and it was important to remember that No. 1 was mine and No. 2 for my colleagues. If I got into the wrong car there were angry words between the drivers. We passed the weekend in peace, merely calling on our Ambassador, Sir John Addis, and visiting the Forbidden City, the Winter Palace of the old emperors. This vast building is situated on the Chang’An Avenue, which runs straight across the city with six traffic lanes between wide tree-lined borders. In front of the palace is the vast Tian’An-men Square, where we also found the colossal Great Hall of the People. Today Mao’s mausoleum has been added, but in 1972 he was very much alive and it seemed the entire population was carrying his Little Red Book and wearing a Mao badge.
I was surprised to find Beijing a drab, dusty, grey city, almost totally devoid of colour apart from scarlet posters and banners. There were no illuminated signs and no displays in any shop windows. For the ordinary population there seemed to be nothing to buy except for food and a few essential household items. Foreigners, however, could go to a big shop called The Friendship Shop and purchase groceries and typical Chinese items made of silk and jade. I used to dictate into a tape recorder on my balcony after dark, and apart from Chang’An Avenue the entire vast city looked pitch-black, with just one or two tiny lights. Apart from the occasional tram it seemed that by 8 pm the entire city was asleep.
On our second evening, Friday, we were invited to a banquet by Mr Sue Chen, the manager of the Machinery Import Corporation. For such an occasion one of the best Chinese restaurants, far beyond the reach of the ordinary people, was taken over completely. We assembled at 7 pm and, after a preliminary cup of tea and social chat, we were led into the dining room. This was set out in what I learned was the usual style, with two big round tables each laid for ten places. It was my first experience of true Beijing cuisine, and I looked apprehensively at the array of at least ten
laden dishes on my table, most completely unrecognisable to me. I sat next to our host, who signalled the start of the meal by serving into my bowl various helpings. It was also the first time that I saw chopsticks being used by experts, and, apologizing for my lack of expertise, I struggled along with mine. On my right was Mr Chen’s interpreter, so we were able to keep a lively conversation going. The Chinese clearly attach great importance to small-talk, and take great trouble to put their guests at ease.
After we had sampled the hors d’oeuvres, they were swept away and another eight or nine dishes appeared and so on for nine courses, finishing with very thin soup. We had chicken, duck, prawns, small pancakes stuffed with savoury and sweet fillings, and a complete fish beautifully decorated. The whole meal was a great experience of new dishes and new flavours, and it made me wonder if, in the past, the Chinese had been so hungry that they had learned how to convert every eatable thing into deliciously palatable food.
We drank lager beer and fizzy orange, and I also made the acquaintance of mautai, the fiery, colourless spirit distilled from sorghum. It was used for the numerous toasts, and fortunately was served in tiny liqueur glasses. There were many speeches of welcome, to each of which we replied, after each of which there would be a great clinking of glasses and shouts of ‘Cambai’ (bottoms up). About 9 pm we finished, and returned in our limousines through the dark and silent city.
Two armed soldiers guarded our hotel, but nowhere did we see any evidence of an oppressive regime. In daytime it seemed that half the population of China was pedalling bicycles, at any time liable to change direction without warning. There were thus many spills, each of which would collect a crowd of onlookers until the affair had been sorted out by a smartly dressed traffic (ie bicycle traffic) policeman. Apart from the police and armed forces it seemed that everyone was wearing a loose white shirt, baggy blue trousers and blue canvas slippers. To a European the only way to tell the women from the men was by their hair, the young girls having pigtails and the older ladies a short bob. It was not until several visits later that I saw a female leg! In the hotel, each floor had a retinue of young men who did all the chores. Only the lift was operated by girls, and the first Chinese words I learned were ‘Wu law’: fifth floor.
Not Much of an Engineer Page 26
