Vulcan 607

by Rowland White

  Withers considered this briefly before checking with his Navigators. Graham and Wright agreed that it was relatively insignificant and a late decision was made to pop up to the higher altitude and fly the bomb run at 10,000 feet. It was a small extra measure of safety.

  In another corner of the tent, the co-pilots and AARIs checked and rechecked the fuel, while Mick Cooper and Bob Wright went through the switching and fuses with Dave Stenhouse. They and the Nav Plotters, Jim Vinales and Gordon Graham, updated their flight plans with the latest Met reports. Ironically, given the decision to switch to Red Rag Control, Vinales had got the name of the operation wrong, scribbling BLACK BULL at the top of his flight plan. He crossed out the word ‘Exercise’ and replaced it with ‘Operation’. Next to it, in the box meant to record the time they expected to ‘End Night Flying’ he wrote ‘Good Question.’ They looked at the slim pickings available for diversions: Rio was the only realistic bet, the rest were in Chile: Punta Arenas, Balmaceda and Puerto Monte. They were unlikely at best. And they considered their options in case they had to ditch. Tristan da Cunha was mentioned as a possibility. This tiny South Atlantic colony had no airstrip, but there was a friendly British population of about 300. And it was closer to the Falklands than Ascension. Worth a try as a last resort, maybe. Both men were having to improvise, charting their course on an upside-down map of the northern hemisphere. It was all there was. Gordon Graham scribbled out the Azores and pencilled in the Falkland Islands at the appropriate latitude and longitude. X marked the spot.

  As if they were blind to the realities of the situation, a last, random signal arrived from the MoD authorizing the Vulcans to exceed 250 knots at low level. And if it hadn’t arrived in the nick of time, Monty wondered, who would have stopped them doing it anyway? And while they were at it, where was the authorization for flying the Vulcans at way above their maximum take-off weight? Ridiculous, he thought. Then it was time for the intelligence briefing.

  The nicest name the crews gave the beefy-looking Intelligence Officer with the thick moustache was ‘Nick the Knowledge’. With barely an hour to go until crew-in, trying to get intelligence out of him felt like trying to get a straight answer out of a politician.

  ‘I can’t reveal my sources,’ he protested as the anxious bomber crews probed him for information. In the eyes of the listening Vulcan crews, ‘Nick the Knowledge’ seemed to be almost trying to give unsatisfactory answers. Monty became increasingly angry at his stonewalling, then John Hathaway snapped. He’d had enough and tore into the man.

  ‘You fucking well tell us what we need to know because we’re the ones who are going in.’

  It did no one’s nerves any good. The next five minutes passed uncomfortably as the big man, aided by a Captain from the SAS, revealed the locations of remote safehouses with studied politeness. Each of them was handed a piece of a 1:50,000 map of East Falkland, cut from a larger sheet. It was laminated with Fablon sticky-back plastic to give it a degree of water resistance. They were not, he told them, to mark the co-ordinates of the RVs on the maps. Memorize them. If they were shot down, he told them, they were to find their way to these locations and wait to be picked up. On three consecutive nights, a Sea King helicopter from 846 Naval Air Squadron would come looking. He pointed out known Argentine troop positions and he ran through the anti-aircraft defences again: Oerlikon, Tiger Cat, Skyguard, Superfledermaus. Just as Simon Baldwin had briefed them before they left Waddington. There was no mention of Roland.

  What, Monty was asked, should happen to classified documents if a crew had to abandon their aircraft? Thinking on his feet the little Scotsman suggested they load all the paperwork into the tin ration box they’d be carrying in the cockpit then just throw the whole thing out of the crew hatch into the sea.

  The reality of ejection, safehouses, disposal of secrets and late-night pick-ups had a sobering effect on Martin Withers. He should have expected it, of course, but somehow he’d managed to tuck away the reality of what they were about to do and not dwell on it. Being tossed a box of 9mm bullets for the Browning did nothing to comfort him. No time to worry about it now.

  ‘You happy about things?’ Monty asked the two Captains. Silence. Earlier in the afternoon, Monty had picked up the same problem with 607’s number 1 tank as John Reeve had the previous day. Mel James had explained that it was only the gauge. The tank was fine, but the seed of doubt had been sown in Reeve’s mind. He decided to go with 598. Withers would fly reserve in 607. ‘Nothing at all, fellows?’ Reeve and Withers checked the Form 700s – the jets’ detailed service histories – then signed. Vulcans 598 and 607 were now their responsibility. It was time to go.

  In the Officers’ Mess, RAF Waddington, IX Squadron were enjoying a final dining-in night. They were always full-blooded affairs, and under normal circumstances the sociable, hearty Station Commander would have enjoyed himself thoroughly. Tonight, though, was anything but normal. John Laycock may have looked the part, dressed impressively in full mess-kit, but his appearance was misleading. He didn’t taste his food, savour his wine, or listen much to what was being said. He was just going through the motions, waiting for an opportunity to make his excuses and join Simon Baldwin in the Ops block for news of BLACK BUCK’s progress.

  The scene looked familiar enough, as the Vulcan crews pulled on their flying kit. But as each man went through his own routine, surrounded by neatly arranged rails of flightsuits and equipment, the mood was different. In the locker room at Waddington there would be irreverent talk of cars, girls and sport; the kind of merciless ribbing found in a rugby club. Thick skins and quick wits were essentials. But not this time. As they slowly pulled on layers of clothing, trying not to rush because of the 80-degree heat, each of them was lost in his own thoughts. The temperature was a struggle. They were going to be flying over a distance equal to about a third of the earth’s circumference: a journey from the tropics to a few hundred miles north of the Antarctic circle and back. They had to prepare to come down in the freezing seas around the Falklands. Some wore long johns under their flying suits. Then there was the ‘bunny suit’, one-piece overalls made out of thick acrilan pile. On top of it all they eased into a cumbersome, tough rubber immersion suit, sealed tight at the cuffs and neck. Heavy-duty zips running up the front and back further restricted free movement. If they had to ditch or abandon the aircraft, the immersion suit would buy them some time at least. Once they got plugged into the jet’s oxygen system they could circulate cool air through the suit. For now, though, they had to stew. Wearing it was definitely the lesser of two evils. Only Bob Wright chose not to put on the immersion suit before boarding the bomber. If he came down in cold water without having put it on, he wouldn’t have a chance. In sea temperatures around 10 degrees Celsius, his survival time would have been about three hours. The seas around the Falkland Islands in April could drop below 2 degrees Celsius. Sudden immersion in seas below 5 degrees induces vagal shock. Wright would have gasped involuntarily, perhaps inhaling a lungful of frigid saltwater as a result. He’d have begun shivering uncontrollably, then his muscles would have contracted, preventing him from swimming. A heart attack would have been a possibility, but without that quick release, acute accidental hypothermia would probably kill him just minutes later anyway. Wright knew all this. If, for any reason, the Withers crew found themselves flying south beyond the first fuel transfer, he decided, he would struggle to pull on his immersion suit inside 607’s cabin. For now, at least, he was more comfortable than his colleagues.

  While the two flight crews prepared themselves, Monty and his men returned to the Vulcans. His Nav Plotter, Dick Arnott, climbed into the stifling-hot cockpit of 598 and switched on the Carousel INS to give it the time it needed to align before crew-in. The tiny triangular direct-vision window on the flight deck was open and a mobile air conditioner blew cool air in through the crew hatch, fighting a losing battle to keep the temperature down. All around, ground crews scurried about the fleet of V-bombers. The machines were begin
ning to come to life. And the noise was coming up. Arnott moved on to get 607 ready for Martin Withers’ crew.

  Mick Cooper took himself away to clear his head and gather his thoughts. He lit a cigarette and pulled on the smoke. The others knew to leave him alone. It was only Mick Cooper psyching himself up, just as he did before the bombing competition. As he had then, he returned to the fold radiating confidence. And one or two of the others drew strength from that.

  They all filtered out from under the canvas. Before boarding the two Vulcans there was just time to relieve themselves in the dry dirt behind the tents. After this, though, they’d be using the pee-tubes on board and wrestling with the layers of protective clothing. Wearing harnesses and Mae West lifejackets over their thick rubber immersion suits both crews walked out past a line of Victors towards the bombers. Another line of K2s on the far side of the pan pointed towards them, their five-man crews also beginning to climb on board through the hatches on the port sides of the cabins.

  Jim Vinales had been shaken by the complexity of the refuelling plan. He couldn’t see how such a baroque undertaking could succeed. There were so many opportunities for it to go wrong. And if anything did go wrong, he thought, there was every chance it would do so with fatal consequences. He’d been lucky to survive bailing out of a crashing Vulcan once, ten years earlier. He didn’t fancy his chances of doing so again.

  Vinales kept his feelings to himself. It simply wasn’t the kind of thing you shared. Doubt spread fast.

  Barry Masefield just wanted to get in. He was always first in. He worried until he was able to actually touch the jet. That calmed him, up to a point. So did the familiar metallic smell of the cockpit. But for the little AEO, always claustrophobic, the cramped cabin of the Vulcan was far from an ideal environment. He climbed on board 598, took his seat and started his checks, pulling the blue book out of his flight bag, double-checking the AEO log and Met reports. Displacement activity.

  Before joining the rest of the crew on board 607, Martin Withers’ Nav team, Gordon Graham and Bob Wright, disappeared underneath the dark shape of the Vulcan’s imposing silhouette to have a look at the warload. They chinned up using both hands to peer inside the bomb bay through the two access panels at its front. The full load of twenty-one thousand-pounders hung there, yellow rings painted around their noses to indicate that they were live. The old bombs had seen better days. One or two even seemed to be oozing some unidentifiable liquid out of the front. Curiosity satisfied, they dropped down, then climbed the ladder into the aircraft’s nose to take their seats alongside AEO Hugh Prior. Prior began to work through his checklist. The jets were combat-readied, but just because something’s worked once, that doesn’t mean it’s going to work next time.

  The Dash 10 pod wouldn’t run up. He tried it again. No good. Vulcan 607 might only be the reserve jet, but it had to be fixed. Without the effective new ECM pod, they wouldn’t be exactly defenceless, but going in without it wasn’t a prospect he relished. He thumbed the RT and spoke to the crew chief over the closed-circuit landline. Word was passed straight up the line to the Engineering Detachment boss, Mel James, who sent immediately for the corporal he’d taken from Honington. This was exactly why they’d brought him. The specialist quickly diagnosed and fixed the snag: a tripped fuse on the X-band circuit board. They were still on.

  Before the crew hatches were sealed shut for take-off, Monty wanted to wish the two other Captains well. He jumped up 598’s yellow entry ladder, past the tangle of 1950s wiring and hand-painted fuseboxes, past the tin box containing sandwiches, coffee and soft drinks, and stood between the two ejection seats on the flight deck. He rapped on Reeve’s Bone Dome flying helmet. Reeve and AARI Pete Standing turned to acknowledge him.

  ‘You two all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Yup,’ Reeve answered. Nothing more to say now.

  ‘Right, see you tomorrow. Do good,’ he encouraged, and left them, taking the crew ladder with him. They wouldn’t need it until they got back and, until then, it would just be more clutter. Monty skitted across to 607, and pulled himself up to send them on their way. The intercom on Withers’ Bone Dome had packed up on the flight out to Ascension so, much to his annoyance, he was stuck with one of the soft green fabric caps that tended only to be worn by the backseaters. He wasn’t at all happy about the timing of the fault, but at least he only needed to go as far as the first refuelling bracket. Monty tapped him on the head to get his attention.

  ‘I’ll see you back here for a beer in five or six hours,’ Monty said and smiled.

  Withers grinned back and nodded his approval of the plan.

  ‘See you, Mont.’

  As the crew doors on the two bombers were sealed shut, the occupants were cut off from the noise and movement outside.

  In Admiralty House, two hundred yards from the Operations Room at Northwood HQ, Air Marshal Sir John Curtiss sat down with the Task Force Commander, Admiral Sir John Fieldhouse. Over a glass of whisky, the two men talked about the war to come, knowing it might be a long time until they had a similar opportunity for reflection. Curtiss liked the thoughtful, astute Yorkshire-man enormously, believed him to be perhaps the most impressive person he’d ever served under. The Admiral asked about the prospect of civilian casualties. Curtiss was able to reassure him. There would be none, he told him, unless they were actually on the airfield during the raid. Fieldhouse fully appreciated the immensity of the task being asked of the Victor and Vulcan crews. Curtiss couldn’t help but wonder if they would succeed. Whatever the outcome of BLACK BUCK, though, both these senior officers knew that come morning, Britain would be committed.

  PART THREE

  V-Force

  ‘Bring back, bring back,

  Oh, bring back my bomber and me, and me.

  Bring back, bring back,

  Oh, bring back my bomber and me.’

  Sung by Second World War Bomber Command crews (to the tune of ‘My Bonny Lies over the Ocean’)

  Chapter 31

  There was a lull. Then the first of the Victors broke the expectant calm as her engines fired up at 22.30. Just one of the four powerful turbines to begin with: run up to 90 per cent rpm in order to feed power through to the other three to start them in sequence. The whine grew to a roar as, one by one, the remaining Rolls-Royce Conway RCo17 turbojets spooled up. They were joined by the noise from the engines of the next Victor in line. Then the next, and the next. Eleven in all. Forty-four engines. A million pounds of potential thrust. Red dust was already being churned into the air, caught in the arc lights along the south side of the Wideawake pan. The view rippled with heat. The wind carried the tang of burnt aviation fuel.

  A background hum played through the conference intercom aboard Vulcan 607 – the sound of electricity – punctuated by clicks, pops and breathing. Through it, the crew’s voices sounded brittle and dry as they ran through the challenge and response checklist, called out by Hugh Prior. Martin Withers moved the stick and rudder pedals through their full range of travel, while outside the Crew Chief stood watching, reporting back to the cockpit. Without him, the checks couldn’t be completed.

  Bomb door normal operation.

  And you’re clear.

  Three, two, one… now.

  The two long doors slowly unfolded from 607’s dark-grey belly to reveal the warload of 1,000lb bombs racked inside.

  Travelling… Open.

  Less than eight seconds… Fine.

  Closing now.

  Travelling… Bomb doors close and flush.

  The Crew Chief disconnected the external power and Hugh Prior checked the transformer rectifier units.

  Serviceable and on. Time to light the engines.

  Clear start.

  Starting now. Withers reached down to his left, almost behind him, to a panel of switches, bathed in orange light, running low along the side of the flight deck. There were four separate buttons, one for each engine. Each needed to be pushed and held, before being released.

  P
ressing now. One thousand… One. Withers checked the engine gauges as the power came up. Small white needles flickered and rose on the panel of dials in the centre of the instrument panel.

  RPM’s turning, fuel’s coming on. Ten per cent… fourteen… fifteen. Oil temperature and JPT. No fire warnings.His voice, two-dimensional and sibilant.

  The eight Rolls-Royce Olympus 301s of the two Vulcans turned faster, building, joining a rasping, thunderous wall of noise.

  As Red One, the first Victor, edged out of its spot at 22.50, the roar from its Conways flared and the extra thrust kicked up dust and debris. As they rolled forward, her pilot turned towards Runway One Four. Around them the ghostly silhouettes of ground crewmen were swallowed up by the swirling cloud. Five places behind him, following his own section leader, Bob Tuxford in White Two opened the throttles up to nearly 50 per cent to overcome the heavy tanker’s inertia. Once she began to roll he pulled them back to idle, but, like the three Victors ahead of him, the initial burst of power had whipped up a storm. He touched the toe-pedals to test the brakes and the jet dipped low on to the squat nosewheel as over 100 tons tried to maintain its forward momentum. The back-seaters were pushed into their high-backed green-steel seats. Then Tux powered up again and taxied slowly towards the runway, turning on to it before the aircraft ahead of him in the stream had left the ground. After the disappointment of the first MRR mission, he was back flying one of two long-slot positions. He’d be escorting the Vulcan a long way south, flying for twelve hours or more.

  Feet on the brakes, he wound up the engines at the threshold, released the toe-pedals and pushed the four throttles to the gate with his left hand. As White Two accelerated down the strip, the ride became progressively more comfortable as the wings took the weight off the undercarriage.