by Mike Brooke
Notes
5 Yaw is rotation around the aeroplane’s vertical axis; much like a flat turn in a boat.
6 Tests had determined that the stresses and inertial forces with indeterminate amounts of fuel in the ungauged wing tanks could have a detrimental effect on the recovery from inverted spins.
6 THE LIGHTER SIDE
The day-to-day workload on the course, especially for the more academically challenged like me, was hard and unrelenting. Most of us worked at home well into the evenings. But the secret was not to burn the candle too far into the night, otherwise the consequent fatigue would drag down the next day’s performance and soon become a vicious, detrimental circle. I used to work until, at the latest, 11 p.m. every evening from Monday to Thursday inclusive. Saturday mornings were designated family time, usually for shopping. Sundays were also promised to the family. However, if I was ‘getting behind the drag curve’ with writing reports or preparing for the next exercise then I might eat into Saturday afternoons and Sunday evenings. My wife, Mo, was very understanding and supportive and she typed all my reports for me. I might not have made it through without her encouragement and effort.
You might note, dear reader, that Friday night has not yet featured in my weekly schedule. That was because, virtually to a man, we had come collectively to the decision, as mentioned earlier, that Fridays would start with attendance at ‘Happy Hour’ in the Officers’ Mess Bar. This was usually followed, in the absence of any other pre-arranged Mess function, by a gathering with our ladies at a pre-nominated married quarter for the international food festival known as the ‘Pot Luck Supper’. That underpinned our social life for the ten months of the course. Another regular feature, introduced by tutors Duncan Cooke and Pete Sedgwick, was the ‘Sunday Tutorial’. This was a get together in either a nominated local hostelry or at the domiciles of these two colonials for drinks and eats. Then there were the parties and Mess functions. Some Saturday evenings were spent on- and off-base, at shindigs thrown by course members. These were many and varied, from more formal dinner parties to really relaxed informal social events. The Summer Ball of 1975 was scheduled for Saturday 4 July. It being some sort of special anniversary for them, the American contingent at Boscombe decided that they would hold a pre-ball drinks party. This band of Yankee brothers comprised the exchange USAF test pilot with A Squadron, John Blaha and his wife, Walt and Lorraine Honour and Tom and Norma Morgenfeld. The latter two couples occupied the specially adapted7 pair of semi-detached (or duplex in American) quarters at the end of Bawdsey Road. To make enough space for us all to attend and, in typical rebel fashion, they removed the fence between their two gardens. Then, as if to prove that God was on their side, the weather complied with yet another warm and sunny evening. This wonderful celebration of their independence from the tyranny of Crown rule was so good that there was a very real risk that no one would leave to attend the Summer Ball! Of course we did eventually and a great time was had by all. The usual wide variety of food and drink was available in the main public rooms, which were decorated to the normal high standard. There was both live and disco music and dancing in two locations; much frequented by us all. Very late in the proceedings Vic Lockwood and Svend Hjort were to be found examining a plate of leftover whole smoked trout. They each picked one up and pretended they were cigars. ‘Svend, I can’t get this one to light,’ says our ex-Lightning pilot.
‘Of course you can’t,’ replied the Dane. ‘It’s already been smoked.’ To kick off things for our third term, Svend and his lovely wife, Jette, threw a memorable and predictably wild Viking party in their married quarter. We all dressed up as Scandinavian warriors and their ‘vimmin’. Lots of horned helmets appeared from goodness knows where. Tom Morgenfeld was more inventive and turned up with what looked like an inverted colander filled with spaghetti on his head and a really scary sink plunger instead of an axe! His wife Norma, not to be outdone, had plaited her spaghetti and was carrying a brush in a very threatening manner; she was quickly christened ‘Broom-hilda’.
There were lots more parties like that – too many to recall clearly! But it all went to prove that, although it was difficult to believe at times, there was a ‘normal’ life running in parallel to our academic cloistering. There were a couple of skittles nights in one of the many local pubs equipped with the old-style alleys. Some folks even had babies; the wives of Simon Thornewill, Rob Tierney and Bruno Bellucci going well beyond the call of duty for this very busy year by producing bouncing offspring. All three new dads were on the rotary element of our course so rather risqué jokes about ‘choppers’ became prevalent.
And one thing that the staff could not repress was our collective and individual sense of humour. Even when the going got tough there were memorable amusing happenings and witty repartee. Many of these were recorded in the course ‘Diary and Line Book’ composed, written and illustrated by yours truly. One such bon mot was the response of one of our Indian brethren, ‘Rusty’ Rastogi, to a notice concerning the conduct of one of the many written examinations. This announced that extra time would be given to those students whose first language was not English. Having looked at the list of names and found that his and PK’s were not on it he declared, ‘Damn racial prejudice, that’s what it is!’ Obviously ‘Chalky’ Rodgers thought that all Indians spoke perfect English!
In similar vein on our return from our first period of leave during which the sun had shone unremittingly on us all, someone was heard to remark, ‘Even Rusty’s got a suntan.’
We were surprised by an announcement in late June that the Course Photograph would be taken on Tuesday 1 July. As that was not far beyond the halfway point of the course many students were heard muttering things like:
‘Does that mean that those on the photo are guaranteed to pass?’
‘Oh no,’ said Vic Lockwood, ‘each section is perforated!’ In the event the taking of the course photo was delayed by two days. Graham Bridges declared, with some glee, that this was to give the staff a chance to ‘chop’8 a few of us!
Not long before this milestone on our long journey towards the McKenna Dinner, ETPS had taken delivery of another Lightning. This was a two-seat T5 version and was destined to replace the older, faithful T4 – XL 629. Management decided that the staff and students of 1975 would therefore range themselves in a pretty and eye-catching manner in front of not one, but two, supersonic interceptor trainers. Thus ensuring a unique background in the history of graduating course photographs. However, the T5 still had its red and white 56 Squadron markings prominently displayed each side of the RAF roundel on the nose. The CTFI and CO decided that this was not appropriate and decreed that they should be covered. This was done with very large sheets of brown paper, sprayed with silver-grey paint. So, on the morning of 3 July 1975, both aircraft were towed into position and we gathered for the big event, all in our little-used best uniforms and ready to be arranged in neat rows. At this point the CTFI, Wg Cdr Wally Bainbridge, was seen smoothing down the silvered paper on the nose of the T5 and making sure that it was satisfactorily stuck in place. Some wag called out, ‘That’s no good, sir, it’ll come off at about 500 knots.’
It was later in July that a bunch of bright-eyed, bushy-tailed British serving officers turned up at the Officers’ Mess to go into battle with the staff and compete for places on next year’s courses. As the Brits on our course had all done this at least once before, we now became the doomsayers: ‘Go home now while you still have your sanity!’ We found out later that the answer that won the ETPS equivalent of the wooden spoon was: ‘Why did they shorten the Victor Mk 2’s wings even though it was heavier than the Mk 1?’
Answer: ‘So they could get more of them in the hangar, sir.’
But, according to Walt Honour, the commonest answer of the week was: ‘I’m sorry I don’t understand the question.’
Each year at ETPS the end of the second term is marked by a staff versus students cricket match. Like all ETPS events this was preceded by a bri
efing for those not familiar with the rules of the game. Which went as follows:
You have two sides, one out in the field and one in. Each man that’s in the side that’s in goes out, and when he’s out he comes in and the next man goes in until he’s out. When they are all out, the side that’s out comes in and the side that’s been in goes out and tries to get those coming in, out. Sometimes you get men still in and not out.
When a man goes out to go in, the men who are out try to get him out, and when he is out he goes in and the next man in goes out and goes in. There are two men called umpires who stay out all the time and they decide when the men who are in are out.
When both sides have been in and all the men have been out, and both sides have been out twice after all the men have been in, including those who are not out, that is the end of the game!
Our Indian cricketing experts, Rusty and PK, were left to answer the questions from the Americans and other non-cricketing aliens. Despite the excellence of the briefings the execution was not up to snuff and we students lost. The recompense was that, after a pitch-side barbecue and the consumption of copious quantities of ale, we went off on our three weeks of summer holidays.
Soon after that blissful break came another event that was the only part of the flying syllabus that was voluntary: the parachute jump! On the morning of 4 September we found our way across the airfield to the HQ of the resident parachutists. Their day job was to carry out and supervise personnel parachute trials, many for the Special Forces. But today a couple of them had charge of a bunch of chattering, giggling aircrew, all a little high on nervous energy driven by the prospect of actually doing something aviators usually want to avoid at all costs: falling out of a serviceable aeroplane!
We spent a couple of hours learning how to attach our parachutes’ rip-cords to the aircraft’s static line, then shuffling forward towards the exit, then (having unhitched the rip-cords) learning the correct way to exit. We were not going to have to practise the landing, as we would be jumping into water; so no broken legs or ankles in prospect – just drowning. In fact that too was most unlikely as the Drop Zone was Studland Bay, just off the Dorset coast and the Royal Marines from nearby Poole would be out in the Rigid Raider boats to pick us up. Even more encouragingly we were told that they have a competition at this annual event, with a prize for the marines who collect their parachutists the quickest; they apparently aim not to let us get wet!
When the gallant Parachute Instructors (PIs) had told us everything that they thought we ought to know, we were sent to the flight lines where B Squadron’s Argosy, XN 817, was waiting to take us on a one way trip to the seaside. There we stood in line, collected and then donned our main parachutes. Once that was done to the satisfaction of the professionals we were given our reserve parachutes, but told not to put them on until we were seated on board. The reserve parachutes had two handles, one for carriage and one for opening the ’chute. Perhaps it was predictable that at least one person would pick theirs up by the wrong one. Sure enough there was a sudden apparition of what seemed like acres of white silk from among the assembly followed by an expletive from the guilty party – an A Squadron back-seater! ‘If you think that’s goin’ to get you out of the jump, sir,’ intoned one of the PIs with heavy and resigned sarcasm, ‘you can think again. Here’s another one – and when you get back report to the parachute section to learn how to re-pack your first one!’
We climbed aboard the Whistling Wheelbarrow via the rear ramp and took our places in the canvas seats ranged down the side of the aircraft’s hold. By now I had spent many happy, if sometimes stressful, hours up in the cockpit so this was going to be my first experience ‘down the back’. This was not even ‘economy class’; it was the aviation equivalent of ‘steerage’. Soon we were airborne and winging our way south. The chatter and merriment level was quite high. But that all stopped abruptly when the jumpmaster opened the door. It now really sank in that we were not going to be here when the Argosy landed back at Boscombe Down.
Soon we were on our feet, queuing up to do this ridiculous thing, all predicated by the school philosophy that test pilots should experience ALL forms of flying. Static lines were attached. Buddy-buddy checks were done on each other’s connections and straps. Then, in groups of three, we moved towards the open door, where a definite draught was now blowing in. Then one of the parachute section staff suddenly disappeared out into space; he was gone in a microsecond. The aircraft was flying at 1,200ft and about 120kt. It would take us about a minute to reach the water.
Then it started. The green light came on and three ETPS staff members followed each other out of the door. Then we moved forward as the Argosy was turned around for the next run. I watched about four other sticks of three go before I was standing in the doorway. As the aircraft banked to turn downwind for its next run, the one on which I would be taking my leave of this warm cargo bay, I stepped back slightly. Illogically I was afraid of falling out. A large PI’s hand was placed on my back as he encouraged me to stand in the right place – right on the sill.
The aircraft turned again onto the final run heading towards the Drop Zone.
‘Red ON … Green ON. GO! GO! Goooooooo!’
I stepped forward into nothing, encouraged by a friendly but firm shove, and felt myself falling.
Oh my goodness, I’ve just fallen out of an aeroplane!!! I thought. Then there was a jolt, I looked up and the blue sky was now partially obscured by the canopy of a parachute – my parachute. The lines between it and me were twisted, a result of my poor exit technique, I learnt later. However, a bit of kicking resulted in me being given a rotating panorama of this bit of Dorset before I settled into a much more pleasant straight descent. I had already reached up and grabbed the parachute webbing straps above my shoulders – more for comfort than for doing anything useful!
Now, for the first time since stepping out of the door, I looked down. I was probably at about 500ft. There was a blue-green sea being cut to ribbons by the marine’s boats as they collected my fellow jumpers from the water. My next job was to bring both hands down and inflate my lifejacket and then put them on the circular box that locked all the parachute straps together. I rotated it through 90° to the ‘UNLOCK’ position, placed my thumbs at the back of it and my fingers on the front face. If I now squeezed the box it would release all the straps. However, I was still too high for that final plunge. I had to wait until I was at less than 20ft. But that was exceedingly difficult to judge over water. So I now looked ahead and watched the horizon close in on me, I watched one of the boats until it looked as if it was about 30ft below my eyeline. I squeezed the box and raised my arms so that I would fall clear of the parachute. I hit the water quicker than expected, went down a bit, popped up like a cork and found that two pairs of strong hands were hauling me out of the water. I would say that I had been wet for all of five seconds. Let’s hear it for the Royal Marines!
We had all sent clean, dry clothes and a large plastic bag down on the coach that was going to collect us from the RM base in Poole. Multiple retellings of the experience of falling out of an aeroplane and surviving punctuated the journey back to Boscombe; as did a stop at the High Post Hotel for refreshments – well it was a bit too early for the bar to be open! Oddly enough I was back in the same Argosy the very next day, but this time on the flight deck with P.K. Yadav, refamiliarising ourselves before we started another high-risk test exercise – asymmetric flight.
So much for the lighter side of life as an ETPS student!
Notes
7 These two houses had special transformers to allow the Yanks to use their 110-volt domestic appliances.
8 Common RAF parlance for failing the course.
7 TRAVELLING LIGHT
Just as the parachute jump was a part of the ETPS syllabus that took us away from the real flying, as well as providing an escape from Ground School, report writing and data analysing, so was the curriculum of visits to places of aeronautical and educational interes
t. In many ways these diversions were a relief from the daily grind, but they also increased the pressure on our workload, and that of the staff, to fit all the required sorties into the only ‘test programme’ at Boscombe Down that had a fixed end date – in our case 12 December 1975. As I would soon learn in my test-flying career, all other test programmes invariably slip to the right!
The first visit we made was one we would repeat about four times during the year. It was an evening out in London; but one that was to be not quite as attractive as it might sound. These visits to ‘The Smoke’ were made so that we could attend lectures given by various elder statesmen of the flight test community at the Royal Aeronautical Society (RAeS) HQ at 4 Hamilton Place, near Hyde Park Corner. The morning before the first visit a rather stern Chalky briefed us on his ‘rules of engagement’ for the event. We were to dress smartly, not miss the bus either going or returning (at this juncture times of departure were written on his rolling blackboard) and he told us everything that we needed to know about the internal layout of 4 Hamilton Place. Because more than adequate time had been allowed for the journey we disembarked outside the RAeS far too early, only to find that the doors were closed and we were not yet entirely welcome. However, a scouting party soon discovered that just around the corner in Old Park Lane there was a fine hostelry called the Rose and Crown. Also not far away was a Hard Rock Cafe so choices were made and we split up, with Chalky’s shrill counsel for us to ensure that we would be back in good time to take our seats in the auditorium.
