Vulcan 607

by Rowland White

  Mick Cooper shuffled in to his house, trying to explain himself to Sharon. ‘Small foul-up,’ he said sheepishly, ‘only temporary…’ Then he closed the door behind him.

  Chapter 27

  29 April 1982

  Television camera crews were there for the occasion. Inside Waddington’s number 3 hangar IX Squadron was finally disbanding as a Vulcan squadron. Almost exactly twenty years earlier, at RAF Coningsby, they had become the first operator of the then ground-breaking new Avro delta. The building holding the parade had an industrial age feel. Thick layers of dark-green paint tarted up the exposed ironwork. Behind enormous sliding doors, a large audience sat under bunting and flags to watch the ceremony. Any sadness at the famous unit’s passing was tempered by its immediate rebirth as a Tornado squadron. The squadron standard was being passed straight on to a new team, flying the state-of-the-art new pan-European strike jet. There were speeches and reminiscences. Afterwards, the throng would move to number 2 hangar for a reception followed by lunch in the Officers’ Mess. No one could accuse them of not properly marking the occasion. John Laycock sat watching proceedings. A little before ten o’clock, though, he managed to slip away to the control tower to oversee the departure of his three Vulcans.

  It wasn’t straightforward. They were leaving in strict radio silence. And although their 301 series Rolls-Royce Olympus engines had been uprated to run at 103 per cent rather than the usual 97.5 restriction, the jets were overloaded with fuel and bombs for the first time. A green Verey flare was fired to signal engine start. Either side of the Runway Two One threshold, on Alpha and Bravo dispersals, the Vulcans came to life. The weather was fine, but the wind was tricky. Every extra knot of wind speed down the runway would make the take-off safer and now its direction was marginal, not really favouring either runway. Any tailwind would only make it harder to get off the ground. Laycock had to make a decision but, as the three bombers waited, he was caught in two minds. Should he have the jets taxi the entire length of the runway and take off down Runway Zero Three, or should he stick with the plan, Runway Two One. He remembered a calculation made when he was flying Victors in the 1960s. Taxi too far, too heavy, and main tyres were going to blow. If it happened now the consequences didn’t bear thinking about. He stuck with Two One and another Verey flare signalled to the Captains that they could take off at their discretion.

  Cleared to depart, Martin Withers pushed the four throttles forward, increasing the engine rpm to 80 per cent. He checked the engine instruments and released the brakes. Once rolling he wound up to maximum power and 598 accelerated down the runway, while Nav Plotter Gordon Graham, eyes fixed to the air speed indicator, called the speeds: ‘60… 80… 100… 110…’

  The Waddington runway isn’t flat. It features a hump beyond which, seen from the tower, it slopes away out of view. Laycock had never seen a Vulcan travel so far down the runway without leaving the ground. They were always away by the time they reached the hump. He watched as 598 disappeared down the slope, still, it seemed, glued to the ground.

  ‘120… 130… 140… 150,’ Graham continued in the cockpit. ‘Decision speed… Rotate.’

  Withers pulled back on the big jet’s fighter-style joystick, lifting the nose.

  Despite its imposing bulk, a lightly loaded Vulcan leapt into the air like a giant balsa wood model caught in a gust of wind. No sooner had the nosewheel left the ground than the whole machine pointed skywards at 45 degrees to the ground. It was a trick that never failed to impress an audience.

  This time, though, they staggered into the air, looking as if the sky could barely carry their weight. As well as fuel and bombs Reeve and Withers had a couple of other small disadvantages. Alongside the seven men crammed into the crew compartment – as well as the AARI, each aircraft also had a crew chief on board – both jets, like the Victors, carried one necessary last piece of new equipment: a chemical toilet. Then, in what little space was left, Martin Withers, worried about possible deprivation on Ascension, had squeezed in a large plastic homebrew bin filled with cans of McEwan’s Export and bottles of whisky. John Reeve was also carrying extra weight. After getting wind of the pilot’s fruitless visit to the station library, Waddington’s Education Officer had made amends by dropping off a box of books with Reeve’s ground crew. Without asking questions, they’d dutifully secreted them away in the Vulcan’s nosewheel bay. Then didn’t think to tell anyone.

  John Laycock relaxed a little as he saw XM598 claw her way into the air, followed a minute later by Reeve in 607 then Neil McDougall’s reserve XM597.

  In number 3 hangar, some of the guests frowned as their ceremonial was disturbed by the distinctive howl and thunder of three Vulcans taking off in quick succession. The television cameras completely missed the real story: on the other side of the hangar wall, that distracting roar was the sound of heavily armed bombers leaving Britain to strike the first blow of the campaign to recapture the Falkland Islands.

  Overhead Bedford, the Vulcans picked up their five Victor tankers and formed a loose ‘Balbo’ heading southwest towards Cornwall. As they flew high and radio-silent into the controlled airspace of London’s Air Traffic Zone they caused a panic. Faced with an unidentified formation of eight aircraft appearing unannounced on their radar screens, controllers at London Air Traffic Control Centre in West Drayton hit the emergency button. The supervisor arrived quickly to soothe nerves, telling them not to worry about it, but didn’t leave them any wiser as to what was going on. He’d been the only person warned that they were coming through.

  A couple of hours later, the first refuelling was completed without incident. Reeve and Withers were safely on their way south past the Bay of Biscay towards the Azores and Neil McDougall turned for home. On the return flight, in an effort to disguise the deployment, he was forced to pretend to be a Victor and route back to Waddington via Marham’s overhead – a complication he didn’t think would fool anyone.

  Simon Baldwin had done all he could. Relieved that they were finally on their way, he tried not to dwell on the possibility of something going wrong because of an oversight on his part. Had he missed something? He had confidence in the crews, but the planning, the modifications, the tactics… However, the Vulcans now belonged to Northwood HQ. The order to go would come from them. All he could do was try to follow developments as best he could.

  At BAM Malvinas, engineers of the Argentine Army were working to improve the runway. Two hundred feet of steel matting was put down at the western end, which provided a marginally greater safety margin for the aircraft operating from the strip. Of greater significance was the effort to install arrestor gear at the same end. When the work was finished, wires would lie across the runway and could be caught by a hook trailed from the back of a landing aircraft, bringing it to a safe stop before the end of the Tarmac. The equipment worked in exactly the same way as the arrestor wires on the Argentine carrier Veinticinco de Mayo and would allow the Super Étendards and A-4Q Skyhawks of the Comando Aviación Naval Argentina to land at BAM Malvinas carrying stores in all weather conditions.

  Near the Cable and Wireless building along the road between Stanley and the airfield, Grupo de Artillería de Defensa Aerea 601 sited their single Roland anti-aircraft missile unit. Because of its imposing, awkward size the Roland launch vehicle had been christened ‘Incredible Hulk’ or ‘La Chancha’ – ‘The Pig’ – by its operators. It hadn’t been thought possible to transport it aboard an Air Force C-130, but somehow it had been done. The big transport’s Captain had nothing but admiration for the men who’d managed to find a way of loading the missile system on board his plane. Their lateral thinking and commitment, he thought, reflected the incredible effort being made by the entire Fuerza Aérea Argentina.

  The commander of the 601st, Lieutenant-Colonel Arias, knew that the Franco-German radar-guided twin launcher was the most capable weapon he had under his control. And by 29 April, despite the piecemeal, week-long deployment of his regiment’s weapons systems, Roland was
fully operational.

  On this last, lethal component of the Argentine air defences the intelligence received by Simon Baldwin had been wrong.

  PART TWO

  Ascension

  Major Campbell was succeeded [as Commandant of Ascension Island] by Lieutenant Colonel Nicolls. Upon the peculiar difficulties, the privations, the horrors with which they had to contend in the early formation, on such a spot, of an Establishment for civilised beings – and to Colonel Nicolls particularly – is praise due, for the untiring ardour with which he laboured to overcome the Hydra-headed obstacles he had to grapple with at every step. But his well-known energy achieved so much that the due chaos was beginning to take shape when… he gave over command to Captain Bate. This officer, after a brief illness, died in command. He was a kind-hearted, amiable man, who strove to do all the good in his power. While the island wore, unmitigated, its own native hideous aspect, – with all its disheartening privations, and the physical obstacles to improvement which every where met the eye, making improvement as it were hopeless, none appeared to envy the ruler such a scene of desolation, or to covet his place… The next appointed to the Command was Captain Tincklar. An active, upright Officer, very zealous – perhaps too much so, for his constitution, it would seem, did not long resist the pressure of the anxieties, or the responsibilities of his situation. He was soon taken ill, and, after a short illness, he died.

  From Ascension Island: A Partial Military History, thought to be written by Captain Thomas Dwyer, RM, Commandant of Ascension Island 1842–4

  Chapter 28

  29 April 1982

  No one actually briefed Bill Bryden on British plans, but at noon on the 29th, when Air Vice-Marshal George Chesworth arrived by VC10 on top of a cargo of cans of Coca-Cola and beer, the American was sure this signalled a change in tempo. Air Commander Sir John Curtiss had sent his number two from Northwood to make sure those running the bombing operation had, as he put it, their ducks in line. Bryden’s suspicions were confirmed that evening when he watched as the two Vulcans of Reeve and Withers landed on Wideawake’s Runway One Four. He’d seen pictures of them in magazines, but this was the first time he’d seen them up close. Beautiful aeroplanes, he thought, and it looks like they can do a job too.

  Monty watched them come in from the tower, then hurried down to the pan to meet the crews as they disembarked into the evening warmth.

  ‘Couldn’t have lasted another minute,’ Mick Cooper gasped as he lit his first cigarette in nine hours. One hour or nine, it didn’t matter: that first lungful of smoke was always just in the nick of time. Unlike the good old days, when captains had been known to flick on the autopilot at 500 feet and light a cigar, the V-force had been a non-smoking airline for a number of years now and Cooper bore the burden stoically.

  The crews were struck immediately by the buzz of activity around them, by hills, tucked close to the airfield, that rose like sandcastles into the dark, and by the tents. There were olive green military tents everywhere, pitched straight on to the dust. The entire RAF operation, they realized, was run from under canvas. John Reeve liked it immediately. No admin, no bullshit, he thought, just aircrews and engineers. Barry Masefield looked around at the dozen RAF Victors packed close to each other around the airfield. It was an impressive, reassuring sight. With this lot we’re going to win, he thought, feeding his confidence with the spectacle. The two Victor squadrons, 55 and 57, had already customized the entrance to their Ops tent with a board that read ‘5557 MASH Air Battle Fleet’ in a nod to Hawkeye et al. Visually, at any rate, the collection of tents meant that the comparison was a good one. The Vulcan detachment would have to find a legend of their own.

  Monty said he’d take them up to where they were sleeping after a short debrief. Before leaving the airfield, John Reeve needed to find Engineering Chief Mel James. He thought there was a problem with 607’s fuel system. The number 1 tank didn’t seem to be topping off. It would need looking at. Reeve didn’t want any nagging worries about the jet he’d be flying. If there were any doubts, he’d elect to fly Primary in 598, the Vulcan Martin Withers had flown in. Since coming in on the VC10, James had been joined by the rest of his thirty-strong engineering team, who were transported with their equipment, in rather less comfort, aboard two C-130s. Included in their number was a technician from Honington in case anything happened to the unfamiliar Dash 10 ECM pod. James had tried to come prepared for all eventualities. When Reeve spoke to him, he was already casting an eye over his two new charges. As the bomb bay doors swung open he checked their contents. Condensation from the cold-soaked bomb casings – formed as the Vulcans had descended rapidly from the sub-zero air above 40,000 feet into the humid, tropical atmosphere on Ascension – splashed on to the warm Tarmac.

  As James got to work on the two Vulcans, the aircrews climbed into a Sherpa van for the short journey to Two Boats to check in to the Right Arm Hotel. Sadly, there was no real evidence of the effort Monty and Bill Perrins had put into trying to make it look presentable and the reaction was predictable.

  ‘What a shitheap!’ someone goaded.

  ‘I’ve just spent two fucking days sweeping this out, you arsehole!’ retorted Perrins.

  But even Monty thought, looking around: This looks terrible. And it smelt like a Gents. The sleeping bags seemed to have been made under an MoD contract by prisoners who had relieved themselves into the finished product before rolling it up and sending it on its way. It wasn’t going to be a problem in any case. Two Boats was only a degree or so cooler than sea level and, in the scramble to get the kit to Ascension, the crews had been issued with Arctic bags. As they milled around deciding who was going to sleep where, the Reeve crew turned on their co-pilot.

  ‘Don, you’ll sleep in the kitchen next to the fridge because you’re such a noisy bastard.’ Dibbens’ snoring was well known and only taking bold action was going to make sure that the sleeping arrangements didn’t become any more unpleasant than they already were. With Dibbens safely stuck out of earshot, it was time to get something to eat. They barrelled out of the dusty dormitory to get some food at an outdoor field kitchen set up in the village. Mick Cooper had said the food must be really good.

  ‘Why?’ they asked him.

  ‘Because a thousand flies can’t be wrong…’

  Martin Withers and his crew were noticeably more relaxed than their counterparts on the Primary crew. They, after all, were going to get a good night’s sleep, then fly as far as the first refuelling bracket before returning for another good night’s sleep while Reeve and his crew flew south to launch their attack. Unconcerned about the next day they dumped their stuff, changed out of their flightsuits and headed off in search of a drink. After the disappointment of the accommodation and food – and his fears that Ascension might be dry – Martin Withers was cheered to discover that at least there was somewhere they could finish off the evening with a beer. There was, after all, something to celebrate. Tomorrow was AARI Dick Russell’s birthday. They ended up in a bar called The Seniors’ Mess. None of them had any idea who ‘The Seniors’ were, but their hospitality was outstanding and the Vulcan crew drank enthusiastically – fuelled by a belief that, if it took their bodies an hour to deal with each drink, they had nothing whatsoever to worry about. The SAS were there too, keeping themselves to themselves. The RAF officers were impressed to note that the troopers would return from the bar carrying whole slabs of beer and that each one appeared to be for personal consumption. At midnight the celebrations for Russell’s fiftieth began. The six men found what they imagined were the last few bottles of South African white wine and loudly toasted their new crew member’s health. Drunk and happy, they finally got their heads down at 2 a.m.

  As the aircrews drank and slept through the night, Mel James and his team worked to ensure the two bombers were ready to go the following day. Just after midnight they sent a message estimating they’d be ready by 0500. By 0300, both 598 and 607 were accepted as functional, fuelled to 90 per cent and le
ft, watched over by a guard of Royal Marines grateful to be off the crowded Canberra for a few days.

  Despite fine weather, the atmosphere in Stanley had darkened since the town’s gymnasium had been commandeered by Argentine special forces. When pressed, Carlos Bloomer-Reeve admitted that the authority of these hard, professional-looking troops superseded all other. After dark, between the hours of 5 p.m. and 7 a.m., a strict curfew was imposed on the civilian population, who also now had to carry ID papers whenever they went outside. And these, it was announced, would be replaced by new documents issued by the military government. Telephone lines were disconnected to any household who were members of the FIDF and orders were issued that the windows of all homes were to be blacked out. The soldiers took to cruising malevolently around the streets of the little capital on brand-new Kawasaki motorbikes, short-barrelled sub-machine guns strapped loosely across their backs.

  Chapter 29

  30 April 1982

  The US government came down publicly on the side of the British on Friday 30th. After weeks and thousands of miles of shuttle diplomacy, Ronald Reagan’s Secretary of State, General Al Haig, finally conceded defeat. The decision to abandon a neutral stance, let alone impose economic sanctions against Argentina, hadn’t been a foregone conclusion. But by suggesting that Haig’s final peace plan be put first to the junta, Margaret Thatcher’s War Cabinet shrewdly assumed the moral high ground at the death of America’s efforts to broker a settlement. While Haig’s proposals were totally unacceptable to the British, by giving Argentina the opportunity – which she took – to reject them first, the British were able to claim good faith. Because of the Argentine rejection, there was no need for the British to reveal their hand. As a result, they could legitimately claim that they bore no responsibility for the breakdown of negotiations.