Alan Bristow

by Alan Bristow

Next morning the squadron leader poked her head around the door.

  ‘You’ve turned yellow,’ she said.

  It was true. I was feeling decidedly seedy, too. The doctor had been dead right. What he’d spotted I can’t say, and I never met him again. Where I contracted hepatitis is also a mystery. But the squadron was heading for the Far East, and I was laid up in hospital for six weeks. In the event, there was to be no combat flying and the Queen never left home waters – they kicked everyone off and sent her in for a refit. I received news of the Japanese surrender on 15 August 1945 in my isolation unit bed, and the war was over.

  Restored to health after six weeks in solitary, I was released by the RAF and given my train fare to Winchester, from where I took a taxi to Worthy Down to be reunited with my lovely wife and my blasted helicopters.

  CHAPTER 8

  Becoming a Civilian

  With the war over, test-flying at HMS Kestrel was winding down; fewer Seafires, Oxfords and Swordfish took off on their post-maintenance proving and delivery flights, and it was clear the Navy wasn’t absolutely sure what to do with us. One day the CO called me in. He looked harassed.

  ‘Look, Bristow, we’ve got this Swordfish here – it’s got to go up to Norfolk tomorrow for storage. Take it there, will you.’

  ‘Sir, I’ve never flown a Swordfish.’

  ‘Oh, it’s just like a big Tiger Moth.’

  ‘I’ve never flown a Tiger Moth, sir.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake don’t be difficult, Bristow. Here are the Pilot’s Notes – they’ll tell you everything you need to know.’

  The Swordfish was a big open-cockpit biplane that might have been considered obsolete before the war but was used throughout in torpedo attacks. It had a powerful radial engine making 1,300 horsepower, but there was so much drag on the aircraft that it was dreadfully slow. I spent half the evening sitting in this Swordfish reading the Pilot’s Notes, studying the cockpit layout and flight-planning to Norfolk.

  Next day the weather was beautiful, with puffy little clouds in a blue sky. I had prepared by noting the course carefully on my kneepad with estimated drift, turning points and estimated time of arrival, and I had goggles and a pocketful of maps. She was started with the help of a ground engineer, and I took off heading north-east. The barrage had been taken down over London and I had planned my route to fly directly over the City. The devastation was dreadful. Vast acreages of rubble were punctuated by skeletal walls, burned-out buildings and skewed streets. Rising above it all was St Paul’s Cathedral with hardly a mark on it, an amazing and life-affirming sight. I did a couple of turns around it and set course for Norfolk.

  Don’t ask me how it happened, but at this point my map blew away. It was an annoyance rather than a disaster – I’d already set my course, I’d confirmed my drift estimate on the way to London, and I had my estimated time of arrival on my kneepad. In theory, I just had to hold my heading until the ETA came up, and the destination airfield should be in sight. But once you get into East Anglia there are aerodromes all over the place. A few minutes after my ETA, I came to one. There wasn’t a soul about – it looked just like a storage depot, and I set up my approach. The red flare fired from the tower as I was about to touch down came as a surprise, but I landed anyway, slowed and turned onto a taxiway.

  Coming the other way, quite fast, was a Jeep with an automatic weapon mounted on it. The weapon was trained on me, and behind it was a man with a purposeful look. The best thing to do was stop and shut down. The driver scrambled out of the Jeep and got out his pistol.

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ I said. ‘I’m Lieutenant Bristow and I’m delivering this aircraft to you for storage.’

  ‘Save it, buddy,’ said the driver. ‘Get in the Jeep.’

  They were Americans. Obviously I had landed on the wrong aerodrome. I was taken to a guardroom where my request to see the CO was rebuffed. They didn’t recognise the Swordfish, and thought I might be a German spy.

  ‘I’m not Mr Hess,’ I insisted. ‘Can I exercise the right of a prisoner to call his lawyer?’

  I was allowed to use the telephone and called the CO at Worthy Down.

  ‘Where the hell are you, Bristow,’ he enquired.

  ‘I’ve landed at the wrong aerodrome,’ I explained. ‘My map blew away.’

  ‘Why didn’t your turn round and come back, then?’

  I had no answer.

  The CO smoothed matters over with the Americans, and suddenly my interrogators were all smiles. The aerodrome I wanted was seven miles away, they said as they returned me to the Swordfish and pointed me in the right direction. I landed there without further mishap. They put the plane away and gave me a lift to the station to catch a train back to Worthy Down, where the CO looked askance at me, but said nothing.

  Len Page yearned to go home to Canada, but we were sent instead to Portland Dockyard, where the Admiralty had decided that helicopters would be useful for assisting in torpedo trials and establishing procedures for landing helicopters on battleships at sea. We were under the command of Lieutenant Commander G.M.T. Osborn, who was based at Lee-on-Solent. Osborn was a nice enough chap who had just been released from a prisoner of war camp but he was somewhat brusque and dismissive towards me to begin with. His attitude changed when he found out who my father was – they had met when Osborn was operating out of Malta, before his Swordfish crashed at sea, delivering him into the hands of the Germans – and we got on well thereafter.

  Len and I were due to set up the Portland operation together, but Len managed to get an early demob and returned to civilian life in Canada. After a brief spell as a test pilot for Siebel, a helicopter company that ran out of money, he went on to be a senior manager for the Bell telephone company responsible for much of Montreal.

  The Portland Flight was based in a dilapidated seaplane hangar, and the first job was to make it weatherproof and functional. A lot of work went into building offices and lecture rooms, putting in a power supply and smoothing the concrete slipway into Portland harbour. I designed a trolley that would allow float-equipped R-4s to be taxied off the water onto the slipway and be hauled directly into the hangar, and a couple were made up in the workshops. They did the job admirably.

  I was in charge of a flight of four R-4s, and one of our primary duties was to support the torpedo development team. Torpedoes were made at the Whitehead factory in a corner of Portland Harbour, and a small fleet of old-fashioned naval pinnaces functioned as torpedo recovery boats. When we weren’t observing torpedo trials we were training pilots. Among the men sent to me was Alan Green, who was later to play a significant role in the success of Bristow Helicopters as my Operations Director.

  I had plenty of time to experiment with the helicopter and tried in particular to get to know more about the vortex ring state, which was then poorly understood. Because it only develops when a rotor is under power, it was never a problem in autogyros and came as a rude shock to early helicopter pilots. Helicopters could practise over Chesil Beach as long as pilots were careful not to whip up the pebbles. To induce the vortex ring state a pilot had to keep bringing back the cyclic until speed was low and power was insufficient to maintain height. Lift was lost and the helicopter was on the edge of controllability. It would descend very rapidly, and if the pilot did the natural thing – raised the collective and added power to maintain height – the machine would descend even faster. Recovery was quite simple. Using the azimuth stick to lower the nose would produce enough forward speed to fly out of the vortex ring state, but it could take many hundreds of feet to stop the descent, and if the pilot had entered the vortex ring without enough altitude nothing could be done to prevent the helicopter from crashing. Much was learned about the behaviour of helicopters in these early tests, largely by trial and error.

  Lessons were also to be learned from other emergencies. I was flying over Portland Harbour when the tail rotor of the R-4 failed. The tail rotor stops the helicopter fuselage turning in the opposite direction to the main r
otor, and failure can lead to loss of control. The machine yawed wildly but I lowered the collective to reduce the main rotor torque. There was some directional stability from the windmilling tail rotor, and I found that in a descent at about forty knots I could maintain control as long as I kept turning gently to the left. The machine had floats and beneath me was the sea, so picking a good landing spot wasn’t critical. I flared onto the water at about ten knots and the port float went under, but the helicopter stayed the right way up. I was towed ignominiously backwards to the slipway by a torpedo pinnace. The failure was traced to a delta hinge, a device for equalising thrust across the tail rotor, which had fractured through metal fatigue. Sikorsky sent out new delta hinges with a different part number, but they looked the same to me.

  Tail rotor failures shouldn’t be a problem if you have enough height and you’ve got your wits about you. Much of what I learned at Portland was later incorporated into the Bristow training syllabus. Pilots were taught the descending turn onto a runway in the Bell 47, with the pedal held all the way over to simulate the failure. Ultimately it was stopped because it called for a level of skill that the ordinary pilot did not necessarily have, and there was always a risk of damage to the helicopter.

  On occasion I operated out of Witley Park, an estate in the most beautiful part of Surrey, on radar calibration duties. I would take the R-4 up to 400 feet and hover over a point on the ground to allow radar units for naval guns to be trained on me and calibrated for accuracy. On the same errand, I would be sent out to battleships and would hover as still as possible while they sighted on me. The chap who took over from me on that job was John Fay, a great naval helicopter pilot who remained a close friend for the rest of my life. After a day of intense flying I would take the R-4 home to where Jean and I were living in a pretty little former Coastguard cottage overlooking the sea at Osmington Mills, just three minutes’ flying time from Portland Dockyard, parking the helicopter in the back garden.

  Quite unexpectedly, I was given orders to go to the French aviation research establishment at Villacoublay, just south of Paris, to assess the flying characteristics of the German Focke-Achgelis Fa223 helicopter. The British had been very keen to get their hands on the Fa223, a twin-rotor helicopter that had been used extensively for carrying light field guns and ammunition to mountain positions during the war. Now they’d acquired one, and it was considered a pearl of great price. French test pilot Jean Boulet and I spent two days trying to get the German pilots’ notes translated. Neither of us spoke German, so the management at Villacoublay eventually provided an interpreter who gave us enough information and confidence to start ground-running and taxying the Fa223.

  When the taxying trials were completed, a flight-test programme was drawn up, which included take-off into the hover position to measure forces on the flight controls before commencing forward flight. The transition to forward flight was smooth, but the stick forces from fifty-five to eighty-five knots were a little heavy – similar to those of the Westland S51 Dragonfly. The Fa223 was stable in the hover and in level flight up to eighty knots. At 4,000 feet we found that the vibration levels in the controls and fuselage increased in frequency and amplitude until they became unacceptable between eighty-five and 105 knots. Once this phase of the test had been completed, a climb to 6,000 feet was made prior to reducing pitch to enter autorotation at about sixty-five knots.

  At 1,500 feet another level high-speed run was started, and progressed slowly up to 105 knots, whereupon an almighty bang shook the helicopter violently. Boulet was on the controls and without hesitation he reduced pitch into autorotation, at the same time slowing down to 65 knots, turning towards Villacoublay airport and descending to level off at 500 feet. On the approach to land the flight controls responded normally. Almost simultaneously after landing we each said to the other, ‘What the hell happened?’

  We regained our composure in the pilots’ room and started to analyse what could have caused the sudden bang and vibration. I thought a bird had struck one of the main rotor blades and possibly broken part of a blade, although the rotor vibration did not reflect that kind of damage. Boulet shared my view. A thorough technical investigation continued for several days in a determined effort to find the cause. At one point, the engineers began to wonder if the loud bang and violent vibration had actually happened. Their doubts were dispelled when the cause was finally traced to a broken clutch plate.

  It was with Jean Boulet as pilot, myself as co-pilot and a Luftwaffe helicopter expert as observer that the Focke-Achgelis was delivered to the RAF rotorcraft section at Beaulieu in Hampshire. I was not asked to fly it again.

  Shortly afterwards I made the first landings on a frigate under way at sea during a series of flights designed to establish the feasibility of equipping such ships with helicopters. A special platform had been built on the stern of HMS Helmsdale, and I made a number of approaches and landings using R-4s fitted with both wheels and skids. Happily, there was a great deal more room for error than there had been on top of ‘A’ turret aboard HMS Anson.

  Shortly after these trials, two of Westland Aircraft’s senior managers, works director Ted Wheeldon and production manager Johnny Fearn, made an unannounced visit to Portland saying that their firm was seriously considering going into the helicopter manufacturing business and might become involved with Sikorsky. Would I be interested in applying for the job of helicopter test pilot? For some reason I didn’t take them as seriously as I might have done. I told them I’d let them know after I found out when I could expect to be demobbed. My offhand reply didn’t deter them from asking all kinds of questions about the maintenance of the R-4 and its serviceability under heavy utilisation – we were flying eighty hours a month. They asked about autorotation, and what happened when the engine stopped, so I couldn’t help wondering just how far they’d got in their due diligence with Sikorsky. I was able to give them the full details of my tail rotor failure and the behaviour of the helicopter in such circumstances. The Westland visitors thanked me for my kind attention and said that they looked forward to meeting me again.

  I was indeed thinking about my future, but I didn’t expect it would feature helicopters. I knew it would not involve the Royal Navy. Shortly after VE Day my Commanding Officer, Lieutenant Commander Osborn, sent me a signal asking whether or not I would accept a permanent commission in the rank of senior lieutenant. Helicopters were seen as the coming thing, and the Admiralty did not share the squadron pilots’ view that rotary wing aviation was the poor relation. Indeed, they were sending only their best pilots for helicopter training. I was one of about twelve naval pilots with experience of helicopter operations, and as far as flight hours were concerned I would have been in the top three. I had established procedures for landing on battleships and frigates at sea. A permanent commission was a flattering proposition that promised rapid promotion to the rank of Lieutenant Commander, with good prospects of further promotion as the Royal Navy invested in more and more helicopters. Osborn had asked me for a reply as soon as possible. I decided to consult my father, whom I hadn’t seen for more than a year. He was now working at the Admiralty in London, and over a beer at home in Sutton I asked him for his advice before I made a long-term commitment.

  ‘What year were you at Dartmouth,’ he asked.

  ‘Dad,’ I said, ‘You know I’m an RNVR wartime officer trained to be a pilot, and I didn’t go to Dartmouth.’

  ‘Exactly,’ my father said. He looked at me very directly. ‘You must remember that a time will come, if you accept this offer, and assuming you get your brass hat in the rank of commander, that promotion thereafter would be determined at interview. One of the questions the Admiralty Board would ask you is, “What year were you at Dartmouth, Bristow?” ’

  He was absolutely right. ‘Dad,’ I said, ‘you’ve made your point crystal clear.’

  ‘Don’t thank me. That interview procedure is a pivotal fact of naval life.’

  From that moment on I knew that I wo
uldn’t make a career in the Royal Navy, and with demob only six months away I declined Osborn’s offer. The decision was the right one, but it moved me into a period of uncertainty. My whole life for the previous six years had been to do with the sea, in the merchant navy and the Fleet Air Arm, and I had done rather well. Now, I was to start again as a civilian.

  In July 1946, I was demobilised from the Fleet Air Arm and completely forgot about helicopters, the Navy and my visitors from Westland.

  CHAPTER 9

  Test Pilot

  Wearing my demob suit and hat I strode out of my wife’s sister’s home in Woodford and caught a Piccadilly Line Underground train to St James’s, and thence to the offices of my new employers, R.K. Dundas, where I had obtained a position as a salesman of airfield equipment – fire engines, lighting, runway paint, VHF transceivers, anything an aerodrome might require. Mr Dundas was an ex-RAF pilot who had been invalided out after suffering a serious leg injury that forced him to wear a special boot to keep his balance, and he proved to be very helpful and understanding when in my first week on the job I had an accident that was to affect me for the rest of my life.

  It was the morning rush hour, and I was standing by the doors as my packed Tube train slowed down to stop in St James’s station. There was a sudden piledriver blow as the carriage was hit by a train that had jumped the opposite track, and I was crushed against a partition by the tremendous weight of a press of passengers. All the air was squeezed out of me, and I blacked out. I woke up on a bench in the station amid a scene of chaos, with lost and bewildered people wandering around, some with injuries. An old woman in a train guard’s uniform was bending over me.

  ‘Hello, darlin’,’ she said. ‘You’ll be all right.’

  I tried to sit up but the effort was too great. I lay down and blacked out again. By the time I came round, order had been restored and it was almost 11 am. Someone gave me water. I pulled myself together and walked unsteadily to the office. Mr Dundas was very concerned. I tried to work for a while, but eventually he over-ruled my protestations that I was indeed all right and insisted that I go home.