by Geoff Wolak
I kept at it, up and down, quite bored but determined, but when I finally got very fed up I exited the pool, quite spent. Oddly enough, I felt OK in the water, but getting out I felt instantly tired.
‘That’s six hours,’ he noted. ‘Good average speed. Channel is about eight hours to break a record, but choppy water, cold water, different type of swimming.’
‘One day a week then, but can you make the damn water cold?’
‘Sundays it’s cold, we turn the heaters off Saturday midday. What I can do is post up that a Monday is cold water day, and bollocks to the people using it anyhow – only half a dozen.’
‘Monday’s then.’
‘For the Channel you need a good wetsuit, three mil I’d say, but it needs to fit well and not chaff.’
‘I’ll go find one.’
That week I checked wetsuit providers, a shop found in Swindon, and I ordered a three mil wetsuit that should fit me – a swimmers suit and not a diving wetsuit.
When I picked it up I wore it to bed as suggested by the man in the shop – feeling silly, but very snug and warm, and I bent and stretched in it. The next morning I swam in it, despite it not being a “Cold Monday” and I started to get used to it. A little gel under the arms and it rubbed less, but I stretched it where it did rub me a little.
The following Monday, and not a care as to what my CO thought, I hit the water at 6am, and took a break every hour, Sgt Trevors noting average times. Six blocks of six hours and I was fed up, but I had clocked a good distance.
The following Monday I added a swimming cap, and I gelled my hands and feet as instructed. This time I completed seven one hour stints, getting fed up way before I got too tired to continue, the Air Commodore now keen for me to win some medals.
With a 1500metre race available for me to attend the forms were sent off, and I practised my diving start with Trevors. I would dive in, swim a length, speed-turn and back, out the pool and do it all over again. I must have tried fifty diving starts.
With Trevors stood with a stopwatch, a few other PTIs observing, I went against the clock, 1500metres completed in a good time, sixteen minutes. After a five minute break I tried again, more determined, and improved the time. They had high hopes for me.
A week later we travelled as a group to Nottingham on a Sunday, to a university swimming pool – 50 metres, and I limbered up with other swimmers, some of whom looked fit, but did not look like me.
I saw myself in the mirror every day so I was used to my own appearance, and people around the base were used to seeing me, but strangers often stopped and did a double take. A stone heavier than my marathon days, I had more muscle, but the definition was acute, my veins sticking out. Here in the changing rooms they all did a double take at my body, a few questions about the scars.
Called out, towels around shoulders, Trevors escorted me, my cap adjusted. Towel handed over, name given, the umpire did a double-take and looked me over.
Stood behind the blocks, arms swung, legs kicked out, I clocked a few nice ladies waiting for their own heat, but they were all flat chested. Up onto the blocks, arms still swinging, goggles checked. Ready – bent over, nervous now, final position on the edge, heart racing, starting pistol and I was off into the cold water, trying to remember all the good advice.
I turned well, and I could sense the position of the other swimmers, and that urged me on, but I was trying to remember that when it came to swimming brute force worked against you, and that style was everything. So I concentrated on a good style.
Fifteen minutes and two seconds later I came in second after some debate, a silver medal for an RAF swimmer, not seen before, Trevors pleased. But it had all happened too quickly and I felt deflated; short distances were not my thing.
Back at base on the Monday I went to see the base commander, and he congratulated me. ‘I’ll try the Channel, sir, 1500metres is too quick. August or September, sir.’
With the weather improving, Sgt Trevors suggested the RAF track and field meet for me. I could run each of the 800metres and 1500metres, and try things like the javelin and the long jump – and he could coach most of it.
I went to see my CO, Fl Lt Peters, someone I rarely spoke to these days. ‘Sir, the base commander was pleased that I got a silver medal in a 1500metres swim -’
‘When the hell did you do that?’ he puzzled.
‘Week ago, sir. Anyway, he wants more medals for the RAF, so he’s nagging that I do track and field, and then in August I’ll swim the Channel.’
‘The Channel! Twenty miles!’
‘Yes, sir, I’m fit enough.’
‘Do you still run?’
‘Not as much, sir, been swimming most mornings during the winter.’
‘Well, if you win us some medals it makes us look good, the RAF. And it might get you in the good books of the decision makers. And you’ve not been in trouble for a while, so ... things are looking up.’
‘Yes, sir,’ I said with a false smile before I left, wanting punch him down and stamp on his head. But he had spoken too soon.
The Air Commodore had a friend, a retired pilot, and he oddly part-owned a Cessna 152 at an airfield near Oxford, which he part-owned with six other people. Expensive things, these Cessnas, the Air Commodore had told me. He also told me that as a treat he had paid for a lesson.
The following Friday afternoon, the weather clear, the winds light, I met a rotund old pilot with red cheeks, a cheerful man, and he gave me a quick lesson – most of which I knew from watching TV movies. Engine started, radio tested, and off we went from a small grass airstrip outside Oxford.
Climbing away, I peered down at a patchwork of dark green fields, and I was still not that keen about being up high. 2 Squadron came to my mind, and parachuting. Question was ... was that really what I wanted to do that? From up here at 2,000ft I was not sure I wanted to throw myself out the damn plane.
He let me take over, hands on the oddly shaped wheel, feet on the pedals, pointing out where the bicycle-pump style throttle should it be needed – push in for faster. ‘Now keep an eye on the artificial horizon, keep the little airplane symbol dead centre, but don’t dwell on it. Always look around, any other aircraft, and always read the map so that you don’t stray near an airfield or airport.
As we headed southwest he pointed out towns below, and I knew where I was.
‘OK, slow turn to the left. See how the nose is dipping, keep it up, and a little left rudder. See the slip and turn indicator. OK, that’s good, and back to course 270.’
I lined up on 270, checked the artificial horizon, and peeked out to see if any airliners were about to impact us, happy that they weren’t. I was getting the hang of it.
‘Good, you’re a natural.’
‘I don’t like heights that much, sir. Not tried parachuting yet.’
‘You’ll get used to it ... urggh.’ He puked down his front and slumped to the side.
‘Sir?’ I glanced across and shook him. ‘Sir?’ Wide eyed, I checked his pulse, finding it erratic, now an horrendous smell invading the small plane.
Seeing that I was in a dive and banking left I straightened up and pulled back on the funny stick, shaped like a racing car driving wheel. ‘Shit.’ I glanced around, not seeing any other aircraft, now in a panic.
Peering down, I knew where I was. An idea hit me – Brize Norton! I turned slowly south and followed a familiar road, passing a bed and breakfast that I had stayed in with Sue and with Kathy, my eyes wide and my mouth hanging open.
At the junction I peered down, wobbled the plane and corrected, soon following a road I knew.
‘Sir, you hear me, sir?’ I shouted. ‘Fuck...!’
The smell was terrible, his anus having opened up, plus the vomit. I opened the tiny window flap, a roar invading the cabin for a moment, leaning towards it but managing to put myself in a swallow spin. I had to correct it quickly. Whatever this little plane wanted to do, it most definitely did not want to fly straight and level for long.
The radio crackled into life, startling me. ‘Unidentified aircraft heading two-zero-five at 1500, you are approaching RAF Brize Norton airspace, turn away now,’ came a deliciously sexy voice. She sounded like a melted caramel chocolate bar.
I grabbed the radio mic, turned it over and figured out the button. ‘Mayday, mayday, this is Cessna light aircraft, student on a lesson, pilot has had a heart attack. Er .. over.’
‘Brize Norton Tower, Cessna light aircraft in distress, change to heading due north.’
‘Listen lady, I’m RAF from Brize Norton, and I know the base and the roads, but I don’t know the way back to where we came from, and this was my first fucking lesson, and don’t know how to land the fucking plane, so I’m coming to Brize Norton. Er ... over.’
‘Brize Norton Tower, Cessna light aircraft in distress, standby.’
‘This is the Cessna, to the lady with the sexy voice. Can you get me a pilot, someone who knows a Cessna, to talk me down before I crash this thing into the base canteen! Er ... over.’
‘Mike Whisky One Niner, Brize Norton Tower, cutting in. Cessna pilot, what do I call you?’
‘Call me Wilco, sir.’
‘Wilco, the marathon runner?’
I sighed, and cursed quietly. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good to meet you. Now stay calm, and over your right shoulder you’ll see a Chinook closing in. Fly straight and level, watch the ball – brown on the bottom, blue on the top, keep the plane symbol dead centre and level.’
I glanced over my shoulder, soon seeing a pair of Chinooks closing in from behind and lower. They drew level.
‘OK, Wilco, now slowly turn slightly left till you’re on 180.’
I started the turned.
‘OK, good, keep that course, we’re only a few miles out, and when we get there I’ll talk you down, I used to fly a Cessna just like that one. What condition is your pilot in?’
‘He’s had a stroke. And I’m a fully qualified medic, but little I can do and fly the plane at the same time. Hold on, sir. Wilco for Brize Norton, my pilot is an ex-RAF pilot called Burridge, friend of Air Commodore Loughton. Please talk to the Air Commodore, to get hold of Mister Burridge’s family, they need to know. I need an ambulance at the side of the airfield with oxygen, and a defribulator. I repeat, I need oxygen as soon as we’re down. Over. ’
‘Mike Whisky One Niner, Wilco, sounds like he’s in good hands, or as good as it gets given the circumstances. OK, can you see the runway?’
I peered ahead. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Look to the left end, and estimate a distance of about four hundred yards out, and aim for that, reducing your altitude to 1,000 feet. Now, look down past your knees and between you and the pilot, and you’ll see red levers and black levers. The far left black lever is for the flaps, and I want you to bring it backwards one click – you’ll feel it click as you go.’
I did as asked, then peered out the window. ‘Flaps are about twenty degrees, sir.’
‘Good, now watch the nose, and you should see that the speed is falling a little. Make sure you have revs above 2,000 and that the speed is over 100.’
I checked the revs, they were at 2100 so I throttled back a small amount, and the speed was 110. ‘OK, sir, speed 110, revs 2000.’
‘Good. Now stay on this course, and you see the runway left to right, and that’s the way we’re going to land, but stay on this course for now. Hold on Wilco. Mike Whisky One Niner, Brize Norton Tower, approaching the marker, clear all traffic.’
‘Brize Norton Tower, Mike Wisky One Niner, pattern is clear,’ came that sexy voice.
I could now see all of my home base, the various units, all very familiar, the twenty five yard range of the far side, the land fill beyond, a flock of sea gulls scavenging.
‘OK, Wilco, I want you to pull the flap lever back to the second notch, and to nose down just a little.’
I did as asked, peering out at the flaps. ‘Flaps look like about forty-five degrees now.’
‘Forty degrees, yes, and at that setting the Cessna will land itself softly, so not to worry, you’ll be going in slowly. OK, nose down a little more, keep the speed above 100.’
The speed had dropped to 90, so I nosed down to compensate, my pilot gurgling, dribble down his chin as well as the vomit, the smell killing me in here.
‘OK, Wilco, slow steady turn to the right, keep the nose at that angle, watch the speed, and line up with the runway - don’t worry if you’re not exactly in line. Aim at a point this end of the runway, the centre line, and the Cessna will land and stop in a hundred yards.’
I could see the military ambulances on the apron, as well a hundred people stood watching, people stood on the lower parts of the ATC building roof. ‘Fucking bollocks,’ I let out, cursing my unconscious pilot.
‘Wilco for Chinook, I need to reach those ambulances, my pilot is on the clock, time is critical.’
‘OK, we’ll aim a little further down the runway, and then you can taxi towards the ambulances. To come to a stop, pull the throttle right back and press your toes down on both pedals at the same time, but don’t do that till you’re already quite slow. OK, nose down a little more ... left a little ... line it up. OK, good, be down soon.
‘Now ... when you get to about twenty feet above the runway, ease the stick gently back, and keep easing it back the lower you get, but don’t yank it back, and try and keep the plane level - so that you can see over the front – you don’t want the nose to come up.’
‘OK, sir.’
My heart was racing, the runway looming large, and that fucking crowd was watching. I made slight adjustments, small movement left or right, nose up or down, and I was soon twenty feet off the runway, easing the stick back – keen not to look like a complete idiot.
‘OK, Wilco, tiny pull back on the throttle, gentle pull on the stick ... more off the throttle ... steady ... back pressure on the stick ... hold it -’ My wheels hit. ‘- back on the throttle, feet on the pedals, small movements left or right – no sudden movements.’
I was taxiing along at running pace, and I kept going till the turn-off for the ambulances came, a hard right turn as a Chinook thundered over me, easing back on the throttle, the ambulance staff looking worried I might mow them down, and my toes squeezed the pedals, throttle all the way back, the engine dying.
I got the pilot’s harness off as men ran in, the door opened. I eased out, glad to be on the ground, and ran around, nudging shoulders as I went. To a civilian paramedic in green I said, ‘He had a stoke twenty minutes ago, vomited, and his anus opened up, erratic pulse.’
Many hands eased Mister Burridge out, all grimacing at the mess and the smell.
A sergeant burst into Flt Peters office. ‘Sir, it’s Wilco, he just crashed a plane onto the runway here!’
Peters stood, the colour leaving him, his mouth gaping open.
I walked through the onlookers, the crew of a Tristar stood on the steps up to their aircraft, and I remembered I was in civvy dress.
A big MP sergeant stood shaking his head at me. ‘You’re in trouble now.’
‘Bollocks,’ I told him, and I figured I’d have a chat to the base commander before he had me arrested and shot, or shot then arrested. Walking towards the pilots’ lounge, he stepped out with senior staff.
‘Wilco! What the fuck did you do?’ he shouted.
I stopped in front of them. ‘My first flying lesson, sir, and the pilot had a heart attack.’
‘If I was sat next to you in a plane, I’d have a heart attack as well!’
‘Not my fault, sir, and ... the newspapers will report the RAF hero pilots - the Chinook pilots, talking down a civilian – no mention of me being RAF – and the heroic actions of Air Traffic Control here plus the medics.’
The Group Captain stared back, then glanced at his team. ‘We could spin this, be a great story for
us. Make sure that Cessna is photographed, and the Chinook pilot – recommendation for an award. Oh, and find someone to fly back the Cessna to ... wherever it came from.’ He faced me. ‘Why land here?’
‘Only place I knew, sir. Would never had found that grass strip we came from, and I knew we’d get medical help here, sir.’
The ATC Squadron Leader stepped out. ‘Wilco, you little shit, you’d best apologies to the controllers, and learn some fucking RT code.’
I held my hands wide. ‘It was my first lesson, sir, a gift from Air Commodore Loughton. I had no time to read the damn book.’
‘Then read the damn book!’ the Group Captain told me. He faced the ATC Squadron Leader. ‘What did he say to your staff?’
‘Told the lady with the sexy voice to get off the fucking air.’
A few smiles creased cheeks.
‘She does have a sexy voice,’ an officer put in, men laughing. ‘Pilots call her Marsh Mallow.’
‘I’ll apologise to her, sir,’ I told the Squadron Leader. I faced the Group Captain. ‘Permission to enjoy the rest of my day off, sir.’
‘Try and have a quiet day, eh. Read a fucking book or something – take up stamp collecting!’
‘Right, sir.’
I walked off, shaking my head, and cursing my comatose pilot. At the Admin building, Flt Lt Peters came around the corner. He stopped in front of me, let out an exasperated sigh, held his hands wide and slapped them down, was about to say something but then just walked off shaking his head.
Inside Admin, everyone staring at me, I used the phone to call the Air Commodore’s wife and give her the story – she knew Mister Burridge’s wife well, and would go and see her. Walking down to Transport, they were none the wiser till I explained what happened over a cup of tea.
Walking back to my room, a silver BMW pulled up, the Air Commodore getting out. ‘You OK, Wilco?’ he asked, genuinely concerned.
‘Fine, sir, but Mister Burridge is in a bad way.’
‘I’m heading to his wife now, take her to the hospital. How ... how is he?’
