The accurate delivery of air weapons takes considerable understanding, practice and in-built skills. Speed, firing range, angle of attack, allowance for gravity drop and wind lay-off, all have to be spot on. For the likes of myself this needed great effort and practice. However, there were those few pilots whose actions and judgement were instinctive. Justin Varkevisser was one of the few. He was deadly accurate with any weapon he delivered. Largely because of his teaching and example, a number of future pilots acquired his unique abilities.
Apart from delivery of air weapons, we were introduced to new operational flying requirements. Formation tail-chases were necessary to experience the effects of opening and closing speeds when climbing and descending as we learned how to loosen and tighten turns to open and close on potential enemy aircraft. Quarter attacks from high level onto lower flying aircraft were easy enough to fly, but holding the centre graticule of the gyro gun-sight on the target aircraft, while matching its wing-span by twisting the range controller on the throttle to cater for rapidly closing distance, was another matter altogether. Apart from Justin, the only pilot I remember doing this with comparative ease was Randy du Rand whose gun-sight camera records gave him ‘kills’ off most of his attacks.
This is a short section of one of Randy’s camera records. The lack of clarity in these gun-sight shots was typical of those days, but the outer ring of diamond-shaped spots can be seen to match the target’s wing-span. This matching determined the range of the target.
We flew a great deal of high- and low-level battle formation, usually in flights of four aircraft. This involved aircraft flying a wide ‘finger four’ pattern (as per tips of fingers on a spread hand) which allows all pilots flying about 500 meters apart to detect incoming enemy aircraft on other aircraft within the formation.
I enjoyed flying ‘bandit’, either solo or as a pair, and seeing a ‘friendly’ formation commence its attack. Response to this resulted in a call such as “Red, bandit four o’clock high—break”, whereupon our formation would disintegrate into tight defensive turns and manoeuvre for a counter-attack or break away to ‘safety’.
During the OCU phase Eric Cary was challenging me, among others, to the odd meeting out in the flying area. Stupidly I agreed rather than risk being considered a wet fish. One of Eric’s favourite challenges involved flying fast, at ultra-low level, one beside the other, directly towards the base of a high Selukwe mountain range. At the last moment the aircraft were pitched into a climb to avoid collision below the ridge, then rolling inverted as soon as safely possible. From here each aircraft would be allowed to pitch at zero G, still inverted, until diving back towards low ground on the opposite side of the mountain.
Eric Cary.
The idea was to establish who rolled right side up first. Needless to say I was always first out and on most occasions I watched Eric’s aircraft shadow closing on his inverted aircraft before he rolled right side up close to the treetops. It was quite clear to me that Eric’s flying ability and judgement, even when inverted, was much better than mine and I was more than happy to acknowledge this.
The normal speed for the commencement of a loop was 280 knots or higher. Eric boasted that he had succeeded in looping a T11 off an entry speed of only 180 knots. I took the bait! The problem was that my next solo flight, on 25 November 1958, was in an FB9. Nevertheless I decided to give it a go. The cloud base at Thornhill was about 1,500 feet with some clear patches between cumulus clouds. I had to climb to 20,000 feet before reaching cloud tops. Between Selukwe and Shabani there was no cloud to speak of, just what I needed!
I started my trial with an entry speed of 220 knots intending to reduce speed thereafter in ten-knot steps. Using full power all the way round, I managed to coax the aircraft over the top of the first three loops. The fourth attempt was initiated at 190 knots but just before the top of the loop the aircraft stopped pitching, fluttered gently, then hammer-stalled out. Deciding that I must pitch more rapidly until past the vertical, I tried again. Much the same happened, but the stall developed into a gentle upward spin that slowed as the aircraft flopped into downward flight then, even with controls centralised, it went into a tight right-hand spin.
Recovery action was taken and the aircraft responded normally. This was my first experience of the FB9’s forbidden manoeuvre. I decided to try once more pulling around as tightly as I dared. This time a spin developed, going vertically upwards so I centralised controls and throttled right back to await the flop back into downward flight. Instead, the aircraft attitude held until the flight direction reversed in a tail-slide with a big puff of black smoke passing the cockpit from behind, just before the aircraft hammered into a vertical dive.
As the speed built up I advanced the throttle gently, but there was no response from the engine. A glance at the JPT (jet pipe temperature) showed that the engine had flamed-out during the tail-slide. I set up a powerless glide at 160 knots with the HP (high-pressure) fuel cock closed. I pressed the relight button and advanced the HP cock slowly. The JPT rose immediately but then fell back to zero. I closed the HP cock again and made a call to Thornhill Approach who controlled all aircraft operating beyond the Thornhill circuit.
“Approach this is Papa 1. I have flame-out at 21,000 feet, attempting re-light. Over.”
Flight Lieutenant Rex Earp-Jones replied, “Roger Papa 1. Out.”
Whereupon I switched off all electrics, including the radio, to preserve power for another attempt at starting the engine after the prescribed one minute had elapsed, to clear the engine of unburned fuel. Low engine rotation on the rpm gauge was from the windmilling effect of airflow through the engine.
I was about thirty nautical miles from base when I entered cloud, heading for home. It felt strange to be flying on instruments in the glide without the familiar rumble from the engine. The second attempt to re-light met with no response at all and I realised I might have to go all the way to the runway without power. I was not concerned about this and never doubted I would make it safely to Thornhill, providing the cloud at base was not too low.
I switched the old-fashioned valve radio on and, as it came to life, I heard Rex Earp-Jones calling, “Papa 1, this is Approach. Confirm you are on practice forced landing. Over.”
I replied, “Approach, Papa 1. Negative, I have flame-out but engine not responding to re-light. Will try again. Out.”
Apparently all hell broke loose on the ground but I did not know this because I had switched off the radio again for another unsuccessful attempt to re-light. By this time I was descending through 13,000 feet at a gentle 1,600-feet per minute when I noticed first signs of the odd break in the cloud below me. I switched the radio on again and told Rex Earp-Jones I was committed to a ‘dead-stick’ landing.
At around 9,000 feet I saw Guinea Fowl School a little to the rear and a section of the Umvuma road ahead, so I knew I was home and dry. Approach instructed me to change channel to Thornhill Tower Control. When I checked in on the Tower frequency the unmistakable voice of OC Flying, Squadron Leader Dicky Bradshaw replied. He immediately turned my confidence to doubt. Strangely he was calling me PB and not Papa 1. He said he could yet not see my aircraft but told me to bail out NOW if I had any doubts about making the runway. I replied that I had the necessary height, whereupon he said he had me visual. Then he told me to get my gear down immediately, but I knew this was too early and held back.
I selected wheels-down on his second insistence as I lined up on a high downwind leg. The gear flopped out but did not lock. This required me to pump vigorously on the emergency hydraulic handle with my right hand until I had three green lights to prove the wheels were locked for landing. I commenced the turn onto finals and pumped like mad to get flaps down. These were coming down way too slow so there was nothing for it but to dive off height and make a flat approach to wash off excess speed. I overdid this slightly because the aircraft only just reached the runway and stalled onto the concrete threshold. But the aircraft and I were safely home.
/>
When called into OC Flying’s office, I told my story exactly as it had happened but without mentioning Eric Cary’s challenge. Squadron Leader Bradshaw was furious with me for attempting aerobatics below recommended speeds, particularly with my limited experience, and more so for pressing on after dangerous loop failures. He gave me a stern lecture on the need to show more responsibility and ended by telling me I had done well to bring the aircraft home, considering the cloud situation. He also said that the technicians had already reported finding a fault with the re-light ignition system.
The last time Eric challenged me was to fly formation aerobatics that were not included in our OCU training. I was leading when I hand-signalled for a barrel roll ‘left’. A barrel roll is the combination of roll and loop. With Eric on my left, I entered a gentle, diving turn to the right then commenced pitching up and rolling left. When I had almost reached the top of the barrel roll I looked upward through the canopy to seek the horizon and was horrified to see a mirror image of my own aircraft closing on me. It was only a split second before the aircraft crossed right next to mine, but in that moment I saw Eric’s up-turned face visor and noticed the two white scribble pads on the laps of his overalls. How we missed I do not know, but I wanted no more of this nonsense.
I lost Eric by breaking away to low level and headed straight for home. Before Eric could say a word to me back at base, I told him that a flying challenge was one thing, but I had no time for outright stupidity and would no longer indulge in any further unauthorised flying.
After my flame-out experience someone told me that air incidents tend to come in threes. This was the case with me and all three occurred in the same week. The second incident involved total electrical failure in an FB9 during a short night cross-country training flight from Thornhill to Glencova, Buhera and return.
A continuous blanket of stratocumulus of about 1,000 feet in depth covered most of the Midlands. Very soon after becoming airborne, I was above this cloud in brilliant moonlight with vast cumulus formations widely spread and towing above the low cloud. These formations, together with the moon and stars above, always gave me the feeling of drifting through an immense fairyland. The low stratus cleared about ten minutes out and I could see the lights of Fort Victoria and Mashaba off to the right of track.
Having turned north from my first turning point, the cockpit lights flickered twice then failed, as did my radio. Although the moonlight was bright I could not read my instruments or see anything within the cockpit. I switched on the battery-powered emergency lights and started to consult my map to work out a heading to steer for home. While I was doing this, the emergency lights were fading rapidly, before petering out completely. I could not believe this was happening to me!
Next, I took out my pencil torch from its purpose-made pocket on the shoulder of my flying suit, but it would not stay on. While I was trying to get it to work, the back shot off and the batteries tumbled out of reach onto the cockpit floor. Now I was really up a creek without a paddle and a horrid clammy fear spread through my body. Try as I did, I could not remember the course I had been steering on the first leg nor could I bring to mind the layout of Rhodesia. Fortunately I remembered what time I expected to land back at Thornhill and by moonlight could read my Air Force wristwatch clearly.
My position was changing rapidly as I battled to fathom out a heading to steer for Thornhill. It probably only took a minute but it seemed like an eternity as I dithered to come to a firm decision to steer a true heading of 290 degrees. Strangely that decision had a calming effect as I looked east to find the distinctive star pattern of Orion’s Belt.
This very distinct star group consists of three evenly spaced and equally bright stars set in a straight line (the belt), with another line of lesser stars on the south side (the sword) that points to the centre of the three bright stars. If a line is taken from the southernmost of the lesser stars through the northernmost of the bright stars and extended to the horizon, this is True North in the period December to January. I turned port to align with True North.
Using my port wing and the nose as reference I assessed where 290 degrees was, selected a star on that line and turned to head for this star. No cumulus formation appeared to lie directly in the path between my destination and me and, odd though it may seem, I was certain that I would arrive directly over Thornhill with plenty of fuel to spare.
Approximately three minutes before my expected time overhead Thornhill I noticed that stratocumulus lying in the shadow of a cumulonimbus mass was glowing from a lighted area beneath it. This I knew must be Gwelo, and Thornhill would be at the edge nearest to me. Not daring to change power from the 9,500 rpm I had set for cruise I pitched the nose down to a comfortable descent angle and turned the trim wheel progressively forward to cater for the increasing speed. The aircraft was correctly trimmed and the speed was stable by the time I was over the illuminated cloud.
A twenty-degree turn to port was then established. Around and around the lighted area I went in the descent, with the aircraft passing in and out of the moon’s shadow until the entire orbit at a lower level was in the shadow of the huge cloud. Flight was smooth and I had frozen both hands on the spade grip of the control column to prepare for the blind passage through cloud.
Entry came in an unexpected rush. It was slightly turbulent and I held my breath when I heard the speed increasing. I dared not move a muscle for what seemed like a long time with the noise of the airflow steadily rising. As suddenly as the aircraft had entered cloud in a controlled manner, it exited fast and steep with about ninety degrees of port bank. The lights of town were so close as I rolled right to pull out of the dive, breathing like a racehorse, only to shoot straight back into cloud. I pressed forward hard and emerged out of cloud and turned left again to stay over the lights of the town.
Still hyperventilating, I cruised at low level around and around the town attempting to orient myself on the landmarks of Gwelo. Nothing fitted until I noticed a high mast on the edge of the town. I must have done at least six turns before I realised that this high mast fitted Que Que, not Gwelo. Now I knew I was about seven minutes away from base and felt certain I would get there with some fuel to spare.
The aircraft had settled into a steady trimmed state and I had regained control of my breathing as I swept around at about 280 knots in relative safety with Que Que town about 500 feet below me and the lighted cloud base 100 feet above. I knew this would change the moment I set course for base but there was no time to spare.
Knowing that the road from Gwelo ran right next to the mast on entry into Que Que, I was able to establish the line of the main road by the lights of vehicles approaching Que Que from Gwelo. I rolled out along the road line and flew straight into blackness. Barely sufficient moonlight was illuminating stratus to help me keep wings level, but the cloud base itself was indistinct. For about a minute all seemed well until vehicle lights were lost as I entered cloud. I pushed out gingerly and, as I saw vehicle lights again, I also saw, way off, the faint glow of Gwelo lighting the low cloud base. Suddenly the glow was lost and I knew I had dropped below high ground along this route so I pulled up smartly, saw the glow momentarily and lost it as I entered cloud, yet again.
Deep breathing set in once more as I eased down. Out of cloud the glow came back brighter and even the cloud base became more distinct. From here on I was safe. When the actual lights of Gwelo were visible I could work out where Thornhill lay. I picked up the moving tail-light of a Vampire on final approach for runway 13. This helped me find the runway lights but I could see I was closing on the Vampire very rapidly.
Only when I was sure of making the runway did I throttle right back and selected undercarriage down when the reducing speed sounded right. With no flap and rolling onto the runway much too fast, I held to the extreme right edge of the runway to overtake the Vampire I had seen on finals. Having turned off the runway I taxied to dispersals where a marshaller, waiting for the aircraft behind me, was surprised to see
another Vampire, with no lights, roll into view in the illuminated dispersal area.
In response to the marshaller’s signals, I made the first turn towards the hard-standing and had just commenced the second turn when the engine quit. The marshaller, thinking I had deliberately closed down the engine, was visibly annoyed as he moved over to bring in the next aircraft.
Flight Lieutenant Colin Graves was in the T11 that taxied in behind me. Squadron Leader Dicky Bradshaw had recalled him from his sortie because the Air Traffic Controllers at Thornhill, Salisbury and Bulawayo had been unsuccessful in their attempts to establish communications with me. Radar contact with an aircraft, presumed to be mine had been seen flying some distance to the north-east of Thornhill, was lost in the vicinity of Que Que.
Colin’s relief at seeing me was obvious and he had not seen my unlit aircraft overtake him on the runway. I told him I had experienced total electrical failure, followed by emergency light failure and the disintegration of my pocket torch before he noticed that my hands and body were shaking. He arranged some very sweet black coffee for me and made me sit down in his office while he made calls to ATC and OC Flying to let them know I was safe. In listening to what he had to say to OC Flying, I realised that I had survived a freak situation.
When Colin had listened to the whole story he asked me why I had not diverted to Salisbury Airport. Everyone attending night-flying briefing, including me, had heard that Salisbury would be free of cloud. I felt such a fool but had to admit that in my state of near-panic I had given this obvious solution to my problem no thought whatsoever. What a way to build up experience!
The third incident occurred when Bill Galloway and I were in the flying area, flying pairs-formation exercises. Another formation of four Vampires had taken off about forty minutes after us. We were both flying FB9s and had already descended to low-level on return to base when warned that two heavy thunderstorms were merging into one massive storm so rapidly, that Thornhill would be engulfed in torrential rain before we could get down.
Winds of Destruction: The Autobiography of a Rhodesian Combat Pilot Page 9
