We were very excited at the prospect of flying Thornhill to Chileka in Nyasaland, then to Dar es Salaam in Tanganyika and onward to Nairobi in Kenya. Such an opportunity had not been given to any previous training course. But, unfortunately for Sandy Mutch, the inclusion of No 10 SSU resulted in dramas that disallowed future courses from enjoying flights beyond the Federation’s borders.
Twelve Vampires, in three formations of four aircraft, left Thornhill at hourly intervals. This allowed formations refuel at each destination before the arrival of the next. I was in the second formation that passed through Chileka and arrived in Dar es Salaam as planned. We had refuelled and were about to fly on to Nairobi when we received instructions to hold over in Dar es Salaam for the night.
I cannot say why this was really necessary, but it was good news for Keith Corrans, Bill Galloway and me who had not visited this part of the world before. It was extremely hot and humid and our stay, though pleasant, was somewhat dampened by the fact we could not swim in the inviting, clear-blue sea because of vast numbers of bluebottle-type jellyfish in the water and on the beaches.
The flight ahead of us had struck a snag between Dar es Salaam and Nairobi when Dave Thorne’s FB9 canopy disintegrated at 33,000 feet. It punctured the hydraulic reservoir, resulting in Dave getting red hydraulic fluid all over his flying suit. Dave immediately switched over to emergency oxygen but, though in no danger of passing out, he was freezing cold with no option other than to continue with the formation because he had insufficient fuel to complete the journey at a warmer level. Behind us, one of the third formation’s aircraft was found unserviceable at Chileka, forcing an overnight stay in Blantyre to await spares from Thornhill.
All aircraft finally assembled at RAF Eastleigh (Nairobi) where a replacement canopy was fitted to Dave’s FB9. When all the aircraft were declared serviceable, we set off for the bright lights of Nairobi. In town I met up with Dave Thorne who had borrowed his aged Kenyan aunt’s Rolls Royce shooting brake to impress a bevy of pretty girls he had in tow.
I saw Dave again the following day when we met in the Nairobi Show Grounds, the venue of the Royal Agricultural Show. An hour before the flying displays were due to start, Dave disappeared into the gents’ toilets and remained there for an hour beyond the time the flying displays had ended. He then returned to the girls with his hair dampened and his face lined with pseudo headgear pressure marks. Those of my course who witnessed this did not let on to the excited girls that Dave had not been part of the formation; though we were most amused by the antics that certainly succeeded in impressing the girls.
That night I met Flight Lieutenant Booth of the RAF who had given a single-aircraft display in a Canberra B6, following a solo aerobatic display by an RAF Javelin. He offered to take me along for his display the following day; an opportunity I immediately accepted. At the appointed time I checked in with him in my flying kit. The correct oxygen mask was fitted to my helmet and I was briefed by the navigator on when and how I must move from rear ejector seat to the fold-down ‘Rumbold’ seat next to the pilot and back to the ejector seat for landing.
As soon as we were clear of the airfield, the navigator moved from his ejector seat to his bomb-aiming position on a bed in the aircraft nose. I followed, folded down the Rumbold seat, and strapped in next to Flight Lieutenant Booth. I had to stretch my neck to see over the right lip of the large domed canopy, but otherwise was able to take in the immense beauty of the famous Rift Valley where we descended for a few practice low-level barrel rolls. These went well and I remained firmly in my seat as we pitched and rolled high over the top and back into low-level flight.
On call from the ground controller at the Show Grounds, we positioned for the display. This initially involved very low-level turns with bomb bay opening and undercarriage lowering for the crowds to view at close range. We cleared for the RAF Javelin and waited to come in for the barrel roll that required the Canberra to invert as it passed over the crowd, because their view of the sky was limited by high trees surrounding the arena.
As the Javelin cleared we were close in and commenced the barrel roll. All seemed fine until Flight Lieutenant Booth said he had started the roll too late. At this point he rolled faster to the inverted and pushed forward on his control column. The navigator, snorting and swearing, was thrown into the wiring and other paraphernalia in front of the pilot’s instrument panel. The emergency hydraulic pump handle dislodged and hit me in the face while I hung in my lap strap with my shoulder pressed hard against one of the canopy’s jettison bolts. The two parachute packs of the rear-ejector seats broke loose and deployed their silk ‘chutes all over the rear cabin.
As the aircraft passed the inverted position, the nose pitched very steeply and I was absolutely certain we were going to crash into the ground. However, the roll rate was increased with full rudder and the aircraft pitched out of the dive ever so close to the treetops. Fortunately, the ground beyond the Show Grounds dropped away somewhat; otherwise we would have been history. Loud abuse from the navigator and endless apologies from the skipper continued all the way to landing and for some time beyond.
After a splendid stay in Nairobi, our return to Rhodesia went fine until the third formation arrived at Chileka. I was standing with other pilots on the balcony of the Chileka Airport bar and watched the standard formation break that extended the line of aircraft for the usual descending turn to land. Unfortunately, however, Gordon Wright as No 3 was a bit too tight and slow when, in the final stages of his approach, he hit slipstream from the aircraft ahead. The FB9 impacted the ground about sixty metres short of the raised shoulder of the runway.
No 4 had seen the problem coming and powered up for an overshoot before Gordon’s aircraft bounced from its first impact point, clearing the rising ground and impacting ground again in a broadside at runway level. A huge cloud of red dust marked the aircraft’s passage but smothered it from our view as it slid to a halt on the lip of a storm-water drain. Another three feet and Gordon would almost certainly have lost his legs. As it was, he was lucky to get away with a badly damaged ego, which he showed by throwing his helmet down in frustrated anger. The aircraft was quite severely damaged and was transported to New Sarum by road for repair, and flew again. But it took a long time for people in Air HQ to forget Gordon’s error.
Back at Thornhill we resumed our weapons training. I continued flying with Frank Mussell and Ted Brent and also flew with three new instructors whom I can only describe as salt-of-the-earth individuals and good PAIs (Pilot Armament Instructors) too. Flying Officers Peter McLurg, Randy du Rand and Justin Varkevisser had totally different characters but were pleasant instructors and great marksmen to boot.
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 heade
d 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.
Winds of Destruction Page 8
