Centaurus Tall Tails.

[Centaurus]

During the war Manus Island north of PNG was a major Japanese military base and after Allied forces swept through the Western Pacific in 1944 the island became a staging post for US forces attacking the Japanese stronghold on Pelileu in the Western Caroline Islands. After the war, the Royal Australian Navy (RAN) took over the former US Naval base at Lorengau harbour on Manus, while the RAAF operated the air base at Momote on the eastern side of the island group. I had been there several times when flying Lincolns during combined sea and air exercises. The airstrip was 5200ft long, ending at a coral reef at one end and a lagoon at the other. Crocodiles drifted menacingly in a nearby swamp, occasionally seizing an unwary dog and making it risky to walk around at night.

Nearby revetments held several derelict Douglas Dauntless dive bombers, left behind in 1945. Bullet holes had punctured their tyres, and instruments stolen for souvenirs but with a lot of TLC they could have been made air-worthy. If I knew then, what I know now about the future value of those machines, I would have bought them on the spot and taken them back home for restoration. But for now they remained behind as battered but still proud reminders of the savage carrier–borne air battles of the Pacific war. Some years after the military abandoned the airstrip, a team of enthusiasts arrived to ship the old dive-bombers back to USA. I am glad their story had a happy ending.

By1958, Guam and the USAF base at Clark Field in the Philippines, represented the main strategic American presence in the Western Pacific region, and the Australian government decided to close down Momote, leaving a small team of aviation staff to administer inter-island civil flights. Many of the RAAF married quarters still held valuable material such as furnishings and roofing tiles and it was decided to transport these back to Townsville.

For this task, freight panniers were attached to hard points in the bomb bay of our Lincoln. It was a wonderful opportunity for me to see the islands that had become so well known during the Pacific war, and I pestered the CO into agreeing that my crew should do the job. There were three pilots (myself as captain, Flight Sergeant Daryl Picton, and Pilot Officer Ian Symonds as second pilots), Flying Officer Brian Bolger and Flight Sergeant Barry Nichols as navigators, with Pilot Officers Gordon Bibby, Cliff Dohle, Flying Officer Bruce Stein, and Flight Sergeant Colin Stewart as the signallers. Pprune readers might like to follow this story on their atlas. Meanwhile I apologise profusely to the Mods for the larger picture of the Lincoln route shown here but after numerous attempts at working through photo-bucket I am buggered if I could work out how to reduce the picture size to the desired 640X480.

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The 1000-mile flight to Momote was planned via Port Moresby in New Guinea, then right a few degrees to climb over Mount Victoria in the Owen Stanley Ranges. The jungle clad mountains in this area rise above 13,000 feet and crews don oxygen masks as the aircraft climbs laboriously to clear the mountains. Once clear of the northern coastline of New Guinea at the wartime airstrip of Kokoda, the track edges further left over the former Japanese occupied township of Lae. From here the direct track to Momote cleared the mist-covered mountains of the Huon Peninsula. The airstrip of Finschafen once defended by hordes of Zero fighters is visible through cloud gaps on the left while on the right wing tip is Cape Gloucester on the western reaches of New Britain. Leaving land at Cape King on Umboi Island, the aircraft heads north out over the Bismark Sea.

If the Battle of Britain was a defining moment of World War Two in 1940, the Battle of the Bismark Sea was its equivalent on the other side of the world in 1943. Then, an armada of Japanese troop ships sailed into the Bismark Sea from Rabaul in New Britain to reinforce Japanese held Lae. Hugging the northern coastline of New Britain and hidden by low cloud and torrential rain, the transports and escorting warships were spotted by Allied reconnaissance aircraft. As the convoy entered the Vitiaz Strait on its final run into Lae, it was attacked by Bostons and rocket firing Beaufighters of the RAAF and finished off by Mitchells and Flying Fortresses of the USAF. Few ships escaped the carnage and thousands of Japanese troops were lost. The Battle of the Bismark Sea was a turning point in the war in the Pacific.

.Now 15 years later and a few minutes after taking off on the first leg of what promised to be fascinating tour of wartime history, the Lincoln experienced a glycol coolant leak on one of the engines. Left unchecked, the glycol leak could lead to engine seizure and possible fire, leaving me with little choice but to get on the ground as soon as possible. Fortunately the heavy weight landing was smooth, and after touch-down I used the full runway length to avoid causing hot brakes.

The problem was soon fixed and we got away again arriving at Momote in the late afternoon after a six hour flight. Cruising at 10,000 feet over the warm expanse of the Bismark Sea, I pondered the events that I had read about as an eleven year old lad in England in 1943. The Bismark Sea meant nothing to me in those days, preoccupied as I was with spotting German Focke Wulf 190's and Dornier 217's that flew in at low level, dropped bombs and belted back to France. In the Lincoln, the crew was lost in thought, silently contemplating the scene far below where scattered white cumulus drifted gently over the graveyard of ships and men.

At Momote, we stayed for two days of sight seeing while the aircraft was serviced and the roofing tiles loaded. We slept under mosquito nets in the stifling heat, and during the day I explored the cockpits of the Dauntless dive-bombers. Fortunately I did not see the large jungle spiders that were known to live in thick webs behind the instrument panels. Neither did I see any crocodiles, although the odd loud splash from the local swamp indicated that something was out there.

Among the families living on Manus was a teenager by the name of Max Loves. The thrilling sight of visiting Lincolns and Mustangs must have stirred his soul because when the base closed down and his family returned to Australia, Max joined the RAAF as a trainee pilot. After winning his Wings, he flew Mustangs, Vampires and Sabres. The Empire Test Pilot’s Course followed, leading to testing of Lightnings and other exotic machines at Boscombe Down. I first met Max in 1966 when he was in Milan evaluating the Macchi jet trainer for the RAAF. At the time, I was ferrying a new Avro (yes, it was the real Avro – not Bae!) 748 to Australia. We remained close friends over the years; meeting occasionally at Rye on the Mornington Peninsula to tell lies and talk aeroplanes. And to think that his distinguished career as a test pilot all started from his first sight of massed Merlins at Momote. Rather like Toad of Toad Hall and the Yellow Roadster!

The return flight was planned as an OFE (Operational Flying Exercise). The route was low level at 1500-ft eastward across the Bismark Sea to Kavieng on New Ireland, then south to the former Japanese military stronghold of Rabaul on northern New Britain. From there we planned to Milne Bay on the south-eastern tip of New Guinea and after that directly to Townsville. Any ships seen were to be photographed and their description reported in code on the RAAF Area Guard High Frequency. This was always a convenient excuse for a low pass and beat up. Officially, beat ups were frowned upon, but only if you killed yourself. Estimated flight time was ten hours.

After start-up, I kept the run-up brief to avoid overheating the liquid cooled engines. With the bomb bay panniers full of roofing tiles and the wings brimming with fuel the Lincoln used up the full length of the 5400ft runway. There were no take-off performance charts in those days and the Lincoln was held on the runway until the last second. On a hot tropical day we would barely reach lift off speed of 105 knots before the ocean would flash underneath us leaving a swirl of slipstream on the water. This usually gave the rear gunner (who had his back to the engine), an unwanted thrill. The normal takeoff boost on the Rolls Royce Merlin Mk 102 engine was +12 pounds of boost (54 inches of manifold pressure). At the discretion of the pilot, additional power was available by advancing the throttles “through the gate” which gave an emergency maximum of +18 boost, (66 inches of manifold pressure). Emergency power not only reduced engine life but with the open exhausts of the inboard engines only fifteen feet away from the cockpit, the noise was extremely painful to the ears.

Engines occasionally failed on take-off and the swing cause by the failure of an outboard engine could be hard to manage. At emergency power, the resulting swing could be downright dangerous. One pilot, a Warrant Officer who had flown Liberators, was so fearful of engine failure during take off that he always used the emergency power of +18 boost. He explained away this apparent contradiction by saying if an engine was going to fail, it would be most likely early in the peace at maximum power, leaving him plenty of runway to abort the take-off. While he never experienced the opportunity to test his theory on Lincolns, he sure managed to wear out a few engines. He was killed a few years later. Not in a Lincoln, but in a Vampire that experienced engine failure after take-off. On this occasion I decided that we needed maximum over-boost to get airborne with our heavy load.

The closure of the base meant that ours was probably the last Lincoln out. In view of this auspicious occasion, we had been given the nod on the evening before by a senior (half-tanked) officer to beat up the airstrip on departure, and to make it good. I readily agreed, rightly considering it churlish to refuse. Today an unauthorized beat up would be court martial offence and understandably so. But in 1958, a very good year for beat ups, there was a less responsible and more care-free attitude in the RAAF and in any case, a rousing beat up was usually enjoyed by all – within reasonable safety bounds of course.

The Lincoln staggered to 1500 ft and wheeling it over on one wing, I opened up to full power (+12 and 3000rpm this time) aiming right down the centre of the runway. The airmen below came out from under the coconut trees to watch. Having seen beat ups before, I knew what a thrill it was to spectators to see this enormous flying machine flash by at low level with its incredible sound of four Rolls Royce engines at full throttle. The same noise put out by four Spitfires in close formation, if you can imagine it. At 26 years old and in command of this beautiful old bomber, I was in my element. Ten years earlier I had been a broom wielder in a Camden hangar sweeping the dusty floor around the wheels of a Lockheed Hudson and dreaming of being a RAAF pilot.

There was no time for reflection now and after pulling the Lincoln up into a steep climbing turn we set course for the first leg to Rabaul. Hardly had the second pilot set cruise power when a radio call came from the RAAF air-sea rescue launch just off shore beyond the reef. Could we carry out just one low pass so that the crew of the launch could take some photographs? To the annoyance of the navigator sitting at his desk behind the captain’s seat, I said no problem – here we come, ready or not. Christ! As I write this, I cringe at the stupidity of youth and wonder how I survived. The navigator had already set up his charts and now his neat log would have to be revised with a new departure time. Stiff – I thought, and brought the Lincoln around to line up on the launch two miles away. This was inexcusable brashness on my part but I soon flushed any guilty thoughts away and concentrated on the task at hand.

The launch was painted a pale blue with RAAF roundels on each bow. Its ensign fluttered at masthead and I noticed a canvas sunshade over the stern. We went very low over the boat at 220 knots and full power, pulling up into the usual steep climbing turn, and waving to the crew on the launch. The rear gunner who of course could not see the launch until we passed, called up on the intercom that our propeller slipstream had clean blown away the sun shade on the launch. Well satisfied with the congratulations from the launch skipper on the mighty beat up, we again set sail for Rabaul, accompanied by the bitching of the navigator who had lost his chart under the table during the tight turns. In the light of fifty-four years since that day at Momote, I find myself almost too embarrassed to record this episode on Pprune. But then it was different in those days..

Time dims the finer details of the flight to Townsville, but there were two events that I clearly remember. The first as we flew eastbound skimming the waves over the Pacific between Momote and Rabaul when the tactical navigator sitting up front in the bomb-aimer position, spotted a lone outrigger canoe a few miles off Rabaul. It had a sail attached and the occupant was probably out there catching his family’s evening meal. This was too good an opportunity to miss and the radio altimeter eased steadily down to 100 feet as we bored in to show the flag for Australia, so to speak.

To our amazement, the fisherman dived overboard as we approached. Concerned that the slipstream might damage his frail craft, I banked the Lincoln at the last second and asked for a report from our rear gunner. He saw the fisherman surface next to his out-rigger and then we were gone. It later occurred to me that 14 years earlier, Rabaul and its surrounding waters had been a maelstrom of bombs and machine gun fire from low flying Japanese and American aircraft. The poor bloody fisherman, seeing a four engine bomber bearing down upon him, may have understandably thought that World War Three had started, and the baddies were out to get him.

My youthful immaturity on this trip surfaced again as we flew past Samurai Island, 30 miles from Milne Bay on the eastern tip of New Guinea. It could have ended in tragedy but for good fortune. During operational training exercises, ship sightings would be reported, which often necessitated us getting up close and personal to photograph the vessel concerned. This usually meant a fly-past at 500 ft parallel to the ship’s course while the signallers would take snaps with a large F51 hand-held camera and might even even try their luck at sending greetings in morse code using an Aldis lamp.

I fancied myself at ship identification and after the navigator picked up an echo on the radar I climbed a little then spotted a low shape streaming a long wake. Calling the crew to action stations, and having identified the ship as an Australian destroyer I decided that this was big game and that we should practice mock warfare. Opening the bomb doors, I opened up the power and increased speed toward the destroyer for a dummy torpedo attack. The Lincoln carried depth charges and torpedoes mainly for anti-submarine use, although in this case the bomb racks held four cargo panniers full of roofing tiles instead. The destroyer captain was not to know this of course, nor would he know our nationality. Normally, exercises with naval ships were well planned in advance, and the ships knew the games to play. My intention was to get in low for a quasi-legal beat up, wave madly at the sailors as we passed by and turn once again for home.

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USS Bowbell at high speed.

As we approached at 100 ft, the destroyer shape turned into a frigate and the massive bow wave indicated a surprising turn of speed. It then heeled over in a tight turn just before we roared over at mast height. A signaller on the left window look-out position of our Lincoln then spotted what appeared to be a battery of guns pointing straight at us and tracking our flight path. As we flashed overhead I was startled to see an American flag streaming from the masthead. The rear gunner was quick enough to read the name Bowbell on the ship’s stern.

I closed the bomb doors and pulled up into a steep climbing turn, showing the red, white and blue roundels under the wings. This time I came around for a slow fly-past for our cameras and saw the ship’s crew now on deck and all waving. We circled a few more times and waved back before departing once again for home. The whole episode troubled me, and I pondered the saying that fools step in where angels fear to tread. We sent a sighting report to the RAAF Area Guard facility in Sydney, describing the US ship, its course, estimated position and speed.

Not long after, we received a coded message that the ship was indeed the USS Bowbell and that it was heading to Singapore. Later we found out that US personnel were being threatened by political riots in Singapore and that the Bowbell was on a rescue mission. There was an added message from the captain saying that he had nearly mistaken our Lincoln for a rebel Indonesian bomber about to attack his ship and that he had almost shot us down. He had a good point of course, because understandably he would have been on instant alert at seeing a dirty great unidentified four engine bomber with open bomb doors boring in at 100 feet with seemingly warlike intentions.

I asked the signaller to acknowledge receipt of this message from Bowbell, but restrained myself from adding that if the Bowbell had shot at us, we would have retaliated by dropping our load of roofing tiles down his funnel! We heard nothing more of the episode, but I still have a prized close up photograph taken of the Bowbell at high speed.

A few days after the Bowbell incident, I flew a Lincoln to the RAAF Central Flying School at East Sale in order to renew my A2 grade instructors rating. That was done with Flight Lieutenant Ray Drury, a former Liberator pilot who in later years retired from the RAAF as a Group Captain. During the two days I stayed at East Sale, I managed to talk my way into a single seat Vampire Mk31 for some hack-flick-zoom practice, a Dakota for a few night circuits, finally returning home to Townsville in the Lincoln, well satisfied with life. They were truly the good old days.

[Centaurus]

In my career I have flown with many flying instructors, and like most pilots, I remember my first flight quite vividly. It was in a Lockheed Hudson flown by Captain Harry Purvis AFC, and which took place at Camden near Sydney in 1949. Harry was a highly experienced and well known pilot who had flown with Charles Kingsford Smith in the Southern Cross. I sat on the metal floor of the Hudson and suffered the pain of blocked ears because no one told me how to relieve the internal pressure. It was two years later before I had saved enough money to take my first dual trip in a Tiger Moth. The instructor had a thick European accent which was exacerbated by his bellowing unintelligable orders down the Gosport tube. The flight was a disaster and I didn't learn a thing.

Determined to learn to fly, I saved more money and had another go. This time the instructor was a kindly man called Bill Burns. Bill was a wartime pilot who had flown in New Guinea and now worked for Qantas as their flight safety manager. He sent me solo after eight hours of excellent instruction. Shortly after, I joined the RAAF to be a pilot, and it was during my early training that I first met Flight Lieutenant Sidney Gooding DFC. He had been a Lancaster pilot in World War 2, and after the surrender of Japan in 1945, had stayed in the RAAF, and was posted to Japan as part of the Allied Occupation forces. There he flew Mustangs and an occasional Spitfire. Later he flew Lincoln bombers against the communist terrorists in Malaya, after which he returned to Australia to become a QFI (qualified flying instructor).

The Korean war began to hot up in 1951 and as pilot recruiting increased, Sid, along with other experienced former wartime pilots, was posted to the instructional staff at RAAF Base Uranquinty near Wagga, in NSW. Uranquinty had been turned into a migrant reception area in the early post war years, and when in 1952 the decision was made to return the aerodrome to full Air Force control, it became No 1 BFTS (Basic Flying Training School.)

At the time, I was one of 45 trainee pilots on No 8 Post War Pilot's Course and after initial training at Point Cook and Archerfield, we were sent to Uranquinty in April 1952 to start our basic training on Tiger Moths and Wirraways. There, my instructor was Flight Sergeant Vernon Jackson, who had previously flown Dakotas. Vern was a real gentleman and a fine instructor who eventually retired many years later as a Group Captain. Fifty years later, we still keep in touch. There was a wealth of experience among these pilots with most having flown operational tours on Beaufighters, Bostons, and Mosquitos. Others had flown Liberators, Hudsons and Spitfires. Apart from the inevitable bad tempered instructor that is encountered sooner or later at all flying training establishments, including the airlines, we were fortunate to encounter dedicated and keen men who actually enjoyed instructing.

Besides flying, Sid Gooding gave class room lectures on airmanship. Our first impression was of a genial smiling man with a battered pipe and wry sense of humour. On his uniform was the purple and white striped ribbon of the Distinguished Flying Cross. We all wondered how he had won this decoration for bravery, but in those days it was not the done thing to ask. His officer's cap was set at a rakish angle and he looked entirely at ease. Conforming to RAAF discipline and good manners, the class stood up as he entered the room. He would thank us for the gesture and tell us to be seated. After introducing himself, Sid unfolded a large blueprint and pinned it to the blackboard. With a grave expression he then explained that he enjoyed inventing things, and that the blueprint was of a pair of steam driven roller skates, with a tiny firebox built into the heels and the wheels driven by pistons rather like a locomotive. To a stunned classroom of trainee pilots he went into the details of its design. This was far better than the dry formula of aerodynamics or the study of saturated adiabatic lapse rates, and Sid soon got our attention. Five minutes later, he put away his blueprint and talked about the real subject of his lecture, which was carburettor icing on Tiger Moths and Wirraways.

Each lecture would be preceded by the blueprint of yet another invention, before getting on to more serious matters such as cockpit drills, propeller swinging, thunderstorm penetration, engine handling and aircraft captaincy. One strange invention that Sid produced was a Phillips electric shaver head, manually operated via a flexible wire cable. The blueprint showed one end of the cable connected to the shaver, while the other end was attached to a large rubber sucker. Sid explained that while flying a Lincoln bomber, an inboard engine would be closed down, and the propeller feathered. As the aircraft slowed down, the cable would be cast out of a window and an attempt made to lassoo the sucker to the spinner of the stopped engine. If this was successful, the engine was restarted and the rotation of the spinner would allow the cable to turn the blades of the shaver, and on long flights the crew could all have a shave. To this day, I never knew if Sid was serious or having us on! But I do know that no one ever went to sleep in Sid's lectures, for fear of missing the good gen on airmanship or his inventions.

Each instructor was allotted four students, and those that had drawn Sid were indeed fortunate, as he proved to be kind and patient with the most backward students. In the back of our minds was the constant worry of being scrubbed from flying because of perceived lack of ability. Those unfortunates who failed flying tests, were posted away to undergo a navigator's course at East Sale, while others were discharged from the RAAF and sent to back civilian life. I was nineteen years old, and with no home and no job to return to, the prospect of being scrubbed was terrifying and made me work all the harder. But with a good instructor in the back seat and the willingness to burn the midnight oil, the chances of not making the grade were greatly reduced. Sid's students were usually successful, while Vern Jackson's expert tuition set the framework for my eventual graduation as a pilot. This was despite my next instructor at the Advanced Flying Training School at Point Cook who was a real screamer. However, fortune smiled upon me, and I received my wings in December 1952.

On one occasion I flew a Wirraway with Sid on a low level navigation exercise. We flight planned from Uranquinty to Tocumwal, which was a RAAF airfield on the NSW and Victoria border. In those days, the airfield was a vast storage depot for war surplus Mustangs, Liberators, and other types. Sid had done this trip with his other students, and having noticed the absence of guards around the base, he decided to liberate the navigator's astrodome on a Liberator (which I thought was a neat choice of words), and use it as punch bowl at home. We flew at 200 ft across the countryside and after landing, Sid disappeared armed with a crash axe and screwdriver. While I kept an eye open for roving guards, Sid found a suitable Liberator, and wary of red back spiders, carefully removed the astrodome. The immediate problem was where to stow it in the Wirraway. It was too bulky to fit through the fuselage access door, so one of us would have to hold it on our lap in flight. This was solved by Sid removing the instructor's detachable stick from the rear cockpit (which was normal procedure for solo flying from the front seat) and flying as a passenger, rather than as an instructor.

After clipping on his parachute, and settling awkwardly into the rear seat, he managed to wrap both arms around the precious astrodome and hold it on his knees. I strapped into the front seat and started the engine. With the rear control column stowed, Sid warned me that I was in command and for Christ's sake don't prang the aircraft, as there was no way he could take over control if something went wrong. This was a potential court martial offence, and so, probably, was the removal of an astrodome from Her Majesty's Liberator bomber! Sid, however, was determined to have his punch bowl.

The flight home at 200 feet was uneventful, and I had almost forgotten that Sid was aboard until a quiet voice from the rear seat exhorted me to land real carefully and try not to ground loop after touch-down. To our mutual relief, the landing was a smooth three-pointer on home turf, and afterwards Sid wrote in my hate sheet (student pilot progress report) that I was now qualified to carry out solo, low level navigation flights.

After graduation from Point Cook, I did a short spell on Mustangs and Vampires before being posted to fly Lincolns with No.10 Squadron at Townsville. The Lincoln was a more powerful version of the well known Lancaster four engine heavy bomber. Among the aircrew were veterans of bombing raids over Europe, including navigators, gunners and radio operators wearing the gold eagle badge of the Pathfinders. While collecting my tropical kit and parachute at the clothing store, I was surprised and delighted to run into Sid Gooding again. He had been with the squadron for a few months as the QFI and was responsible for the conversion of new crews to the Lincoln. He congratulated me on receiving my pilot's wings, and said I was on the roster to fly with him on the Anzac Day ceremonial flypast over several North Queensland towns.

When we met, he was exchanging a scorched and battered flying helmet and goggles for a new set. On seeing my raised eyebrows, he pointed across the airfield to the burnt out wreckage of a Lincoln bomber. Sid had been converting an experienced Dakota pilot and while demonstrating a landing with one propeller feathered, he got into difficulty when the aircraft drifted off the runway just before touch down. Sid decided to go around, and applied full power on the remaining three Rolls Royce engines. Even with full rudder applied he was unable to stop the Lincoln from yawing into the dead engine. He managed to keep it in the air for the next 20 seconds before the left wing tip hit a power pole and spun the huge aircraft into the ground. The three crew members aboard managed to escape from the wreckage before it went up in flames. Just before it blew up, Sid was about to return to the wreckage to find his wallet, which had dropped from his pocket as he ran. Fortunately, he had second thoughts on the matter, because 2000 gallons of fuel from the ruptured tanks ignited and the aircraft became an inferno. The only casualty was the radio operator who broke his nose during the final impact.

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Asymmetric Overshoot gone wrong

Sid returned to the scene of the accident the next day, and posed for the unit photographer. The photo was a classic. It reminded me of the scene of a lion hunter posing, rifle in hand, and with one foot placed triumphantly on the dead beast. In this case Sid had one foot on the wreckage of the Lincoln, his pipe in hand, and service cap jauntily tilted on his head. The caption was "All my own work ! ".

When I first arrived on the squadron I had 280 flying hours in my log book and the CO briefed me that I could expect to fly for 300 hours as a second pilot before being given a take-off or landing. At the end of that time, I would be checked out to fly in command on local flying. At a later stage I would be given my own crew (consisting of seven men) and become qualified to take part in anti-submarine operations. Contrast this with the major airlines where seniority ruled supreme and 15 years to first command was the norm.

While building hours on the Lincoln I flew with captains of varying abilities, but my favourite was Sid Gooding. In later years as an instructor I tried to model my own technique around his patient and laid back approach. His helpful attitude was in marked contrast to that of the many supercilious and pompous check captains that I encountered in my airline career.

Anzac Day 1953, and Sid and his crew (with myself as second dickey) got airborne in Lincoln A73-10, for a fly-past over North Queensland country towns. It would culminate in a low run down the main street of Cairns over the ranks of marching war veterans. Seconds after lift off, the starboard outer engine lost cooling glycol, and Sid asked me to feather the propeller. It was inconceivable that we should turn back and abandon the fly-pasts, and in any case RAAF reputation depended on our presence in the skies over North Queensland, on this day of national importance.

We flew over several country towns with No 4 engine feathered, finally passing low over the Cenotaph at Cairns, dead on time. Engine failures on the Lincolns were not unusual and I became quite used to flying with one engine stopped. One day Sid gave me the controls for take off. I was delighted to have a go, and managed to keep straight with much juggling of throttles and rudders. The Lincoln was a tail wheel aircraft, and therefore prone to swinging both on take off and landing. The technique was to lead with both port throttles until the rudders came effective, then increase to full power on all four engines. As the tail came up, gyroscopic forces acting through the propellers, were countered with judicious use of rudder. I had been used to this in the Mustang, so it was no big deal to keep the Lincoln straight down the runway. However, as this was my first take off in a Lincoln, Sid talked me around the circuit and with quiet encouragement also talked me through my first landing in this big bomber. It bounced a few times, but ran straight and I felt on top of the world.

In that era it was considered good manners to thank the captain for giving away the landing, although that old world courtesy seems to have disappeared in modern times. Certainly I never saw it happen in the airlines. As we taxied back to the tarmac, I thanked Sid for giving me the take off and landing. "That's quite alright, Sergeant", he replied -
"It was a pleasure".

The years passed, and I heard that Sid had left the RAAF to become a school teacher. Faced with the inevitable desk job, I too, regretfully left the RAAF after 18 happy years. The pages of my log books became filled with civilian flying hours, and on reaching age 60 I was faced with compulsory retirement from flying Boeings. To earn a crust, I renewed my instructor rating and did occasional work as a flight simulator instructor. Then from a colleague came the news that Sid had retired from teaching and lived in Numurkah in country Victoria. I found his address and was soon on the phone. His voice brought back happy memories of our flights together nearly forty years ago.

Sid was nearing 80, and his sight was fast fading. He welcomed my suggestion that I should fly up see him, saying that he would arranged a picnic for my arrival at a nearby airstrip. The next day was sunny, and I track crawled at 2000 ft to Numurkah. None of this one-in-sixty rule for me! Circling the airstrip, I could see two people with a car waiting in the shade of some trees. The wind was calm and the touch down slightly bouncy. After many hours on Boeings, I still had trouble nailing the round out in light aircraft. As I climbed from the Cherokee, I recognized Sid immediately. He looked younger than his real age, although by now his hair was white. Having said that, I felt conscious of my own balding head and middle aged spread. We talked of old times, and I mentioned that I had a photograph of him standing on the wreckage of his crashed Lincoln. He asked me to examine the photo closely to see if his wallet was there. I thought that with time, I must have imagined the story of Sid's wallet, but happily it was still true. .
[While Doreen his wife arranged the sandwiches and tea, I asked Sid how he had won the DFC. He said that he had been on a 1000 bomber night raid over Germany, when another Lancaster collided with his aircraft. With part of the right wing torn away, and the outboard engine demolished, Sid needed full rudder and aileron to hold height. He considered jettisoning his bombs and returning home, but realized that this meant flying back into the outbound bomber stream. A mid air collision was a certainty in the dark, so he decided it would be safer to continue to the target with his crippled Lancaster than risk a turn back. His big worry was that if a German night fighter locked on to him, he would be unable to take evasive action. In the event, he dropped his bombs on the target, and returned safely after flying seven hours with full control deflection. For this he was awarded the DFC.

As we talked, it was clear that his eyesight was bad, because he was unable to see the photographs that I brought with me. He told me that his wife read books to him, and sometimes he obtained talking books from a Melbourne library. The time came to say farewell, and on impulse, I asked Sid would he like to come on a short joy flight with me before I left for Melbourne. He was delighted with the idea, and after helping him on to the wing of the Cherokee, I soon had him strapped into the left seat. His wife politely declined my invitation, and told me quietly that Sid had hoped that I would offer to take him up.

There was no way that Sid could see the instruments clearly, although he could discern the horizon as a general blur between sky and ground. I started the engine, and after releasing the brakes, asked Sid to taxi the aircraft. By giving him general directions of left rudder for five seconds, right rudder for two seconds, now rudder central, we taxied to the end of the field and lined up for take off. I could see Doreen watching from the trees.

The Cherokee is a simple training aircraft, and with Sid at the controls I asked him if he was happy to do the take off. "Just keep an eye on me, and give me directions", he said, and off we went. I gave him a few minor corrections to keep straight and as we reached rotate speed, I called for him to place the nose just above the horizon. He flew by instinct and experience, holding the attitude just right.

He could not see either the altimeter or airspeed indicator, so I told him to level out while I set the throttle. He held attitude accurately despite seeing only a blur. His turn to downwind was smooth and beautiful to watch, and I found myself going back in time when I had watched Sid execute a perfect asymmetric circuit after we had lost the engine on Anzac day in 1953. I asked him could he see the airstrip now on his left. He had no hope, he said. Would he like to do the approach and landing, I said. He said he would happy to give it a go, but would need steering directions on final. By this time we had gone a fair way downwind, and I lost sight of the grass strip behind us. Talk about the blind leading the blind!

In the RAAF, we used to practice GCA's. These were ground radar controlled approaches, sometimes known as a talk down. The controller sat in a radio truck and guided the aircraft down his screen. As the aircraft came over the threshold, the radar controller would say " Touch down, touch down - NOW," and seconds later the wheels would hit the runway. Very effective in thick fog, but unreliable in heavy rain due attenuation of the radar screen. Today there was no fog or rain - just a fine sunny afternoon and perfect for a GCA. But first I had to locate the strip again.

http://i2.photobucket.com/albums/y25/HSWL/SydGoodingandJL.jpg
Syd Gooding DFC and JL after landing at Nurmurka NSW


I told Sid I would talk him down like a GCA controller using RAAF terminology with which we were both familiar. He had flown radar controlled approaches in Mustangs and Spitfires, so he was no stranger to the technique. Sure, he lacked currency after forty years but he could still pick an attitude despite being partially blind.
His circuit height was remarkably accurate as I asked him to add more or less power to maintain cruise airspeed. Finally I spotted the strip and turned Sid onto long final. He held the nose attitude admirably as I gave him heading instructions to keep the airstrip dead ahead. I warned him of the trim change with lowered flaps, which he fixed with the trim wheel after a little groping. I told him that when round out was imminent, I would call him to flare and close the throttle. From experience he knew the rate at which to keep coming back on the wheel during hold off. Any problems, and I would take over control. Thirty seconds to round out, and I could see Doreen walk from the shade of the trees to watch the landing. I think she knew that Sid would be on the controls..

"Five, four, three, two, one and flare NOW, Sid " I called, and held my breath, hands close to the controls. "Six inches above the grass, Sid - hold it there." Sid held off beautifully then greased it, maintaining the aircraft right down the centre of the strip. I asked him to apply the brakes gently and as we slowed down I took control for the 180 turn. We taxied back to the trees and shut down the engine. After the propeller had stopped and I switched off the ignition, my mind went back in time to when Sid had given me my first landing in a Lincoln. I was glad that I could return the favour, albeit forty years later. For me it was a touching moment, and while Sid happily told his wife about his landing, I busied myself with a walk around before departure. Then we shook hands and said our farewells. As I settled into the cockpit of the Cherokee, Sid touched me on the shoulder and said, "Thanks for the landing, John".
"That's alright, Sid, " I replied -- " It was a pleasure".

[Fantome]

In 1954 PG Taylor (Sir Gordon) bought a Short Sandringham flying boat in England and ferried her out to Sydney so as to do charters throughout the South Pacific as far east as Tahiti. He paid 20,000 pounds which was about one tenth of her value six years before when she was due to go into airline service but the increase in landplane services resulted in her going into mothballs instead. Through the Australian government he managed to get the charter out of Malta to Sydney of twenty-five Australian servicemen and their wives going home on maternity leave.

Not to decry in the slightest Centaurus's flare for capturing the essence of flight and fliers, here is a sample of PG Taylor at his most lyrical, for contrast, if you like. In his book about his years with the Sandringham (which he christened 'Frigate Bird 111') he described the take-off from Malta graphically -

"Heading back for the north-east corner of the bay with engines idling, holding a steady course down wind, I sought out the far corner of the deep water as a point to start the take-off. I had gone out in the crash-boat to check the depths in this corner and had found that an extra hundred yards could be used with enough water under the keel by coming in close to the brown stain of the shoal, turning short to port, and immediately coming up to wind. It was a close thing, and not part of the approved operating area, but I had lined up marks ashore to locate the aircraft safely in this area. It gave valuable extra yards of take-off run before the swells at the mouth of the bay.

She moved on down by the leading marks, but as we approached the corner the water was clear enough to locate the bank, so I let her go on with with the starboard float just clearing the edge. Then with the the shoal coming up close ahead I drew off all throttles but number four (the starboard outer, that is.). She slid quietly round, then, as she came up to wind, I came in with the port outer's throttle, all set to go, initially on the outer engines. As she began to rise up on the bow-wave I followed through with the inners as soon as the propellors were clear of the heavy water. She really began to go. I left the power now to our co-pilot, Harry Purvis. From the corner of my eye I saw his reliable hand against the throttle levers. I looked now only ahead to the open sea. She roared and thundered and blasted the water, and as Harry fed her the full take-off power, I felt the great surge from within her.

She was heavy and fighting hard in the beginning, but in a few hundred yards she started to go. Over the bow -wave, she straightened down . The hull was planing as the wing began to accept a part of the load. I held her, singing loud and clear and running free on the water, gathering speed as I watched the swell line coming in. A flash thought to the final decision. If in any doubt we must shut off now to stop before the rough water.

The thought passes as the aircraft acquires a new freedom beyond this point of no return. Committed now, I keep her level; a little touch on the tail trim; a glance at the ASI reading. Now she is really going, blowing the water from under the keel; but the swell is closing in, great heaving impulses from the sea rolling in, denying her further passage upon the water.

Now it must be the air. Another backward touch on the tail trim to balance her out, and I feel the elevator on the control column. I could drag her off, protesting, but I do not want her to go that way. There is still margin for those extra knots that will let her come away cleanly and in good shape.

I hold her now with terrific exhilaration as I know she will respond. The first swell is almost on the nose. It is time for her to go. I apply steady backward pressure to the control column and lift her away from the sea. She leans forward heavily onto the air to pick up speed for easy flight. I see the swells of the Mediterranean passing in another world without effect below her nose. "

Ten days after that departure from Malta, 'Frigate Bird 111' (VH-APG) put down on Sydney Harbour to be brought ashore at Rose Bay and made ready for her first 'Cruisebird' charter to Tahiti. Today if you want to see her you have to go to Le Bourget, to the Musee de L'Air.

VH-APG was a genuine double decker with a curving staircase, rather stylish furnishings and seating for 36 passengers. The main entrance was on the starboard side, aft. Inside the door a little entrance hall led to a choice of three directions you could go. To the left was the aftermost cabin for five people with a door to the cavernous cargo hold further aft. Ahead the curved staircase led to the upper deck with seats for about fourteen. This cabin ran forward as far as the rear main spar. This meant that the front row of seats had virtually no view outside. It was a poor design feature. Other fit-outs on other Sandringhams had this space as a galley. Turning right on entering the boat a few steps led down to into the bar. This was an elegant little curved walnut affair that fitted more or less under the stairs. Forward of this were two more cabins, plus the galley and toilet. From the foremost cabin there was access to the bow and a ladder to the flight-deck. In the mooring compartment in the bow were stowed anchor, drogues, mooring bollard, fog bell and other nautical paraphenalia.

Today, if you want to see any four-engined flying boat in Australia, you can't. Stupidly, disgracefully, we let the last one go in 1974.

[Centaurus]

Back in 1953, No 2 RAAF Operational Training Unit (OTU) at Williamtown was a budding fighter pilot’s paradise. It was there I learned to fly Mustangs and single seat Vampires. Regretfully my gunnery results were unable to match my youthful enthusiasm and I quickly found myself packed off to Townsville the home base of No 10 (Maritime Reconnaissance) Squadron. My despondency at having failed the fighter course turned to delight when I discovered a single Mustang sharing the tarmac with several Lincolns, a Dakota and a Wirraway. The Mustang ‘s serial number was A68-113 and while it was used for fighter affiliation (mock combat) with the Lincolns, its main purpose was to tow drogues at which Lincoln air gunners fired cannon and machine guns. Perhaps because it only flew a few hours each month, 113 seemed to spend most of the time with its cowls on the hangar floor and a maintenance sheet full of irritating snags such as hydraulic and glycol coolant leaks.

http://i2.photobucket.com/albums/y25/HSWL/MustangoverTVL113.jpg
Sergeant Centaurus in Mustang 113 at Townsville

The Lincoln was a heavy bomber powered by 4 Rolls Royce Merlin liquid cooled engines. It was armed with twin 0.5-inch calibre machine guns in the nose and tail turrets, and a pair of 20mm cannon in the mid upper turret on top of the fuselage. It was essentially a larger version of the wartime Avro Lancaster, with a fully loaded weight of 37,000 kgs and a crew of seven.
http://i2.photobucket.com/albums/y25/HSWL/CFSLincoln001.jpg
Up close and personal to the Lincoln

For air gunnery practice, the Mustang would line up for take off while ground staff attached the drogue and 100 yards of cable to a stanchion near the right wing tip. This installation ensured the cable stayed well clear of the tail surfaces. Normally the rudder trim was set to the right to allow for engine torque but with significant drag to the right caused by the drogue, it was better to set the rudder trim to neutral. In cruise the drag of the drogue required almost full left rudder trim to compensate. A power setting of 58 inches manifold pressure was sufficient for take off; the aircraft being light with no ammunition or bombs aboard. After the rendezvous over the bombing range at Rattlesnake Island 10 miles from the Townsville coastline, the Lincoln and Mustang would fly in open formation 500 yards apart. The Mustang would then accelerate and the Lincoln gunners would open fire at the moving drogue.

Scheduled for a gunnery exercise the next day, a Lincoln mid upper gunner approached me over a beer in the Sergeant's Mess to discuss tactics. He had been an air gunner on Halifax bombers over Europe during the war and this being his last trip before retiring from the RAAF he was keen to break the squadron record for hits on the target drogue.

It would make his task easier, he said - if I could position the drogue close to the muzzles of his twin cannons. By this he meant a formation spacing of 100 yards instead of the usual 500 yards. Now Blind Freddy couldn't miss the target at that close range, but a few free beers convinced me that I could indeed help out an old airman achieve his ambition.

The next morning after the guns on the Lincoln were loaded, cannon shells and machine gun bullets were tipped with coloured paint. If the bullets hit the target coloured marks would appear show up where they passed through and as each gunner knew the colour of his ammunition, several gunners could blaze away at the target at the same time. When the ammunition was used up, the Mustang would return to Townsville and jettison the drogue on the runway. The bullet holes and their colour would be checked and scores allotted to each gunner.

By the time the Mustang was airborne with the drogue in tow, the Lincoln was already circling the gunnery range at 160 knots and 5000 ft. Within a few minutes I was in position several hundred yards off the starboard wing tip of the Lincoln. At the same time, the Lincoln gunners reported their guns were armed, their turrets swivelling to track the drogue 100 yards behind me. The Mustang is very sensitive in yaw to power changes and with the heavy pull of the drogue and cable on the right wing, plus throttle jockeying to maintain formation, I was forced to continually adjust the rudder trim which was already full scale left.

As agreed over beers the night before, I slid the Mustang in close until I could clearly see the faces of the rear and top gunners looking at me over the barrels of their guns. The top gunner with the two 20mm cannons gave me a sly thumbs up, and with gloved hand motioned me to come closer. I shook my head indicating that 100 yards range was already stretching the friendship!

Now the time had come to draw ahead until the drogue was abeam of the Lincoln. All I had to do was position 100 yards ahead and fly straight and level while looking over my left shoulder to keep the bomber in sight. This was relatively easy when at 500 yards range, but was literally a pain in the neck now.

The Lincoln pilot ordered firing to commence and all guns opened up. One minute later firing ceased and I was ordered to return to base to drop the drogue on the runway. I had just pulled up and away from the Lincoln when the pilot relayed a request from the mid upper gunner for one more pass. One of his guns had jammed and after clearing the stoppage he had a few more rounds remaining. This was to be his last shot at the record before he ran out of ammunition.

This was no problem, and I swung around behind the Lincoln to repeat the exercise. The Lincoln pilot was in on the plot, and allowed me to sneak in closer than usual. This would ensure that the old gunner would get certain hits, which if the record was broken would surely bring its own reward of free grog in the Sergeant's Mess that night. From 50 yards off the Lincoln’s wingtip I drew ahead allowing the drogue to settle directly abeam the big bomber and its gun happy crew. The Lincoln pilot now flew formation on my aircraft as I was unable to get a clear view of the aircraft behind my left shoulder. The yellow drogue was already riddled with holes, and bullet damaged pieces of fabric snapped in the slipstream.

I had just made one last adjustment to the rudder trim when the Lincoln pilot ordered the gunner to open fire. The noise of the Mustang's Rolls Royce engine drowned out the heavy banging of the twin cannons, but a second later I had the fright of my life when the Mustang skidded full scale left into half a barrel roll. Instinctively I hauled back on the stick to get well above the Lincoln, and squawked over the radio that some idiot had shot away my rudder.

After resuming level flight clear of the Lincoln I gingerly wound off yards of rudder trim until the Mustang was in balanced flight. A glance at the starboard wing showed 100 yards of whipping steel cable, but no drogue. The wire was a real danger, so I quickly jettisoned it into the sea.

Behind me, the Lincoln crew had seen the drogue shot away, and nearly wet themselves with laughter at the sight of the Mustang corkscrewing around the sky. The mid upper gunner, however, was most unhappy at the loss of the drogue and with it any proof of the accuracy of his shots. From point blank range, the cannon shells had literally blasted the drogue to pieces. One shell had cleanly severed the towing cable, releasing the drogue to flutter into the sea. With full rudder trim applied and my feet resting only lightly on the pedals, the lack of compensating drag from the missing drogue had caused the Mustang to take up an uncontrolled hard skid. This converted swiftly into roll towards the Lincoln before I could correct it.

That night, his colleagues in the Sergeants Mess unmercifully ragged the old gunner. There was no doubt that he had scored many hits with his shells, but he would never be able to prove it. I was carpeted by the Commanding Officer for flying too close to the Lincoln for safety and with not a leg to stand on was placed on Orderly Sergeant duties for a week as punishment for my lack of airmanship.

Soon after, Mustangs were phased out of squadron service to be replaced by Vampires. Orders came through to return 113 to storage somewhere in NSW. The Commanding Officer did his best to convince Headquarters that for the prestige of the RAAF in North Queensland, the aircraft should remain with the squadron. He had flown Spitfires during the war, and enjoyed nothing more than to get out of the office, throw on a parachute and do aerobatics in 113 plus a little low flying of course. The decision by Top Brass was final, and after long term storage A68-113 was finally sold to civilian interests where over the years it changed hands several times. The last owner was a British racing car driver who purchased the aircraft in 1962. Now registered as G-ARUK the Mustang was to be used to break the Australia to England speed record for a single engine aircraft.

On 12th April 1962, the Mustang departed Moorabbin for Bankstown for radio modifications prior to the record breaking attempt. I was living in Melbourne at the time and heard a news flash on the local radio station that an aircraft had crashed at Kallista in the Dandenong Ranges. I drove towards the area, passing an ambulance coming from the accident scene.

Rounding a curve in low mist and drizzly rain, I came across the still smouldering wreckage of a red and black painted aeroplane. I had seen enough aircraft crashes during the war to know that this one had gone in at high speed. The tail was scorched, but recognizable as belonging to a Mustang. I felt an overwhelming sadness at the death of a pilot and this once beautiful machine. At that stage I had no idea of the past history of that particular crashed aircraft.

Many years later I decided to write a story about flying old A68-113 and rang a friend of mine who was an aviation historian. I told him of the fun I had throwing this beautiful aircraft all over the Townsville skies and did he happen know where it was now?

Over the telephone I heard him turning the pages of a book. Sorry to tell you this, he said...but a British racing car driver bought A68-113 in 1962. He was on his way to Bankstown, when he flew into cloud near the village of Kallista in Dandenong Ranges....
He never came out the other side.

[sheppey]

www.aviationadvertiser.com.au (http://www.aviationadvertiser.com.au) published the following review by Paul Phelan, of Tall Tails of the South Pacific:
. .
Aviation’s storytellers have always been one of life’s finest gifts to those of us who never took the trouble to write it all down.Their product ranges from the hilarious aviation adventures recounted in AeroClub bars, to the output of raconteurs who’ve actually been there, seen it all,and (happily) preserved big chunks of it on paper.

Many a modern airline pilot’s career is launched before age 20. The pressure is on from Day One to build airline-related qualifications,and there’s little time to soak up the broader aviation environment or even to interface with its history and its myths. That’s a shame because to know and understand aviation in our region as it is today, is to appreciate how it all came together. And quite a lot of today’s intricate safety awareness, systems and ethos were developed the hard way – learning by experience.

It’s therefore thanks to people like John Laming, who must have complied a mountain of detailed notes right throughout his colourful career, that today’s young pilots can reach back in time and appreciate the rich variety of events that shaped today’s more orderly aviation environment. There are plenty of people still in aviation who have similar backgrounds to Laming’s, but very few have chosen to document it.

As a kid in England during WW2, Laming dreamed in school of the Pacific’s “South Sea Islands” while also observing a lot of aviation at close hand; watching random wartime combat events from behind sandbags or other suitable hides. But it wasn’t until he arrived in Australia as a young immigrant in 1947 that he became aviation-involved. Working for an operator at Camden, he also learned to fly in a Tiger Moth, joined the RAAF in 1951, and flew (among others) P-51 Mustangs, Vampires, Lincoln bombers, Dakotas, and VIP Convair440s, Vickers Viscounts and HS748s.

It’s quite revealing that in those days even at the level of government VIP flying, an aircraft type rating was pretty much a matter of studying the flight manual and pilot’s handbook and then jumping into the aeroplane with a more experienced pilot and flying it. He makes life in the postwar RAAFsound like fun as well as giving satisfaction for a job well done.

And all along, Laming either kept a lot of notes or has a total recall.

Looking down the barrel of a non-flying staff job he left the RAAF after 18 years service – a long time for a post-war aviator – and made the transition to civil aviation. First came seven years flying with the (then) Department of Civil Aviation in the airways unit and accident investigation work, before a move into commercial aviation where he found himself in theSouth Sea Islands he’d dreamed about.

During those colourful years Laming flew Fokker F28s and early-model Boeing 737s around the Pacific in one of the world’s most challenging operational environments. Challenging because of the turbulent blend of long sectors, dodgy navaids, forecasts and communications, none-too-long runways, adhoc management decisions and Melanesian office politics. At one South Pacific airline I once saw a comment on the crew room notice board: “Things are so confused here that people are going around stabbing one another in the chest! ”Pilots who’ve been there will be familiar with that scenario, which is often more focused on tribal nepotism and internecine politics than on basic air safety tenets.

That kind of flying has always attracted pilots whose individualism led them away from the day-to-day grind of more conventional airline flying and they, along with their opposite numbers in engineering, have always been the cement that’s held most of the small Pacific states’ airlines together. Laming’s book is prolific in examples.

Thirteen years in the tropics, then back to Europe flying holiday charter jets, before Laming came to rest back in Melbourne flying GA charter and safety consultancy passing on his wealth of experience as a flying and simulator instructor and in aviation safety consulting.

But his note-keeping habit never wavered.

Tall Tails Of The South Pacific offers several attractions for the reader whose interest is the broader background to our aviation scene.It comprehensively brings together clear images of early postwar military,government, airline and general aviation in a single well-detailed canvas. The whole book – all the military and all the civil flying – is richly peppered with operational incident and events including close shaves and accidents, and also names, many of them well-known and some quite famous. Being written first-hand and with convincing detail, it draws humorous incidents entertainingly, and the related yarns help us to understand better what shaped Australasia’s 21st century aviation environment .

That environment continues to change almost daily according to corporate, industrial, regulatory and political pressures, and any young and aspiring pilot in these times will benefit from a deeper understanding of how the aviation industry reached its present condition – and of what needs to keep happening, to straighten the path ahead.

Tall Tails Of The South Pacific – John Laming

[tail wheel]

Centaurus, who has a long and illustrious career as a military and civil pilot and instructor and is the author of an excellent book, has agreed to post interesting excerpts from his memoirs here.

Please keep comments to a minimum.

[maxgrad]

The man is a true gentleman and the recalling of his history a gem.
I had the pleasure of sitting at a flying school lunch table time after time listening in awe to his history.
I dearly hope that young pilots with their heads in airline mode get a chance to read and then really take in the worth of this man's information.

[Aye Ess]

Hey,Centaurus.....two weeks ago as I was reading your book I was painting this artwork. Recognise the island? It was a coincidence that I was commissioned to paint this as a farewell gift for a retiring 'Our Airline' pilot.

http://i1032.photobucket.com/albums/a401/alan_spears/VH-INU.jpg?t=1341629857

[Centaurus]

Aye Ess. What a lovely painting. The scenery brings back lots of happy memories. Thanks for sharing it.
Cent

[Centaurus]

FIRST ENCOUNTERS .

It all started with Captain Lamb and Dick Nye in 1939, the year that World War 2 began. I was seven years old and lived with an old uncle and aunt who took care of me while my father was at war. We lived in a lovely house called “The Oaks” situated on the edge of Angley Woods near the village of Cranbrook in that beautiful part of England called Kent. My Uncle Alf, a veteran from the first world war of 1914-18, had built the house practically single handed, despite being crippled in one leg by machine gun fire from a Turkish soldier during the battle for Beerasheba.

Old Alf – he was all of 55 in those days – took me to meet Captain Lamb, a retired sea captain who lived down the road in a small cottage with a lovely hawthorn hedge and a garden full of roses. As Alf and the captain talked in the garden, I peeped through the bay windows of his charming Kentish cottage and saw a model of a sailing ship inside a bottle standing on top of a weathered mahogany writing desk. Wandering around the back of the house I stood on tip-toes and peered through another window and spotted a portrait of the old captain dressed in uniform, with a telescope under his arm and four stripes on his sleeve. He looked younger than now but tall and handsome with a trim beard. Nowadays of course the picture would not be complete without a pair of aviator sunnies… The background of the portrait showed a three masted clipper in full sail. Out in the front garden, Alf and the trim bearded captain with his white hair and startlingly blue eyes, talked of the gathering war clouds.

Each day as I passed by the captain’s house on the way school, he would give me a wave and a smile as he acknowledged my polite schoolboy good morning. Once after he had asked me how old I was I privately guessed his own age as being somewhere Before Christ (BC). When I overheard my uncle telling my aunt that the captain was born around 1870, I realized that my judgement of age was a bit out. Either way, he was to me indeed the Ancient Mariner.

The primary school that I attended was run by the stern Mrs Wheatcroft. This formidable old biddy brooked no nonsense from the fifty or so small children that attended her school. She wielded a mean wooden ruler with which to discipline any child that lacked manners or who dared answer her back in class. Teaching French, she would emphasize the use of the grave and acute accents, by swishing the ruler with a downwards cutting motion from right to left saying that this is how you remember which direction the symbol of the accent went – adding darkly it would be the same motion she would take when hitting us with the ruler across the palm of the hand if we got it wrong. I never did, after that.

The model of the ship in the bottle fascinated me - as did the model aircraft that belonged to my friend Dick Nye. Dick was one year older than me and I first met him when my uncle, who knew Dick’s father, prevailed upon him to show me the way to school until I was confident enough to go solo. Dick lived in a house called “The Gardens” at the end of a narrow road bordered by a line of majestic English Oak and Poplar trees. In 1940 those trees camouflaged British tanks hidden under cover, waiting to repel the threatened Nazi invasion of England following the British defeat at Dunkirk.

His parents owned a red Morris Eight saloon car that had leather upholstery. The aroma was wonderful. Dick had an air-gun, an older brother who teased him unmercifully, and among other goodies a Frog plastic model kit of a Miles Magister. On the roof of his parent’s house, Dick’s brother John, who was eleven, had built a hide-away from where he would sit and watch the skies for enemy aircraft. I thought he was frightfully brave.

Dick thought his brother was just plain stupid and they squabbled endlessly when John refused his brother access to his cubby house on the roof. In later years Dick grew up to be a bank manager and I became a pilot. I don’t know what happened to John or the cubby house. But I shall always be grateful to Dick for showing me how to build my first model aeroplane and to that ancient mariner Captain Lamb for revealing to me the beauty and romance of the tall ships.

Shortly before war started, my mother became very ill with tuberculosis – in those days a terminal disease. During one of my visits to see her in hospital she gave me a Dinky toy aeroplane. It was the Short S.20 and S.21 Mayo and Mercury Composite, and consisted of a large four engined flying boat with a smaller four engined float plane attached piggy back on top. Today the same model is a rare collector’s item and worth a small fortune. Sadly my mother’s last gift to me was stolen from my desk at school a few years later.

In my study among other treasured books, are two rare volumes of the book Shipping Wonders of the World. I found them at a garage sale a few years ago and purchased them for $20 each. Each has over 900 pages of text and illustrations of long gone sailing and steam ships. The first chapter starts with the lines “The story of the sea is not drawn from musty libraries, but from the song of the wind in the rigging and the crash of the bow cleaving the wave”.

All very romantic I suppose and if Captain Lamb had been alive today he would have treasured those books as well. Apart from a six weeks journey by ship from England to Australia when my family migrated in 1947, my most memorable experience of the sea was hurling my heart out for three hours in Port Philip Bay during a yacht race where I came along as an observer. The skipper was an airline pilot who achieved fame as an international yachtsman. At the time we both worked in desk jobs in the Department of Civil Aviation. He had flown Boeing 707’s with South African Airways and migrated to Australia in 1970.

Over one of the interminable coffee breaks which was a characteristic of those frustrated pilots that were employed to run DCA, I had shown an interest in learning to sail a one man yacht in a large local pond. An offer was made for me to learn the ropes, so to speak, and my desk mate took me out on a triangular fifteen-yacht race on Port Philip Bay. There were four crewmembers on our yacht. The weather was appalling with wind gusts to 35 knots and heavy seas. Wisely, most of the other yachts pulled out of the race leaving three idiots to battle it out. Despite having swallowed numerous seasickness tablets, I was crippled with pain from vomiting but the show went on for four hours of hell until the last yacht, HMS Ulysses I declare, entered the haven of Brighton Mariner. Never ever have I been tempted to yacht again. I may admire cute little ships in bottles but that’s as far as I go.

And now in the twilight of my life I often reminisce on the good old days. Feet up in my warm study, my eyes rest on the various model aircraft in a glass showcase next to the bookshelf. Soon I doze off. And my mind wanders back in time to when I first saw each one of these aircraft. Take the Spitfire, for instance.

http://i2.photobucket.com/albums/y25/HSWL/DisplayCase001.jpg

June 1940. It was summer in England. Massed formations of German bombers and their escorting fighters on their bombing runs to London flew high over my village in Kent. The sky seemed full of white contrails – some circular – others in straight lines of close formation. The Battle of Britain had started. I was eight years old and walking in Cranbrook village when I heard the unmistakable noise of a Merlin engine and then a long burst of machine-gun fire. Looking up between St Dunstan’s church and its surrounding beech trees I saw a Messerschmitt 109 on fire with a Royal Air Force Spitfire closing rapidly behind. The Spitfire pilot took careful aim and fired several more short bursts into the doomed enemy aircraft. At each burst, fresh gouts of flame would appear from the engine of the Messerschmitt and it started into a gentle dive. The pilot must have been dead at the controls, as the aircraft never attempted to evade the Spitfire. A few seconds later and both aircraft passed out of view. Later it was revealed that the Messerschmitt had crashed a few miles away.

There is a Heinkel He111 in the corner of the show case. It has two bombs slung underneath the fuselage and the squadron identification V4-M. It has black and white crosses on the wings and a menacing swastika on the tail. I had seen lots of German bombers at high altitude – massed formations of silver dots sending out a unsychronised beat from their Daimler Benz and BMW engines which was quite scary especially at night. When the Germans flew at 15,000 feet above Kent you needed binoculars to spot the differences between Heinkels and Dorniers, although even at my tender age I knew from pictures the obvious difference between the two types.

My first Heinkel did not carry two bombs under its belly (they had probably been jettisoned) and I didn’t see the identification number but it certainly had two big crosses on its wings and the trademark swastika on its tail. My uncle and I were manning a Royal Observer Corps post watching for enemy aircraft when this Heinkel appeared just above a nearby wood, and going like a bat for hell in the direction of for France. One propeller was turning over slowly, the other at high rpm and a thin trail of black smoke from its exhaust. I was mesmerized at the sight of a real enemy bomber close up and personal. My uncle blazed away at it with an old Lee-Enfield rifle but must have missed by a mile. By now, the Heinkel was down to 200 feet and just holding height. Within seconds he was out of sight.

One day I must find a Dornier 217 for my show case. The one I saw in 1943 had me tossed. The air-raid siren had sounded and like most English school boys, I ignored it. Having heard sirens daily for the past three years and so far I hadn’t been killed, made one dangerously complacent. A few minutes after the warning, I had a head-on view of a twin engine, twin tailed aircraft streaking at low level towards the railway marshalling yards at Tonbridge. I was pretty good at aircraft identification in those days and wondered why an Avro Manchester was so far south when most of the RAF bomber bases were 100 miles north of our town. When suddenly the aircraft steep turned to follow the main London to Dover railway line I realized my aircraft identification was dead wrong this time. The Avro Manchester and Dornier 217 had similar profiles except the sight of more black crosses, swastika’s and a salvo of 100 kilogram bombs tumbling from open bomb doors, convinced me that this was a Dornier looking for trouble.

There was a burst of machine gun fire from somewhere on the aircraft and then a series of large explosions as the bombs straddled the railway yards. Then the Dornier done gone, as the busty Dolly Parton would surely have said! A few minutes later an RAF Beaufighter snorted over the town at low level obviously chasing the Dornier. I didn’t trust my aircraft identification skills anymore and hid behind a bush until the Beaufighter had disappeared in the distance.

Now to the Thunderbolt. It’s a big single engine fighter designed in USA and first used by the United States Army Air Force against the Germans around 1944. They were easily confused with the German Focke-Wulfe 190 fighter and there were several instances of Thunderbolts being shot down by friendly fire. Again, I had seen many Mustangs and Thunderbolts at high altitude escorting B17 Flying Fortresses to and from bombing raids into Europe. However my first close up view of a Thunderbolt was one that I hope never to repeat.

It was late 1945 and the war was over. The only aircraft over my little part of the world, were friendlies. That day it was misty and overcast as I was walked back from school in Tonbridge. There had been aircraft heard flying overhead all day – all unseen because of the mist. Then came a terrifying sound of an aircraft in a terminal dive and very close. I had heard the same sound many times during the war. In those days it was the sound of a mortally wounded Allied or enemy aircraft.

It was then that I saw a Thunderbolt spinning down vertically in flames and with one wing missing. My guess now, was the cloud base was about 1500 feet. Less than a mile away another aircraft was also going down and there was a parachute gently descending towards the green English countryside. The Thunderbolt disappeared from my view and shortly afterwards there was an explosion and black smoke rising from nearby woods. I grabbed my bike and a friend and I pedalled furiously in the direction of the noise of an ambulance speeding past the Vauxhall Inn towards the village of Pembury. We arrived breathless and leaving our bikes on the side of Pembury Road, ran through the woods towards the sound of fire and people shouting. Bullets were going off in all directions and yet we were not scared – just horrified at the sight of the wreckage of the silver Thunderbolt engulfed in flames. Fire fighters were there as was the ambulance, but there was little to save.

There is a Lockheed Hudson perched on an ash-tray in my study. It is there because my first flight was a Hudson, registration VH-SMK. The pilot was a well known Australian pioneer airman named Captain Harry Purvis AFC. While Harry died over thirty years ago, VH-SMK died on a hill overlooking Camden aerodrome on a drizzling New Year’s Day in 1950. It had stalled on take off, killing both crew members. One of those pilots was my idol in those days. A swashbuckling young pilot called Dick Cruickshanks. He was only 24. By eerie coincidence, another of my best friends met his maker in almost the same spot 53 years later. This time the aircraft was a Duchess and the cause of his accident appears to have been a practice engine failure at night gone horribly wrong.

Harry Purvis had flown with Sir Charles Kingsford Smith – or “Smithy”, as he was better known to the Australian public in 1934. In 1948, I was a 17 year old general hand working at Camden aerodrome. The Sydney Morning Herald newspaper operated a DC3 and a couple of Lockheed Hudsons on newspaper deliveries to various destinations in NSW. My job was to load the papers and dispatch the aircraft each night.

Harry Purvis was the SMH Flying Services manager and he employed several ex wartime RAAF pilots to fly the freight. One day, a test flight was required following an engine change on one of the Hudsons. Harry invited several of the ground staff along for the flight and I jumped at the opportunity. Without sound proofing, the Hudson was incredibly noisy inside the cabin and I spent most of the 15 minute test flight covering my ears, while looking in wonder through the windows at the green countryside far below. A few weeks later I sat in the co-pilot’s of VH-SMK with Dick Cruickshanks, as he ferried the aircraft from Camden to Sydney single pilot, prior to a freight run that evening.

Earlier, I told him that I wanted to join the RAAF as a pilot – just like he had been. I think he must have looked at my scruffy appearance and pondered my future before saying to me that I would never make a pilot. Poor Dick was killed a few weeks later in the same Hudson that we had flown together, and two years later in December 1952 I graduated as a RAAF pilot….

Among other exotic aircraft my display case contains a Japanese Zero, Lockheed Lightning, Boeing 737, Lancaster, and the Sea Fury. I first saw a Sea Fury – in fact lots of them – at the Royal Australian Naval Air Base at Nowra in NSW. They, along with several Fireflies, were lined up on the tarmac when I landed there in a Lincoln bomber in 1954. I had flown Mustangs previously and therefore was used to flying a high performance fighter. But the Sea Fury was something else. It was significantly larger and heavier than a Mustang and at one stage was the fastest piston engined fighter in the world.

During a free day from an anti-submarine course I was attending at Nowra, I wandered down to the flight line and sat in the cockpit of a Sea Fury. I marveled at the height of the tiny cockpit above the ground. After the local RAN flight commander discovered that I had flown Mustangs (actually he didn’t really discover as such – I merely mentioned the fact while trying to impress him) he very kindly offered a Sea Fury for me to fly that afternoon. Hesitating less than a nano second, I took him up on this once-in-a-lifetime offer. Thus on 20th October 1953 I flew my first flight in a Sea Fury.
Apart from some minor drama trying to close the canopy after take-off and losing my flying goggles overboard in the process, and then nearly flick-stalling while attempting a limit turn to avoid another aircraft (actually it was a squashed bug on the windscreen which I mistook for a fast closing fighter), and then a heavy landing because I was given wrong advice on airspeed by a snotty nose Sub-Lieutenant, the flight went without a hitch. That first Sea Fury flight of mine was unforgettable for many reasons.

Which leads on to my first sight of a Lancaster. There were a thousand or more Lancasters in England when I was there during the war, but strangely enough I do not recall actually having seen one. So the first time I saw one was in 1953. Actually, it was a Lincoln – previously known as the Lancaster Mk 4 – but later the name was changed.
I had been posted to No 10 Squadron RAAF Townsville to fly as a copilot on Lincolns.
I had seen a Flying Fortress and a Liberator close up – in fact both had belly-landed at an emergency airfield called Penshurst near where I lived in Kent. But the Lincoln was much bigger and heavier, although not as well armed with cannon and machine guns as the American types. My first flight in a Lincoln was with Flight Lieutenant Sid Gooding DFC, and was from Townsville. An engine failed on that trip and that was the first time I had seen a feathered propeller. I was to see many more over the next 3000 hours I flew on the type.

Tucked away in the shadows of the showcase is a Mitsubishi Zero-Sen (Type O Fighter), known popularly as the Zero. It was used over the Pacific during World War 2, with many being destroyed during kamikaze attacks on Allied ships. It was during an airborne search for a missing Canberra bomber in 1954 that I had my first sighting of a Zero. The Canberra had disappeared after taking off from Port Moresby in Papua New Guinea for the US base at Kwajalein in the Marshall Islands. The Americans were conducting atom bomb tests in the Central Pacific, and Great Britain had been offered the opportunity to observe the tests. The RAF sent a Canberra for this purpose. The Canberra never reached its destination and it was thought that it may have entered a thunderstorm and broken up.

In the event, a large search carried out by RAAF Lincolns over the islands of New Britain, The Admiralties, and New Ireland failed to locate the missing aircraft. At the same time, American aircraft searched the Pacific south-east of Guam with no success.
During low level searches of the beaches of New Britain, our crew spotted several wrecked Japanese and American aircraft which had remained untouched since the end of the war. A Zero was among them.

Twenty five years later I was living on the island of Nauru in the Central Pacific and came across the shattered remains of two Zeros laying among coconut palm trees. Nauru had been a Japanese occupied island in 1941 with an airstrip constructed to accommodate fighters and bombers. An Australian mining engineer who worked for a phosphate company on Nauru was a keen aviation archeologist. He established a small war museum on Nauru. The local Nauruan population had little interest in such things and so he managed to ship the remains of the Zeros to Australia where they now form part of a Zero exhibited in the Australian War Memorial at Canberra.

Perhaps the most majestic model of them all is the Shorts Sunderland flying boat which proudly rests on its keel in the centre of one shelf. This model is beautifully crafted with tiny wireless antennae, and machine guns fitted to its front, rear and dorsal turrets. The Sunderland was the military version of the Mayo Composite flying boat. You may remember that the Mayo was the Dinky toy that my mother gave to me before she died?

I saw my first real Sunderland – which belonged to the Royal New Zealand Air Force – at Auckland Harbour in September 1959. With several other Sunderlands, it was gently riding at anchor just off the shore of Hobsonville RNZAF base. The base itself was incredibly beautiful – an all-over green grass field surrounded by white colonial style houses. Harvards snarled around the circuit area while offshore these lovely white Sunderland floated like proud swans in their own patch of harbour.

I had flown a Lincoln from Townsville on a good-will tour encompassing Norfolk Island, Fiji, and now New Zealand where we were entertained right royally by the RNZAF crews at Hobsonville. When we arrived there had been much talk of an incident a few nights earlier where a Sunderland had inadvertently taxied at speed from the harbour and up a concrete slipway to shore. I believe that this particular Sunderland was used for taxying practice. Apparently it was used as a water taxi on Saturday nights to transport RNZAF aircrew and groundstaff from Hobsonville to the fleshpots of the city some 15 miles away.

During the return journey it seemed that in the absence of a booze bus on the harbour, the operating crew tippled a little too much and misjudged throttle closure approaching the mooring point. The result was the Sunderland found itself climbing the concrete slipway at some knots – remembering of course that the Sunderland is a flying boat – not an amphibian! The New Zealanders were rather good at that sort of thing because several years later I happened to fly an RAAF Viscount with a VIP party from Canberra to Auckland for the opening of the new Auckland International Airport. During the ceremonies a Sunderland flown by the squadron commanding officer did a wonderful low level beat up along the runway in front of the thousands of spectators and did a good job with its keel. The sparks really flew in more ways than one. It was the ultimate in low flying.

And now to close this story I am looking with great affection and nostalgia at a Boeing 737 sitting proud on the top shelf of the showcase. It was on the Isle of Nauru that I first saw her (with apologies to Gracie Fields of the Isle of Capri fame).

It was 1976 and I had just joined Air Nauru. This particular type was a 737-200 with Pratt and Whitney JT8D-17 engines and there was lots of sheer grunt and noise as it hove into sight joining downwind for runway 12. It looked a squat solid looking beast with a no-nonsense tail that stuck up vertical like at that of a wild boar at full charge. I loved it at first sight.

The runway on Nauru is 5200 feet long, the Pacific Ocean at both ends leaving no room for greaser landings. The airport terminal is barely 100 yards from the runway and it seems that half the population of Nauru came to watch the arrival of the daily flights. I soon found out why this was such an attraction. Through the window of the crew bus I saw the Boeing curve around the back of the island on close base leg and then suddenly there it was on short final with full flap and smoke streaming from both tail-pipes. At 130 knots it smacked down right on the 1000 ft marker with a flash of blue smoke from skidding tyres, while at the same time the top surfaces of the wings came alive with ground and flight spoilers. Simultaneously the reversers opened wide with a shattering roar of increasing power. Now that was a man’s aeroplane.

A few months later I had a command on the 737 and by the time I moved on ten years later, I had flown over 7000 hours on type. There were many exciting times flying the 737 – too many to mention here – except perhaps one that often repeated itself.

Nauru was a tiny phosphate rich island with lots of money. There was no shortage of new cars, powerful motor bikes and beer, and inevitably each week-end would see the death of young men wiping themselves out in vehicle accidents caused by speed and alcohol. A favourite sport would be to race a departing 737, either in a car or on a motor bike. The main road around the island paralleled the runway by 50 yards and this gave a mile of straight but narrow road before it curved away from the surrounding ocean reef.

These obese young bloods had 1500cc Honda Goldwings and other equally massive motor bikes. They would cruise around the island playing loud rock and roll music from loud-speakers mounted on the bikes or on Range Rovers. Occasionally, when the police were looking the other way, one would see a Nauruan sitting astride his Gold Wing abeam the threshold of runway 12, revving the engine while waiting for the departing 737 to take-off. Crash helmets were unheard of, and a T-shirt, shorts and sandals the only protection from a 100mph crash.

Backtracking the departure runway you knew that the race was about to begin. Turning to line up you would see a Nauruan on his big bike casually waiting by the side of the runway. Passengers would wave from their windows and as the brakes were released, the Nauruan on his Gold Wing would open up to full throttle to race us down the runway. At full thrust of 2.18 EPR the ground trembled and spectators covered their ears to protect themselves from the incredible crackling roar which was the wonderful characteristic of the JT8D engines. A combined 31,000 pounds of thrust makes an awful lot of noise on a small island. With houses a few paces from the runway, noise abatement was for wimps.

It was quite a sight to see the Gold Wing at full chat with its rider head down and burning rubber a few yards off our wing tip. At the 80 knot call the Gold Wing would be ahead of us by a nose but the game was well and truly over by rotate speed of 130 knots. It was good fun and few got hurt, although I often wondered how many of these riders nearly ended up in the Pacific Ocean as they negotiated the 45 degree bend in the road just a few yards from the end of the runway.

Following my retirement from airline flying at age 60, I have returned to visit Nauru on several occasions. The grunty Boeing 737-200 has been replaced by the quieter and bigger 737-400, but the motor bikes are still the big Goldwings and Yamahas – and now a little rusty from the salt spray of the Pacific rollers. The headstones of their riders gradually fill the cemetery grounds…

[Centaurus]

A DATE WITH JULIET
Flight 420, A Boeing 737 to Hong Kong departed from a small island on the Equator at about the same time as an unnamed typhoon was born 2,000 miles further west. The depression that spawned the typhoon had been tracked by U.S. Navy weather satellites for several days. As it slowly spun in a westerly direction from 500 miles north of Ponape in the Carolines, the weather forecasters decided it met all the attributes of a maturing typhoon and from a list of names, selected Juliet.
http://i2.photobucket.com/albums/y25/HSWL/typhooneye001.jpg
Eye of the Typhoon on B737 radar

The captain of the flight was an ex Royal Australian Air Force pilot who had served in Vietnam. The first officer was an experienced ex GA pilot, who had joined the company from flying Navajos. The remainder of the crew consisted of four stewardesses, who were recruited from island republics in the South Pacific. Two were from Fiji, one from the Solomon Islands, and one from Samoa.

The flight was scheduled to depart from its island base at 0130 local and as usual, the aircraft finally got airborne from runway 33 half an hour late. This was due mainly to a relaxed, informal handling agent who worked practically single handed to get the sixty passengers under way. The Boeing 737 would touch down at Guam four hours later after a 1,800 mile trip, passing a hundred and fifty miles to the south of Ponape in the Caroline Islands and an hour later, sixty miles to the north of Truk Lagoon. During the Pacific war, Truk was a major naval base for the Japanese fleet and a forward headquarters for the Japanese during their drive southward towards Guadalcanal and New Guinea in 1942. Now it is an underwater photographer’s paradise of sunken warships.

I was staying in the Hilton Hotel at Guam and received a phone call from our company agent advising that the aircraft was late. Because communications were not always reliable between incoming aircraft and handling agents, I decided to get to the airport half an hour before the aircraft was due. I was particularly interested in the position of Typhoon Juliet although it was still far enough east of Guam as to cause no immediate weather problems for our departure at 0500 local. In two days time, it could well be astride our return route to Guam from Taipei in Taiwan.

The planned alternate for Guam was the island of Saipan, the scene of bitter battles during the war. The chances were that Saipan could be affected by the typhoon, as the airport was only 80 miles north of Guam. In turn, this meant our payload could be restricted out of Taipei, in order to carry an extra 3 tonnes of fuel to reach Truk, which was well out of the typhoon's probable path. It was all too hard for me at that early hour of the morning, and I decided to cross that bridge when I came to it.

Flight 420 landed at Guam and the incoming crew disappeared to the Hilton to rest and await our return two days later. We refuelled to full tanks, loaded more passengers, and departed under the watchful eyes of the United States radar controller for the next sector to Manila. Previously, I had telephoned the U.S. Navy weather forecaster who had predicted that Typhoon Juliet would probably pass between Saipan and Guam itself in 48 hours time. Bloody great, I thought...just in time for our arrival.
The sun rose behind us as we climbed at Mach 0.7 to 31,000 feet and we received the usual cheery farewell from the radar controller as we passed off his radar scope two hundred miles away. Little did we know that two nights later, around midnight, amongst lightning and thunder, we would be relying heavily on that polite gentleman to keep us out of the storm brewing to the east....

En route Guam to Manila, we passed well to the north of the beautiful remote islands of Yap and Ulithi. Ulithi Lagoon was a huge US Navy base in 1945, supplying the fleets for the Okinawa campaign. Yap NDB gave good bearings and we confirmed the accuracy of our position with the combined use of INS and Omega VLF. Despite the feeling of early morning fatigue, both the first officer and myself could only sit back and gaze at the dawn of a new day, with the rosy pink hue of the clouds below, the occasional towering cumulo nimbus clouds and the vastness of the blue Pacific.
The Inertial Navigation System (INS) steadily clicked up the passing of meridians of longitude and I plotted the coordinates on the Jeppesen chart. It was probably an unnecessary chore, but it kept my conscience clear. It is all too easy to lapse into complacency, when one is tired. We turned a few degrees starboard for the last few hundred miles of the air route to Manila, and called Manila Control on HF for a clearance to enter their air defence zone. Penetrating the ADIZ without a clearance was not a good thing, because one could be arrested on arrival at Manila, with little option except to bribe oneself out of trouble. We could even be buzzed by an intercepting fighter, if the Air Force could find a serviceable one!

A small cross on my chart reminded me that we were now passing high above the final resting place of the U.S. cruiser Indianapolis, which was the last major warship lost in World War II. It was torpedoed by the Japanese submarine 1-58 on 30th July, 1945, in the closing stages of the war. It was the Indianapolis that had transported the two atomic bombs from USA to Saipan, from where they were dropped by B29 bomber on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. From Saipan, the cruiser had sailed to the Philippines and had been sunk on the return voyage to Guam, with the loss of 1500 lives.

In the many hours that I flew over the Central Pacific, I never failed to quietly think of the ships and their crews who died in naval battles far below. I think many peacetime aircrew who fly the Central Pacific routes probably feel the same way and it hits one most as the sun rises in the eastern skies, reflecting on the peaceful scene of hundreds of cumulus clouds. Like miniature fairy battlements of cotton wool, they floated above the brilliant hues of coral reefs which appear magically in the distance and slowly pass from view under the wings. It is often a time for reflection.....

The first officer flew the approach into Manila. As usual, we were held high at 4,000 feet by Manila radar, until only a few miles from the runway. This meant slowing the aircraft to the approach configuration early enough to avoid hurried last minute lowering of flaps and wheels. This annoying problem occurred because ATC were constrained by strict noise abatement rules over the suburbs of Manila. Heaven knows, Manila was already a city of noisy buses, trucks and cars, so noise abatement for aeroplanes was a bit of a joke. The twin needles of the ILS came together nicely and we touched down at 125 knots, only to be subjected too much swaying and bouncing on the uneven runway.

A few months previously, I had flown into Manila for landing on runway 24. ATC had again delayed our descent from 4000 feet, which should have put us uncomfortably high on glideslope. Now the ideal angle of approach for most jet aircraft is 3 degrees. This allows a reasonable compromise between an acceptable rate of descent of around 800 fpm, and ease of flyability. Anything more than 3 degrees involves a high rate of descent near the ground, and a lot of inertia and energy to be changed for the round out for landing. What puzzled me at the time was that the glide slope needle showed that we were on the correct angle of 3 degrees. This was clearly incorrect, because at our distance from touchdown of 7 miles, the 3 degree slope should have intersected our path at 2100 feet, yet we had only just left 4000 feet.

I suspected that the Manila ILS ground equipment was faulty and that in fact we were flying down a false glide slope of at least 5 degrees or more. A quick check of our rate of descent of nearly 1,600 feet a minute - twice the normal acceptable safe amount - confirmed my thoughts. I decided that if the aircraft was not stabilized and nicely set for landing by 500 ft. we would climb away for another more leisurely approach, using a different navigation aid. We broke out of cloud at three miles from the runway and concentrated now on establishing a reasonable glide path by switching attention from the instruments inside the aircraft to the lights of the VASIS (Visual Approach Slope Indicator System). These are placed either side of the runway and give a varied pattern of different colours to indicate that the correct approach angle is being used.

Both the F/O and I were surprised to see a meaningless jumble of lights from the VASIS, and I thought to hell with this nonsense and completed a normal landing, albeit further down the 11,000 ft runway than desirable.
As the 737 was being prepared for the final leg to Hong Kong, I phoned Manila ATC and suggested that they take a look at their ILS system as it seemed well outside acceptable tolerances. Additionally their VASIS was up the creek. I found out later that the VASIS installation (several boxes of lights attached to concrete bases and carefully levelled at 3 degrees by means of adjusting screws) had been seriously disrupted by recent earth tremors. Despite crazy angles now emanating from the displaced light sources, it was "standard" procedure to always have the VASIS switched on for landing aircraft! There were no NOTAMS warning of the unreliability of the ILS and VASIS.

Later that day, a flight check by a calibration aircraft, confirmed that a false glidepath did exist at 5.5 degrees and steps were taken to adjust the beam down to 3 degrees. Two years previously, a China Airlines Boeing 707 had crashed just short of runway 24 at Manila after pressing on to land from a very high rate of descent in perfect flying weather. I wondered if he had tried to fly the same false glideslope that we had located, and simply blindly followed the ILS needles, instead of cross checking with other available instruments.

We landed at Hong Kong a few hours later and after two days of whatever one does in Hong Kong on layovers, we took off for Taipei and Guam at 1600 hours. Typhoon Juliet had by now passed over Saipan, causing damage to the airport instrument approach system. Scratch Saipan as the alternate airport for Guam! The typhoon was heading southwest at 15 knots and if it continued on its present track, would cross the airways route from Taipei to Guam, around 450 miles west of Guam. Our calculations indicated that on leaving Taipei we would be heading directly towards Juliet, with an ETA over the centre at midnight. However the 737 was equipped with modern weather radar, and I had no qualms about picking our way between the inevitable storm clouds that surrounded the eye of the storm. The thunderstorms associated with tropical typhoons could reach over 45,000 ft and with the extra fuel aboard needed for our planned alternate of Truk, our cruising level to Guam of 33,000 ft would not clear the tops around Juliet.

Arrival and departure from Taipei proved uneventful and we settled down for the four hour night leg to Agana airfield, which serves both civil and U.S. military aircraft at Guam. The huge Strategic Air Force base at Anderson Field was only a few miles up the road from Agana, but too close however for use as a weather alternate. The winds aloft were as forecast and I set the radar to scan at 180 miles. We knew that when the first storm clouds appeared on the edge of the screen, it should give us 20 minutes warning to evaluate our course of action. This could mean diverting up to 100 miles off track if the storm cloud area was massive. On the other hand, by careful interpretation of the radar returns, it may be possible to weave between individual thunderstorms. Much depended on the experience level of the pilot, particularly in radar knowledge. Slipping between storms can save fuel and time, but the passengers are up for a savage ride if the storms close in on the aircraft at the last minute. Radar is used to avoid storms, not to penetrate them.

Two hours out from Taipei and we were cruising in thick cloud. It was a black night and because of this we had no chance of seeing anything up ahead visually. There were no returns on the radar screen, except a few flecks which could have been sea returns. Guam weather was now clear, although ATC advised that lightning was visible on the western horizon.
I adjusted the radar tilt control, moving the antenna down a few degrees towards the sea. Normally the sweeping radar beam would reflect back from big waves, but all seemed quiet down below. By now, the INS began to show a steady wind direction change indicating the upper air effect of the swirling gales on the surface. By now there should have been some storm cells beginning to show up on the screen, but the night was deceptively calm. I switched on the landing lights to see if the cloud was really thick, or merely high level cirrostratus. That was a bad decision on my part, as the F/O and myself were momentarily blinded by the reflected glare from solid cloud whipping past a few feet away. Too late, we had lost night vision and it was now useless to peer through the windshield into the darkness looking for a close up thundertop anvil.

A stewardess gave us yet another coffee and I asked how all the passengers were. In the past, some had become rather drunk on long flights and had been a real nuisance. I was relieved when the stewardess said that everyone was well behaved. I recall that during one flight from Hong Kong to Taipei, one particular seaman had constantly demanded more booze and seemed to enjoy stirring up the stewardesses as they walked past his seat. Finally, the senior stewardess complained to the captain about the man's behaviour. The captain warned the offender to lay off. Despite the warning, the man continued to worry the cabin crew, and again they complained to the captain. Handing over control to the first officer, and just before descending into Taipei, the captain returned to the back of the cabin and calmly told the Pacific islander that unless he apologized to the stewardesses, and acted in a more sober manner, the man would be in dead serious trouble.

The passenger considered himself a bush lawyer, and arrogantly demanded what course of action did the captain have in mind? The captain then told him that arrangements would be made for the Taiwanese police to meet the aircraft on arrival. After that, the police would take the passenger away and torture him a little. This threat had the desired effect, and the passenger became a model of good behaviour all the way to his destination in the Gilbert Islands.

Our own passengers had just settled down for the night when without warning, the aircraft hit severe turbulence. The F/O quickly turned on the ignition switches which would minimize the possibility of an engine flameout. There was a frightening blow to the left side of the aircraft from a sideways gust, followed by massive buffeting. It was obvious that we had flown into a storm top which had not shown up on the radar screen. I made an immediate announcement on the cabin PA system for passengers and cabin staff to sit down and put on their safety belts. Seconds later the cockpit was lit up by St. Elmo's fire with tiny dancing flames of static electricity covering the windscreen and streaming off the windscreen wiper blades. The turbulence became severe, with vicious gusts from all directions, and I concentrated on keeping the wings level on the instruments, whilst allowing the aircraft to ride out the turbulence with its own natural stability. The radar screen continued to emit its normal soft green glow indicating a storm free sky. In fact it had probably failed an hour or so earlier while Typhoon Juliet was still beyond the long range scale.

Certainly I was no slouch at radar use, but I had never experienced a subtle equipment failure like this one. We were now up the proverbial creek without a paddle...namely a serviceable weather radar. The turbulence was still severe, as I carefully banked the aircraft starboard on to a compass heading of 180 degrees. The latest position of the typhoon centre had been relayed by satellite to Guam ATC, who had passed this vital information to us by HF radio. Fortunately I had then drawn Juliet's position on my coffee stained plotting chart. The position of the eye was 50 miles to the port of our track, so a southerly course would be a safe bet. Put another way, we were already flying blind without radar with all the attendant worries about being clobbered by unseen storm cells. But at least we were heading away from the typhoon.

Vivid flashes of cloud to cloud lightning rent the heavens and I took the opportunity to look for ice on the wings as they lit up from reflected flashes. In fact the presence of continuous lightning was a blessing in disguise. Each flash lit up the skies like daylight, enabling us to see the towering storm tops outlined for a frozen moment in time. Some were like battlements high above our cruising level - others were lower, but ominously building at 1000 feet per minute. Whilst the F/O steered the aircraft on automatic pilot, I kept my nose against the windscreen directing the F/O for last minute course changes. A flash would illuminate a dark monster 30 seconds ahead. Another flash would expose a clear patch 20 degrees to the right, and I would call steering instructions like a bomb aimer running into the target.
I still couldn't believe the radar had really failed, and in between visual tracking between the now isolated storms, I tried to troubleshoot the problem. Even the F/O who was an electronics whip was unable to rectify the fault, so we reluctantly switched it off. By now we had advised Guam ATC of our predicament, and we were cleared to divert from the air route by 100 miles. Eventually, the lightning faded behind us, leaving us without nature's illumination. A glimpse of stars above indicated that a climb to 35,000 ft might get us above the clouds. ATC gave the OK, and soon we were on top of high level cirrus.

With Juliet safely behind us, we altered course towards Guam and called for more coffee. The Samoan stewardess arrived with the goodies, and said how much she enjoyed the turbulence and the lightning too, and could we arrange more of the same! The F/O and I looked at each other, and told her she must be crazy. She then explained she was new to the job and was still very shy of talking to passengers. When the seat belt signs were switched on at the first turbulence encounter, it gave her the ideal excuse to disappear to the rear of the cabin and ignore the call button chimes of the frightened passengers. Good thinking 99, I thought. That girl has got initiative!

An hour later ATC radar picked us up two hundred miles out to sea from Guam. We were very relieved to recognize the voice of the radar operator and we requested radar vectors around any heavy clouds. At one hundred miles out we broke clear of clouds into a typical Pacific moonlight night and sliding down the ILS we touched down safely on runway 06 Left. An hour later the first of many beers at the Guam Hilton Hotel never tasted better.

[Centaurus]

IT WOULDN’T HAPPEN THESE DAYS


Back in May 1995, AOPA (Australia) published a delightful flying story by Doctor Tony Fisher. It was called My Mustangs. During a recent culling of scrap books and other aviation paraphernalia from my shed, I re-discovered this lovely tale of derring do, and decided every pilot should read it; if only to show that once upon a time, when there were few regulations, flying was real fun. No ASIC cards, big brother surveillance cameras, anti-terrorist fences, or gun-toting grim faced Federal police at major airports.

While this story is set in 1963, many pilots now flying or “managing” fly-by-wire computer controlled Airbuses and Boeings weren’t even born when Tony Fisher first flew his Mustang. Tony’s story reminded me of another pilot I knew, who, 18 years earlier in 1945, found himself in a similar predicament. That pilot was Ensign Joe Ziskovsky of the United States Navy and his aeroplane wasn’t a Mustang but something infinitely more dangerous - the mighty Martin B-26 Marauder, known in those days as the Widow Maker. More of Joe and his Marauder, later.

In April 2009, AOPA still had Tony Fisher on its books and very soon I had his telephone number in Tasmania. To my relief, Tony had no objection to my relating his Mustang adventures and was quite happy to accept minor editing here and there. In his story, mention is made of Tocumwal aerodrome, NSW. After the war ended in 1945, Tocumwal became one of several storage units for surplus military aircraft. While most were destined to be melted down for scrap metal, others were stored in a flyable condition. I knew one RAAF pilot based at Tocumwal whose sole task was to regularly test fly each serviceable Mustang. I envied his job because believe me, there was over a hundred of them to be flown. Eventually after six months of this, he became so bored with flying a quick circuit in each Mustang that he began to hit the bottle. He was later posted to fly Lincolns at Townsville which is where I first met him.

In 1952, Tocumwal was a landing point for cross-country navigation flights by RAAF trainee pilots and their instructors from No 1 Basic Flying Training School at Uranquinty, NSW. We landed there for lunch one day and hardly had the propeller of our Wirraway stopped turning, when my instructor was off and away with a spanner and screwdriver to knock of the astro-dome of a B24 Liberator – one of a hundred or so parked in the sun. He had his heart set on a punch-bowl at home and the astro-dome was just the right size. The fact he was nearly bitten by a deadly red-back spider nesting in the fuselage of the B-24 didn’t faze him.

It was my first trip to this fabulous place with countless Mustangs, Mosquitos and Beaufighters parked on the grass with their once proud roundels fading in the hot sun. It was at Tocumwal where Tony Fisher bought his second Mustang for a song and had his first close shave. This then, is Tony’s story which he called:

MY MUSTANGS

My love affair with a P51 started in 1963 when I was approached by a non-ferrous metal dealer from Taren Point just south of Sydney. He knew I had a private pilot’s licence and asked if I was interested in buying an aeroplane he had obtained by tender to melt down for pots and pans. The name P51 didn’t mean a great deal at the time other than it was some sort of RAAF fighter.

My first aeroplane was a Fairchild Argus which I bought shortly after Sammy Dodd gave me my private pilot’s licence. I took my wife Helen to look at my pride and joy. She took one look and claimed, “you needn’t think I’m getting into that thing. That’s the old paper plane from Moree. My father went to Sydney once in that and said he could have got there quicker on a push bike”. That’s what you get for marrying a nurse from Moree.

When the non-ferrous dealer mentioned the P51’s 400mph cruise I thought of Helen’s father on a push bike. I was sold. The price having been agreed upon, $600, my next step was to find a way of getting it out of Sydney and down to Canarney, our 5000 acres at Jerilderie in NSW.

A mate of mine Chris Braun, who had flown P51’s in the RAAF, was now flying DC3’s for Butler Air Transport. I asked if he would fly the P51 down to Canarney. He was all in favour but the Department of Civil Aviation (DCA) not only wanted a new 100 hourly but where was it going and what was to happen to the Mustang when it got there? It was decided it was to be part of a museum at Jerilderie. They fell for it.

While these negotiations were in progress I located another aeroplane at Tocumwal, A68-193, an air reconnaissance Mustang for $700. Not saying a word to Helen, I bought that too.

It was now time for me to get a conversion as this was not possible at the time, due to prejudice against ex-service aircraft. I decided to obtain one while in the United States.
My partner in Southern Cross Farms in Florida, Lane Ward, found a doctor in Merced, California, who owned a P51, and a US Colonel, who were prepared to lend me an aeroplane and teach me to fly it. There was a stipulation that prior to take off, I was to write a cheque for the full value of the aeroplane, because if I bent it – I owned it. When the Colonel found out I only had 200 hours and most of that in a Fairchild Argus and a G Bonanza, he thought it prudent that I obtained some time in a heavier aircraft such as a T6 Harvard.

Next day, the Colonel and I started circuits and landings in a T6. He was not all that impressed with my early attempts. “Say boy, watch that turn, don’t do that in the 51 or your wife is going to end up owning the aeroplane”. This went on for two days and by the end of it I was sorry I’d ever heard of a P51. Finally the hour arrived when I was due to fly the Mustang. “Now watch that right rudder, keep on top of it, don’t let the torque get away or you’ll knock that guy right out of the tower”.

He asked if the pedals were adjusted correctly. I could reach them but didn’t realize they moved a foot – not like the Argus only six inches. After last minute instructions re ram air etc, the Merlin roared to life and I taxied down toward the threshold.

“04 Papa ready,” I croaked. My voice sounded strange even to me. My throat was so dry.
Finally it came. “04 Papa cleared for take off, make left turn, remain in the circuit area”.

I pushed the throttle forward 30, 40, 50, 60 inches Manifold Pressure. The noise of the Merlin was deafening. I could just make out the guy in the tower. Somehow I had a feeling he was just as frightened as I was. With the power came the torque and more and more rudder to keep the monster from racing off to the left towards the tower. I sank lower and lower into the cockpit. Lane later said I could have sworn to God there was no-one in the aeroplane as it took off.”

Airborne, I reached for the gear lever and retracted the wheels. The P51 was heading for the skies like the homesick angel it was. Two thousand feet per minute and indicating 200 knots. At 1,000ft I eased back on the throttle to 30 inches and noticing what looked like a 182 Cessna ahead, decided to follow it onto final. Suddenly the Cessna seemed to be attacking me backwards at 200 miles an hour. The landing wasn’t anything to brag about but everyone seemed pleased to see me and the aeroplane back in one piece. I reclaimed my cheque and we all went home to celebrate.

NO 2

Max Annear and his mate Sid, two ex-RAAF Mustang mechanics, were checking out A68-193 for its ferry flight to Canarney homestead, Jerilderie. When they were satisfied it was ready, Max rang me and Joe Palmer and I flew down to Tocumwal in the red Ryan Trainer that I owned..


There was the Mustang sitting on the tarmac ticking over like a sowing machine. Max must have seen the anxiety on my face.

“Tony, are you sure you can fly one of these things?”

“You’ve got to be kidding” I said - trying to sound confident. “I was taught by the pride of the Yankee Air Force”. I failed to mention my total time on type was ten minutes.

It was drizzling with rain as I lined up and there was a sense of déjà vu. There was no tower and the pedals had been adjusted. The canopy clicked shut. I gave them a wave, lined up and opened the taps.

Hurtling down the strip I was about to ease back on the stick when there was a loud BANG, then another BANG BANG. The Colonel had said nothing about anything like this. I pulled off the power and applied full brakes. We were fast running out of strip. I left the runway and was now heading for the fence. “God, this is where I make Fisher’s gate. I hope the traffic on the highway gives me the right of way, to which surely I’m entitled.”

The Mustang stopped ten feet from the posts but the Rolls Royce engine was still purring. I taxied back to Max. “What’s wrong now?” I could hear the disdain in his voice. “I tell you Max, it made a loud bang. It seems to have stopped, - perhaps it was some carby ice”. He was not impressed. “I don’t know, but please check it out”.


I was glad to be back in the Ryan on the way back to Jerilderie. I wondered about what it would be like with some mad Jap in a Zero firing six cannons at you and the RR Merlin backfiring as well.

Several days later Chris Braun rang up and said he had permission to ferry Mustang A68-104 from Sydney down to Jerilderie. Fisher’s Airforce was beginning to take shape. About this time, Helen received a letter from my son Robby’s school inviting her up for a chat. We’re a little concerned about Rob. He has this wild imagination even for a five year old. He keeps saying his father owns two fighter aeroplanes, three seventy foot boats (names Vim, Derwent Hunter and Helsal), 500,000 acres in the Northern Territory and four cars including a Rolls and a Caddy”. I could never resist a bargain.

“But it’s all true,” poor Helen tried to explain. She was dismayed when she overheard the headmistress say “God, the whole family must be off. Imagine what the father must be like”.
From then on I would cross the road anytime I had to pass the school.

It was Australia Day when we had the Carnarney Cup – a private, but everyone welcome air pageant. Max had found that one of the diaphragms in the Merlin had perished, but he had located a guy who had a new Merlin in his garage which he had bought at a disposal auction.
He wanted ten dollars to change carburetors. Max also required an additional $80 for four drums of avgas (800 litres). Things were somewhat cheaper then.

That year we had 100 guests. Those we couldn’t put in the homestead were sleeping in the woolshed and under wings etc. There were 33 aeroplanes that year. Johnny Ault and I got up at 0500, jumped in the Ryan and flew down to Tocumwal where Max was waiting with Mustang 193 all fuelled and ready to go. I jumped in, taxied to the runway, switched to ram air, completed the cockpit check and opened the tap. Roaring down the runway I had a great view of where I nearly made Fisher’s Gate. Pulling back on the stick she soared sweetly into the air. Climbing to 3000 ft I levelled off, set the revs at 2000 and the boost at about 30 inches and set the nose for Canarney.

About fifteen minutes later I could just make out the homestead on the Billabong River. The temptation was too great. I lowered the nose, increased the revs to 2500 and boost to 50 inches. The airspeed indicator began to climb well above 300 knots. At about 100 ft I leveled off and passed right over the homestead. Then pulling back on the stick I climbed away at 3000 fpm. Looking back, it was like treading on an ant’s nest. There were bodies coming out of everywhere, mostly in pyjamas and all wondering what all the noise was about.

NO 3. A SHORT LANDING IN A P51

My uncle, Bob Macintosh, supervised both Canarney and a property called Concord, 3000 acres of the Cunnineuk Estate just north of Swan Hill. It took him six hours to commute between the properties. Although 25 years my senior, we were great mates and enjoyed one another’s company.

He bred and loved race horses, but hated aeroplanes. I hated race horses, but after my mother’s death I had invested half of her estate into the two properties. When things were quiet on Canarney I would often jump into one of the Mustangs and within 20 minutes would be buzzing the Concord homestead. On one occasion there was a gentle breeze of about five knots coming from the west. There was no one home so I decided to return to Canarney via Cadell homestead which was Edgar Pickle’s place.

I flew over the homestead and could see Edgar on the verandah. There was no windsock, the airstrip was only 2000 ft long, and one way from the boundary to his front verandah, east to west. Taking a long final I set myself up in the precautionary attitude and came in low over the boundary fence.

After a few seconds and almost half the strip gone, I realized I was doing a downwind landing. I was committed. I noticed that Edgar had vacated the verandah and was now behind a tree. “God,” I prayed. “here’s where I knock Pickle’s place right into the Wakool River”. Pulling back on the stick and left rudder I attempted to ground loop it to the left, but the brute headed straight for his house. I sheer desperation I applied full right rudder. Round she went in a great cloud of dust coming to rest not far from the fence and the entrance from the main road. A passing motorist seeing the dust and commotion drove straight in and up to the aeroplane, just as I was winding back the canopy.

“Are you all right, mate?”

“Course I’m alright,” I claimed - not wishing to emphasise my predicament.

“I though you’d crashed”.

“No way, that was a normal precautionary short landing”.

“oh, yeah” he sounded a bit skeptical. What sort of aeroplane is that?”

“A four bladed Ryan,” I lied. After all he could have been Arthur Doubleday’s (Director of Civil Aviation) brother.

“How fast will it go?”

“400 knots”.

“What’s it worth?”

“800 dollars”.

“I’m learning to fly next year. I was going to buy a Cessna, but now I’ve seen one up close I think I’ll buy a Ryan”.



Pickles was still behind the tree and refused to enter into the conversation until after the prospective Ryan buyer had left.

“Fisher, if you insist in arriving in this manner, I must respectfully request that you change your mode of transport”.

We inspected the aircraft taking particular notice of its undercarriage. Edgar gave it a clean bill of health so we retired for a well earned cup of tea.

The P51’s gave us a lot of enjoyment. They were at Canarney for about six years. One was sold to a fellow by the name of Don Busch and the other to a furniture salesman called Bob Eastgate. Busch unfortunately killed himself due I believe a C of G problem in a steep climbing turn. The other is occasionally flown in Victoria, but not, I’m told by its owner.

I have the greatest admiration for this aeroplane which is far more forgiving than many believe. However, my greatest admiration goes to the pilots who flew them in the medium for which they were designed – combat.

While at Jerilderie, the aircraft were kept in top mechanical condition by trained RAAF servicemen from Tocumwal. During these six years, we had no airframe or engine failure whatsoever, which speaks volumes for the aircraft reliability. They were housed in a specially constructed hangar, not a barn as has been claimed by the uninformed.

They were flown by many pilots including Chris Braun, Joe Palmer, Bill Pike, John Lindner, Charlie Smith, Johnny Ault, Les Barnes and Edgar Pickles. We were all cavalier in many attitudes to life, but never to our aeroplanes.

Although that is the end of Tony Fisher’s story, I will add a postscript. Remember that Tony had only a private pilot’s licence and barely 200 hours when he first flew the Mustang. All he had flown previously was a Tiger Moth, Ryan Trainer and the Fairchild Argus. Certainly he had never had an instrument rating. Most RAAF fighter pilots of that era also had around 200 hours before flying Mustangs – but most of those hours were on Wirraways and their training included instrument flying. It places Tony’s experience of flying the Mustang in perspective.

The various other pilots that were involved with Tony Fisher’s Mustangs were either serving or former RAAF or airline pilots. One who was not mentioned was Bruce Clarke – a C130 Hercules pilot. I flew with Bruce on HS 748’s of the RAAF VIP squadron at Canberra. He was able to cadge a flight in one of Tony’s Mustangs after helping to arrange for mechanics to transport glycol coolant from the RAAF base at Richmond NSW for the Merlin engines.
At the time the Mustang he flew had a canopy problem so Bruce flew it without the canopy. It was very noisy, he said – and showed me a tiny photo of him taking off at Jerilderie, sans canopy. Several of the characters in the story have long since passed on – after all it was 46 years ago. Tony Fisher added more to his story when I talked to him last week. Around 1965, a couple of RAAF pilots heard about his Mustang and after driving to Jerilderie asked Tony for permission to fly it. He led them to where one Mustang was under cover in a sheep shed. The Mustang was covered in dust and bird droppings and both pilots thought better of the idea. Tony wheeled the aircraft out of the shed, started the engine and after take off did a few aerobatics. The pilots were amazed and changed their minds and each flew the Mustang for a circuit. As I said earlier, those sort of things happened in those days – but today – no way.

In 1970, Mustang 193 that Tony picked up from Tocumwal, had a sad ending when it crashed at Bendigo Victoria, killing the pilot, Don Busch. The second of Tony ‘s Mustangs - former A68-104, was still flying in 2008 at Point Cook in Victoria. Later that year it was damaged in a belly-landing after one wheel would not extend. It is hoped to take to the air again in 2009



The Martin Marauder was a medium bomber used by the United States Air Force in World War 2. One pilot who flew the Marauder, Lt. Col Douglas Conley, in a book published in 1975 entitled “Flying Combat Aircraft” by R. Higham and A. Siddall, had this to say:

: “ the aircraft had a performance average of one crash a day from unknown causes and with all hands killed is reason enough to make anyone jumpy. Conley admitted to considerable apprehension on each take off. “The stubby wings were responsible for the Marauder’s nickname in the USAF of The Flying Prostitute – she had no (or very little) visible means of support. The serious control problems upon engine failure earned her the name the Martin Murderer and the reputation of a Marauder a day in Tampa bay was assigned to her about the time I began flying her in the fall of 1942”.

In 1977 I flew an F28 of Air Nauru from Nauru Island to Majuro airport in the Marshall Islands of Micronesia. Among passengers waiting there was Captain Joe Ziskovsky, a former wartime Catalina pilot who after having worked for the Boeing Aircraft Company in Seattle, was joining Air Nauru to fly the Boeing 737. After retiring from Air Nauru a few years later, he moved to South Africa to be with his wife who was a school teacher. There he flew various light aircraft on safari charters. One of his letters to me explained how he became a pilot in the United States Navy in 1943. During the early part of the Pacific war against the Japanese he was an Ordnance man in the US Navy whose job was to service bomb sights and guns of US Marine aircraft in the South Pacific. During the bitter fighting between American and Japanese forces in the Solomon Islands in 1942, Joe served at Guadacanal, surviving daily shelling by Japanese ships aiming at Henderson Field, recently captured from the Japanese army.

He re-mustered as a pilot and flew Catalina flying boats until the surrender of Japan in 1945.

This is an edited extract of Joe’s adventure, flying the Martin Marauder solo!

“After the war I was assigned to a Naval air transport squadron at Patuxant River for a short time, and then to what is now Cape Canaveral. It used to be Banana River Naval air station, which was an assembly base for all the war surplus aircraft in the south east USA, for the Navy. When I arrived, nearly all the people originally stationed there were getting discharged on points for length of service etc.

After being there for only two weeks (there were no tower operators and only one lieutenant and five enlisted pilots), we asked if we could check out in any or all of the planes that were there, and were being brought there. The lieutenant didn't give a damn as he was also awaiting discharge, and so all of us enlisted men would get a handbook and sit in the cockpit for a while, figure out how to start the plane, get the emergency procedures put on a clipboard with the power settings and speeds, and when we got enough guts, would go out and take off.

There were a few hairy moments, especially on landings, as the runway was only 4000 feet long, and on the first flight we wanted to carry a bit more speed on the approach. The worst scare I think I had, was when I decided to check out in what the Navy called the JM-1, which was the Navy version of the Martin Marauder. The Navy used it for towing targets for gunnery practice. Its biggest problem was that all the handbooks were for the Air Force versions, and most of the switches and other stuff like fuel tank valves etc were in a different place.

Anyway, the day I got the guts to go, and not knowing that the Marauder had piss poor expander brakes, I took off solo. The damned aeroplane literally ran away with me. It was not a joke. After levelling out at 10,000 feet, I did a couple of approach to stalls, plus some feathering, steep turns, and finally returned for landing. I spent a long time trying to get the beast on the ground. I had read in the flight manual not to get too slow in the final turn with or without flaps, and not to let the engines load up at idle power.

I am sure I made five or six approaches before I got it on the ground the first time, although it was way down the runway. I decided to make it a touch and go as I was too far down to pull up. After a few more attempts to land I finally got it on the ground pretty fast, and with a bit of luck I managed to run out of runway and out of brakes at the same time!

I nursed it back to the ramp and parked it. There was only one mechanic left on the base, so the next guy took one of the other three remaining Marauders that were parked on the field. Meanwhile I managed to get checked out (sort of), in all twelve different types of aircraft on the base, plus the Martin Mariner PBM seaplane. While you sat up a hell of a lot higher than the Catalina's, it didn't fly or land much differently.

I then got transferred from there to San Diego to a ferry squadron moving airplanes all over the USA to maintenance and overhaul shops, and getting last planes off the assembly lines at the end of the war that had been sitting for a long time. My favourite was the Grumman Tigercat. It was a really easy plane to fly and land, but had a lousy hydraulic system and brakes. It had an emergency air bottle to stop the plane if you lost the hydraulic system. The only problem was that even though you could hand pump the gear and flaps down, when you pulled the air bottle to stop, you could only watch as the wheels locked, the tyres would burst and you just hung on. Other than that it was a real goer, with two Pratt and Whitney R2800 engines and only weighing about 7000lbs in ferry configuration. You could move it out to 400 knots for a thrill, but it would really chew the gas”.
…………………………………………..
Tony Fisher had just over 200 hours as a private pilot on a Fairchild Argus and a Ryan Trainer before his first solo on a Mustang. By contrast, Joe Ziskovsky was an experienced Navy pilot when he first flew solo on the Martin Marauder; a hot aircraft with a deadly reputation as a widow maker. Both pilots had the fright of their lives but survived to tell their tales. I am glad they did, because those sort of things wouldn’t happen these days…

[Centaurus]

A DISTINGUISHED PILOT
It all started with a yellow 1949 Standard Vanguard car that I bought while on posting to Townsville in 1957. Like my journalist father before me I was not blessed with mechanical aptitude and relied totally on friends to fix things that I had wrecked. The Vanguard was a solid looking car with an intricate gear change lever placed on the right of the steering wheel and it frequently jammed. Mobile phones had not been invented and when the gears of the Vanguard locked up one hoped it wasn’t at a busy intersection (Sod’s Law ensured it was, of course). Otherwise I was faced with little choice but to coast with the clutch depressed to the side of the road and hitch a lift to the Royal Australian Air Force base a few miles from my home.

Once through the guard gate it was a case of urgently calling in favours from certain airmen engineers or Colin Stewart, a signaller member of my crew. Colin could not only fix Lincoln radios, send rapid Morse code with an Aldis lamp, and play a mean trombone with the Salvation Army, but he too owned a 1949 Vanguard. He was clearly a valuable man to know.

At Townsville my job was two-fold. Qualified Flying Instructor and Aero Club Liaison Officer. The latter meant flight testing Air Training Corps cadets awarded RAAF sponsored scholarships to train at various aero clubs in Northern Queensland. For this I held a civilian instructor rating; the RAAF allotting me 50 hours a year continuation on light aircraft, in addition to my squadron flying duties. It was nothing to flog a four engine heavy bomber around the circuit – then after lunch, hop into a Dakota to fly to Cairns and on arrival strap into a Tiger Moth for a quick quality assurance check flight with an ATC cadet. The term Jack of all trades but master of none, comes to mind - particularly when it came to judging the flare height of the Tiger Moth after the lofty view from the Lincoln cockpit.

Back now to the problem of jammed gear levers in the 1949 Vanguard. Obviously one had to offer some level of remuneration to those who answered my Mayday calls. It was embarrassing to offer money and there was a limit to how many bottles of beer one carried in the boot to cover such exigencies. A heart-felt thanks was always appreciated but I felt bad about not coming up with something more than “thanks mate.” In any case, an officer never called an airman “mate”. It was both bad manners and unforgiveable, although christian names were OK, but only in private.

The Lincoln could be flown by one pilot with other crew members in specialist roles, such as radio operator, air gunner and navigator. On long flights a second pilot was carried. During World War Two, British four engine bombers such as the Lancaster carried a seven man crew including one pilot and a flight engineer. As aircraft losses to enemy action increased, pilot training was given to flight engineers so if the pilot was killed or injured someone on board had a reasonable chance of landing the stricken aircraft. Later, the flight engineer position was replaced by a second pilot.

During my tour on Lincolns it was common practice for captains to conduct air tests with an airman volunteer to act as second pilot. He was needed operate the start and priming buttons on the right hand side of the cockpit as well as operate the undercarriage and flap levers. It could be done single pilot but the feathering buttons on the far right of the cockpit were hard to reach by the strapped in captain. There was no shortage of volunteers from the airmen in the hangar or from the ranks of navigators or signallers lounging around the crew rooms with little to do.

The solution to my problems was staring me in the face; offer a flying lesson (officially a quick air test) in a Lincoln as a prize for fixing the gears on JL’s Vanguard.
The squadron task varied from long range search and rescue to operational flying exercises (OFE’s) with warships of the Royal Australian Navy. Although we carried two or more pilots for the ten hour flights the monotony of these flights could be relieved for some of the crew by slipping them into the left seat for a spot of dual instruction. This sometimes aroused the ire of the navigator who was not impressed by frequent heading changes ruining the neat lines on his plotting chart. Where the navigator was a former scrubbed pilot and he was offered some hand flying, the complaints stopped.

It was on such flights that the “student” could be taught straight and level and occasional turning. The squadron was equipped with a Link D4 Synthetic Trainer for pilots’ instrument flying practice. Senior management officers wondered why the new found interest in Link Trainer flying among navigators and signallers when previously the Link was the domain of pilots. Flight Sergeant Colin Stewart was given preference in dual because he was the real expert on Vanguard gear shifts and most likely to be called upon when I was in trouble with my car. Over several months we flew dual in the Lincoln as well as a Tiger Moth and Cessna 150 from the local flying school. It cost me nothing because of the free flying allotment of hours from the ATC flying scholarship continuation training. Each squadron pilot was entitled to four hours per month continuation training in the Lincoln and I used these hours to say thanks to various friends among the airmen for being on Search and Rescue standby duties when the Vanguard gear shift failed.

Effects of controls, stalling, steep turns were covered on the Lincoln with Colin Stewart, then at the weekend it might be forced landings and circuits in a Cessna 172 or Tiger Moth. We counted parts of the cross-country navigation exercises in the Lincoln as PPL map reading, switching on one occasion to the squadron Wirraway for a back-seat navex to another aerodrome. Simulated engine failures on take off happened to be in the Cessna with first solo in a Tiger Moth when there was no wind.

One day an Examiner of Airmen from the Department of Civil Aviation arrived at Townsville to flight test several students of the Townsville Aero Club. Colin Stewart my crew signaller was among those presented for test. By good fortune, the examiner and I had been on the same RAAF Pilot’s Course in 1952. He was shot down by ground fire while flying Meteors during the Korean War and became a POW. After repatriation he left the Service for the safer job of Examiner of Airman. I had a word in his ear about the unconventional dual on different types that I had given Col Stewart; falling back on the Old School Tie trick – after all we had been on No 8 Post war Pilots Course together, hadn’t we? To my relief, and I’m sure against his better judgment, he kindly allowed the hours flown on Lincolns despite the aircraft not being on the civil register. He flew with Colin in the 172 awarding him a well deserved PPL. Before returning to his office in Brisbane he quietly hinted I should not pull that stunt again. He was right of course.

Next up was Sergeant Clifford Dohle, another signaller in my crew. Cliff didn’t fix Vanguards, but had shown great promise during the times I had used him as second pilot on air tests and continuation training. He progressed over time to accurate flying under the hood in the Lincoln. He quickly picked up steep turns on three engines, stall recoveries and practice over-shoots at safe altitudes. I hasten to add that flying practice with crew members or airmen was confined to upper air work. The Lincoln was a difficult aircraft to take off and land at the best of times, and it would have been folly to risk life, limb and career to include circuit work. I had only done that once and must admit it was perhaps the closest shave of my career and certainly the most stupid.

It was during take off on a training flight from Darwin. The navigator was Ernie Storm on his last flight before changing his flying career and re-mustering to the Equipment Branch of the RAAF. He had flown a few hours on Tiger Moths many years earlier before being transferred to a Navigators course. He flew Lincolns on bombing operations against communist terrorists in Malaya and afterwards was posted to our squadron at Townsville. As a memento of his last flight as aircrew I somewhat overconfidently suggested he should conduct the take off while I supervised from the copilot’s seat. He said it was many years since he had carried out a take off and that was in a Tiger Moth. I assured him it would be safe and banished the real second pilot to the bomb-aimers seat in the nose of the Lincoln, reminding him it was the best view in town.

Darwin runway 29 was over 10,000 ft with a wide flight strip of red dusty ground. As expected, the Lincoln swung left as the tail came up and I urged the navigator to apply more right rudder and lead with the port outer throttle. It is stating the bleeding obvious that a Tiger Moth has different swing characteristics than a Lincoln and I took over control far too late to stop the Lincoln from leaving the sealed surface. Fortunately, we straightened up albeit 20 yards off the runway and it was then I saw a stationary fire truck on a taxiway several hundred yards ahead.
It was a case of firewalling the throttles to +18 psi boost and literally dragging the Lincoln off the dirt before passing a few feet over the fire truck. I still have a photo of the two tyre tracks in the red dirt. By now, ATC were thoroughly alarmed and having observed the huge pall of red dust caused by the slipstream from four Rolls Royce Merlins at maximum power, asked if operations were normal. It was nice of them to ask but we were too busy scaring ourselves to reply. It was then that the driver of the fire truck woke up from dozing in the sun and saw a Lincoln bearing down on him. We had passed overhead before he could reverse out of the way.

We were very lucky the flight strip contained no obstacles or ditches otherwise the ending could have been far different. That episode cost me many beers in the Mess at Townsville and it was fortunate the Commanding Officer never got to hear of my stupidity.
Then one day I flew with the Officer Commanding of North-East Australia Area Command, Group Captain “Smokey” Douglas DFC. The group captain was a tall dignified man with an impressive black moustache. A former wartime Catalina pilot, he had recently qualified on Lincolns but now spent most of his time behind a desk – sometimes called the Mahogany Bomber. The purpose of this trip was to practice for his instrument rating and Cliff Dohle was the signaller.

We had been airborne for an hour when the group captain said he wanted to stretch his legs as they ached after protracted asymmetric flight. I asked would he mind if the signaller could have a go at the controls. Although surprised at this somewhat unusual request he made no objection. Cliff strapped in and I covered the windscreen with a map while he went on to instruments. He had flown many hours straight and level with me on operational flying exercises and had handled the Lincoln on asymmetric flying during my own continuation training. He had also practiced on the D4 Link Trainer.

After a steep turn or so, I asked Cliff to conduct a clean stall and recovery. This he did under the hood with admirable skill. Then he did a practice go-around from full flap. I throttled back an inboard engine during the subsequent climb and again this was well handled. The group captain watched with growing interest and asked how long I had been giving my crew unofficial dual instruction. Concerned that trouble was brewing, I decided not to mention anything about my lack of mechanical skill and the jammed gear shifts on the Vanguard. Instead I mentioned lamely I had read war history books where crew members were given dual in case the pilots were killed in action. That the war in Europe had ended 15 years earlier rather shot my explanation to pieces, but if the group captain noticed this, he said nothing. To my relief he seemed happy with the reply.

After we landed the group captain summoned the signaller to his office and asked if he had applied for a Pilots Course. The signaller said he was not permitted to do so until a return of service as signaller. Regardless, the group captain told him to submit a pilot course application and that it would be strongly recommended. The real gear lever expert and Vanguard owner Colin Stewart, was also told to apply.

Months later, the result of both applications came through. Colin Stewart missed out because he was married and only un-married servicemen were posted to undergo the Pilots Course. This was a bitter disappointment to him but at least he now held a PPL. Cliff Dohle was successful and two years later won his Wings and was posted to fly Canberra bombers.

In 1966 he flew Iroquois helicopters on active service South Vietnam. During August of that year an encounter between a group of Australian soldiers and a numerically superior enemy force of Vietcong soldiers took place in a rubber plantation known as Long Tan. The battle raged through the night in torrential rain from a thunderstorm and faced with mounting casualties the Australians called for urgent ammunition re-supply. Two RAAF helicopters flew at tree-top height in appalling visibility and successfully delivered the badly needed ammunition. The Battle of Long Tan resulted in overwhelming defeat of the enemy force. Flight Lieutenant Cliff Dohle was one of the RAAF Iroquois pilots and was subsequently awarded a DFC for bravery in action.

Over the years since we both left the RAAF I lost touch with Colin Stewart but recently I met with Cliff Dohle, now retired. We laughed over the old times of flying Lincolns and it was with great pleasure I congratulated him on his distinguished service as a RAAF pilot.

[propelled]

OK, so am calling for Centaurus to have some sort of Unofficial, if not OFFICIAL PPRUNEr (OZ) of the year award or similar....


some of the best stories and replies i have read on this website.. and as a wannabe pilot myself, offer much to look fwd to in my upcoming choice of career!

whos up for a meet-up for few beers etc with Centaurus and fellow fan base later in the yr?
cheers

[OZBUSDRIVER]

Sounds good to me:ok:

RL, can attest from experience. Damn fine instructor of airmen and all round damn upright bloke:ok:

[sixtiesrelic]

Count me in.
I've already teed up a prospective meeting with him. I'm going to be in Melbourne twice, later on this year. 10 to 20th August and 9th Nov to probably 23rd Nov.
Sixties

[john_tullamarine]

We haven't had a Melbourne Bash for some years now .. could be a good couple of days ?

[Propstop]

Centaurus…what a wonderful collection of tales, yet it brings into focus the value of experience and recognising your own mortality in decisions which you have made.
All of us in aviation have lost a friend or a colleague, or certainly know somebody who has paid the ultimate price.
I remember the training I got at TAA during my apprenticeship which was five years and a lot of mentoring by the wise old LAME’S of yesteryear which only gets appreciated as time goes on. (What did those silly old buggers know was usually in our thoughts as we were being lectured for a tiny thing left undone, or some such thing?) It is the sum of the small things which causes catastrophes.
Over the years I have had the pleasure of working with some characters who were utter professionals as well. I am sure I have met and possibly been in the jump seat with TG and Centaurus in the old TAA and Flying Unit days. It was also times when everybody had the total respect for each other as they carried out their jobs with dedication and professionalism; due to the fact their whole being was a love of aviation. It was simply their mistress and the wives often felt relegated to second place.
I have also worked with some characters outside of Australia and have swapped many a yarn over a cold one or three with them; Hugh Prior, Harry Hanlon, and Hans Grabbenwager to name a few. Gentlemen, I will treasure those memories.
These days both pilots and engineers are trained to the “world best practise” which is the quickest and the cheapest way. Usually they have only a passing interest in aviation instead it being part of their core and it shows. The approach to exams is when they fail it is unfair, and there should be assessments instead. Status is more important than professionalism.
With the forgoing attitudes a LAME who has only been a few years from their 12 month training, or a 250 hour pilot in the right seat of a jet are both useless when the going gets hard. A freshly minted license is simply a license to learn nothing more; not be the boss. If they want to learn and they are keen, I have all the time in the world for them as I say there are no silly questions, only foolish mistakes because the questions were not asked.
I fear for the continuing safety in the air in the future; I sincerely hope my fears are unfounded and we continue to have a safe aviation future with no loss of an aircraft full of passengers, but with an increasingly dysfunctional CASA, airlines run by accountants with no eye on safety because of the cost, low hour pilots and LAMES I often wonder.
To all of us who have made aviation for what it is today, all the blood, sweat and tears, the extremely steep learning curves as we transitioned from pistons to jets, and now the avalanche of automation in the latest aircraft, we can be proud of the legacy we have left and hope it is carried on by those who follow.
Centaurus, I dips me lid!

[Centaurus]

Few of us can honestly say that we have never laughed at the discomfort of others, particularly when the incident was amusing and only pride was injured. As a child I giggled at the antics of Punch and Judy, Laurel and Hardy, and the Marx brothers. Years passed, and adults would laugh at Candid Camera, beamed at embarrassed victims while viewers watched behind the anonymity of the idiot box. Depending on your point of view, the show was either puerile or funny. A keen appreciation of the ridiculous has plagued me ever since, and occasionally it has landed me in trouble.

Take for example the case of my Commanding Officer at RAAF Base Townsville. It was 1960 and he was a Wing Commander with a bristling black moustache, and a no nonsense dynamic personality. He was variously known (behind his back, of course) as Big Julie, The Old Man, The Boss or simply, The Wingco. The radio callsigns of our Lincolns all started with J for Juliet. For some reason, the CO would shorten this to Julie - hence he became Big Julie.

The Wingco had flown Beaufighters during the war and while shooting up some Jap floatplanes in Timor was himself shot down by Zero fighters. They were determined to finish him off as he swam for the shore, but he managed to duck under the water every time the Jap pilots fired at him.

After a long swim in shark infested waters, the Wingco finally made it to shore, only to be betrayed a few days later by a local native who was after a reward. He was shipped to Japan, and like most prisoners of war suffered great hardship before being repatriated in 1945. Later he flew Dakotas during the Berlin Airlift.

I first met the Wingco when he took over command of No.10 Maritime Reconnaissance Squadron which was equipped with Lincoln Mk 31 bombers. The Lincoln was a larger and more powerful version of the well known Lancaster bomber, while the Mk 31 had an extended fuselage forward of the cockpit which contained submarine hunting equipment. Our version was known as the Long Nose Lincoln.

As the squadron flying instructor, I was responsible for the conversion and instrument rating training of pilots newly posted to the squadron. On the day in question I had been flying with the Wingco as part of his conversion to the Lincoln, and had just completed a period of circuit training - known as crashes and dashes. The Wingco had a fairly gruff manner at times and in deference to rank I still addressed him as "Sir", even though I was his instructor. In turn he was scrupulously fair to me, and despite my throwing simulated emergencies at him during his training, he never complained. Except this once - and the emergency wasn't simulated this time..

The day was hot and humid. In the circuit the pressure had been on, but Big Julie had coped well with two engines out on one side and sundry other bits of bastardry associated with learning to fly the Lincoln. The aircraft was not airconditioned and we sweated under lightweight flying suits and protective helmets known as bone-domes. At the end of the sortie we taxied back to the tarmac and parked facing into wind. The idea was to change over with another crew who were waiting outside the main servicing hangar nearby.

Leaving the Wingco in the left seat guarding the brakes and watching the engine temperatures, I folded the instructor's seat and moved forward to remove the escape hatch situated in the nose. This hatch was also used as the crew entrance, as well as a parachute bale out point. A waiting ground staff member then placed a long ladder against the open hatch and signalled me to disembark. Carrying my parachute and nav bag, I climbed carefully down the ladder and sauntered towards the starboard wing to wait for Big Julie who would be following shortly. The replacement crew then climbed up the ladder under the watchful eye of the airman standing by the nose of the Lincoln. Shielding my eyes from the sun glare, I could see the Wingco changing seats with the incoming pilot and then make his way into the nose compartment to follow me.

The four Rolls Royce Merlin liquid cooled engines were idling at 1500 rpm, while the park brake held the aircraft from moving forward. The high idle revs on these engines were essential to keep propeller slipstream passing over the huge radiators which cooled the water glycol agent. If the revs were too low, and the Lincoln not faced into wind, the glycol would soon boil, causing engine damage.

The Wingco had just stepped on the ladder, when suddenly the Lincoln started to move slowly forward. Either the air pressure in the brakes had fallen to dangerous levels, or the parking brake had been knocked off during the changeover of pilots. Either way, the situation was serious, with the Wingco caught halfway down the ladder and 30 tons of aircraft closing over him. Looking up at the cockpit fifteen feet above the tarmac, I could see that the new pilot was busy with cockpit drills and obviously unaware that the aircraft was moving.


I waved frantically to attract his attention and heard the Wingco cursing as he found himself trapped halfway down the ladder which was now passing beyond the vertical. With commendable speed, the airman who had been standing by the ladder, bent double and grabbed the bottom rung. With a mighty effort he lifted the ladder from the ground, and calling for the Wingco to jump clear, staggered backwards at the same rate as the aircraft was moving.

I was still trying to attract the attention of the pilot, when I became aware of the arc of the starboard outboard propeller slashing within inches of my face. I stepped backwards just in time to avoid a close shave - literally. The airman (who subsequently received rapid promotion), continued to walk grimly backwards holding the ladder clear of the ground. Fortunately there were no other aircraft nearby.

From inside the aircraft the pilot heard the commotion and looking up realized that the Lincoln was moving. He immediately locked the brakes. This jerked the Lincoln to a dead stop, causing the Wingco to be thrown clear of the ladder. On the way down he side-swiped the unfortunate airman and both men landed in a sprawling heap.

You will understand that I had never before seen a senior officer in such an undignified position. One second he was hanging from the top rung of the ladder like a hairy ape, and the next second he was hopping around on one leg like a demented frog yelling that he broken his ankle. His bone-dome had fallen over his face and the language was something to hear. The airman was highly indignant, having been entangled with the ladder and flattened by Big Julie in free-fall. My near decapitation by the No.4 propeller instantly forgotten, I found myself helpless with laughter at the scene in front of me and was forced to turn away lest the Old Man spot my tears of mirth.

By now, the action had brought some of the troops out of the hangar, and although they had missed the first few seconds of the drama, they were delighted witnesses to the Wingco still hopping in circles complaining bitterly about his damaged leg, and the sight of the poor airman trying to untangle the ladder about his person.

As it turned out, the Wingco had only twisted his ankle during his fall. I was still biting my tongue to stop the laughter when the Old Man came at me like an express train with a "What the bloody hell are you laughing at, Flight Lieutenant?" I managed to to get out a "Who - me Sir?" - followed by a mumbled apology, before he said- "Get this in the Flying Order Book immediately - In future I want chocks in front of the bloody wheels for all turn-arounds." And that became the fastest Air Force Flying Order that I have ever written.


ROOM WITH A VIEW

Some weeks later it was my turn to look a right twit, this time during a flight from Townsville to Darwin. The Lincoln was indicating 160 knots at 7,000 feet on a bumpy summer day. There were seven crew members including a newly graduated sergeant pilot who was the co-pilot. He needed handling experience on the heavy bomber, so I put him in the captain's seat while I walked back to the rear of the aircraft to stretch my legs. Leaving my headset in the cockpit, I squeezed past the navigator who was taking a sun shot with his sextant through the astro dome. I asked him to keep an eye on the co-pilot and that I would back in a few minutes.

The Lincoln was equipped with three electrically operated gun turrets. The rear turret could also be turned manually via two handles, and was situated at the tail of the aircraft between the two rudders. When turned, the turret would protrude into the slipstream. This caused the aircraft to yaw slightly, especially if the turret was not central for take-off. Entrance to the turret was from inside the fuselage via two small sliding doors. After entry, the gunner would close the doors and secure his lap-strap. It was a cramped and lonely position which could be bitterly cold at high altitude. In an emergency, the gunner could bale out by simply turning the turret sideways, opening the doors behind him, and fall out backwards into the sky. Hopefully he would have first remembered to clip on his parachute.

On my way to the rear of the aircraft, I paused to have a brief chat to the signaller seated behind his high frequency radio sets and a morse key. Each member of the crew were required to be proficient at sending and receiving morse code. This included flashing light signal messages with an Aldis lamp.

Clambering over the wing main spar I finally reached the rear turret, opened the sliding doors, and squeezed inside. The view from the turret was magnificent, although wartime rear gunners would have had little time to appreciate the scenery. In their isolated position they were sitting ducks for enemy fighters and they suffered high casualties.

Mornington Island, which is situated in the Gulf of Carpentaria, passed behind us. Through gaps in the clouds I could see the desolate coastline of northern Australia as we crossed the border between Queensland and the Northern Territory. There were big salt water crocodiles down there, and rumour had it that the mosquitos were even bigger than the crocs.

It was getting bumpy and the aircraft was rolling and skidding as the inexperienced co-pilot overcontrolled on the rudders. The tall fins on the stabilizer were flexing in the turbulence and I began to feel the sweating signs of air sickness. My sympathy was with any rear gunner stuck with a rough pilot, and it was definitely time to return to the cockpit before I disgraced myself.

The turret doors were still open (I had forgotten to close them earlier), and while elbowing myself backwards from the confines of the turret I thought I heard the whine of an electric motor over the deafening noise from the engines and slipstream. To my dismay the turret began to traverse, and in fright I grabbed at the machine gun breeches directly in front of me and held on grimly. Over my shoulder through the open turret doors, I could see the shark infested waters of the Gulf of Carpentaria far below.

The slipstream pulled at my flying suit through the open turret doors and I forced back that dreadful compulsion to fall over the edge that one experiences when looking down from a tall building. Up front and oblivious to the fun and games occuring at the rear of the Lincoln, the co-pilot was thoroughly enjoying himself dodging around clouds, while I hung on to the rear guns, scared witless and unable to fasten my safety belt. I couldn't bear to look down outside the aircraft.

While trying to exit from the turret, I must have inadvertently touched one of the buttons that energized the turning mechanism. Not having been trained on the turret operation, there was no way I was going to release my grip on the guns in order to rectify the situation. Without a headset, I was unable to contact the rest of the crew who remained blissfully unaware that their captain was up the proverbial creek without a paddle. The wind blast through the open door was cold and I was not a happy little vegemite.

After a lifetime, someone realized that the captain was a long time gone, and when attempts to contact me on the intercom failed, the signaller was despatched to investigate. Signallers were also qualified as gunners, and some had occasionally found themselves in a similar fix to myself during their early training.

Arriving down the back, the signaller soon twigged to my predicament, and doubling up in laughter, he happily reported to the rest of the crew that the captain was stuck in the rear turret with the doors open and his bum over the edge. Sure enough, the navigator just had to have a look and he too almost wet himself with laughter.

The new pilot was still gleefully horsing around the cloud tops, and finally the navigator (bless his cotton socks) decided it might be safer for all concerned if I was back in the left seat. The signaller called at me to let go with one hand and attempt to manually wind the turret back to centre. I tried not to notice the ocean far below, and bravely disengaging one cramped hand from the gun breech, eventually managed to wind the turret to a safer position.

After thanking the signaller for his help, I returned to the cockpit and turfed the co-pilot from the left seat. Having regained my lost dignity, I suggested to him that in future he should ensure that all turns should be smooth and well balanced. I added that ham-fisted flying could make the rest of the crew airsick - especially the bloke in the rear turret...

[Centaurus]

An Interesting Situation.

In writing this article, I am reminded of the often used patter by young instructors in which the student is told to keep an eye on the temperatures and pressures on the take off. The reality is that oil and cylinder head temperatures are slow to indicate trouble, whilst oil pressure needles can flicker and vary by small amounts depending on engine power and RPM. A sudden drop of oil pressure near lift off could be an impending engine failure, or a gauge malfunction but there is simply no way of knowing for certain. A late abort for an engine gauge reading, when combined with a limiting runway length, has all the potential for an over run accident.

The correct time for a last minute assessment of engine health is at brake release with priority then given to directional control, lookout, and airspeed indications. Good airmanship dictates that a critical stop/go decision should not normally be based upon one gauge alone. Always check for corroborative evidence before committing oneself to an irrevocable course of action.

The following incident happened on a dark Pacific night, where a seemingly impossible combination of factors caused a B737 to come just a few seconds away from disaster.

The best job I ever had was flying a Boeing 737 for a small airline, which was based on a tiny island just 27 miles from the equator in the Central Pacific. The nearest daytime alternate was 375 miles away and a night diversion meant 500 miles to the Marshall Islands, or the burning of one's bridges of two hours island holding fuel, followed by landing or ditching! Our destinations included many of the Pacific islands between Hong Kong and Honolulu, the Solomons to Rarotonga, and New Zealand to Fiji. Our air hostesses all spoke English in a variety of charming regional accents and many were natural dancers who had been taught from childhood that music, laughter, and dancing was all that was needed to enjoy a full life.

We flew the popular Boeing 737 with most of the pilots expert at short runway operations and black hole approaches to remote islands. Some of us had been trained in the RAAF and our number included experienced ex fighter and transport pilots. Other pilots included Americans and Kiwis, while the remainder were Australian GA pilots who had been employed on charter and instructor flying before getting that lucky break into an airline.

The runway on our island base was 5600' long with a road cutting across only feet from each end. The over run area was just 100 feet from the ocean, with the prospect of fatal damage if the aircraft collided with huge phosphate rock boulders which formed the sea wall. In the wet season, strong southerlies meant cross winds up to 30 knots whilst huge waves whipped up by the winds dashed themselves against the rocks, sending mist and spray over the threshold.

Readers may remember a widely publicized accident to a Boeing 737 at Washington, USA, which tried to get airborne covered in snow and ice. It was unable to hold altitude and, after hitting a bridge, crashed nose first into the frozen Potomac river. The black box recorder was recovered and its evidence showed that the engines had not delivered full take off power during the take off. The engine power indicators had given false information to the crew, possibly due to ice blocking air inlet tubes which, in turn, sensed the power delivered. These tubes, which have an opening the size of a drinking straw, measure the pressure of air being drawn in by the engine compressors, and compare it to the pressure increase due to combustion which is pushed out at the back of the engine. Known as PT2 sensing tubes, they show the engine pressure ratio (EPR) on a cockpit gauge.

In simple terms, if the front tube is blocked, the sensor thinks no air is coming into the front of the engine. The rear sensor, operating normally, senses lots of high pressure hot air being ejected from the tail pipe and thus the EPR will overread. The natural tendency to remedy the apparent overpower indication on the EPR gauges is for the pilot to ease the throttles back in order to keep within perceived engine limits. The engine RPM gauge will, however, show the pilot the real power being produced. Obviously, if 100% RPM is indicated, the engine is really pushing out lots of power, regardless of a false reading on the EPR gauge caused by a blocked PT2 tube. The advantage of the EPR gauge is that accurate power settings can be measured, providing of course that the system works as advertised.

Following the lengthy investigation into the Potomac accident, notices were sent to all operators of Pratt & Whitney JT8D series engines, warning that crews should be on alert for erroneous EPR indications in icing conditions and to rely primarily on the engine RPM gauge for actual indications of power. Typically, the RPM gauge is called an N1 or Fan gauge and will usually show 35% N1 whilst idling, 83% in cruise, and 95% - 101% on take off. Blocking of PT2 tubes by substances other than ice was not discussed in the Alert Bulletin.
Boeing recommended that the crew calculate the expected EPR and N1 gauge readings for each take off. These readings, which are placed on a take off data card will vary, depending on the take off weight of the aircraft, length of runway, ambient air temperature, and aerodrome pressure altitude. Also on the card will be the V1 decision speed, rotation speed, and other information pertaining to the take off.

The following episode began when I was rostered to fly as a passenger on a non-stop night flight to Guam in the Western Pacific. Flight time was four hours and, on arrival at Guam in the early morning, I had planned to catch some sleep at The Hilton Hotel before crewing another flight to Manila.

There were 60 passengers including some deadhead crew on the flight and, after boarding, I settled into a first class seat, adjusted my reading glasses, and watched the senior hostess brief her cabin crew as the engines were started. A few minutes later, at 0130 local time, the aircraft moved onto the runway, back tracking for take off into the north west. From my window seat one could see a line of cars on the nearby road only 50 yards from the runway. The flashing blue light on a traffic policeman's motor bike indicated that he had stopped all traffic to prevent anyone getting blown off the road by the jet blast on take off. A few seconds later the senior hostess came to me and said that the captain had invited me up front for take off. Like most pilots, I welcomed the chance of observing the action from the cockpit and, leaving my reading glasses on the seat next to me, I entered the darkened flight deck, quickly sat on the jump seat and thanked the captain, whom I had trained for his command some months earlier.

The first officer was to carry out the take off and I caught the last part of the emergency briefing as we slowly turned to line up. The take off data card indicated 10 degrees of flap for take off, V1 130 knots, VR (rotate) speed 135 knots, and initial climb speed 145 knots. Even without reading glasses I could plainly see the EPR gauge digital cursors set for 2.18 EPR, which meant full power was needed. This was understandable, considering the short runway, the hot night, and the extra fuel needed for a long flight. The data card also showed that the crew had calculated 100% N1 was needed for take off and this tied in with the 2.18 EPR limit. The N1 gauges were dimly lit and I could not see the needles clearly without my glasses, which I had left in the cabin.

The traffic officer's blue strobe light was still flickering on the road ahead and, from our position on the runway threshold, I could just make out the surf of the Pacific a few feet behind us and the dark shape of the control tower some two thirds down the runway and just off the parallel main road. From previous experience, I knew that the indicated air speed should be around 120 knots as the aircraft passed abeam the tower, with lift off speed usually 10 seconds later.

The captain opened the throttles to 1.6 EPR on the brakes, checked that both engines spooled up evenly, then quickly advanced the throttles to the planned take off power of 2.18 EPR. The brakes were released and the first officer began to steer the aircraft down the centre line. Acceleration appeared normal, and I could clearly see both EPR gauges steady at 2.18. The airspeed indicator needle began to accelerate past 60 knots and I checked all engine gauges in a swift eye scan. Fuel flow, N1, Exhaust Gas Temperature (EGT), were all pointing in the right area, although somewhat blurred to my vision without my glasses. Seconds passed and the captain called "80 knots", as the dual airspeed indicator check. A sixth sense warned me that the acceleration was not the solid kick in the back that I would have expected from 2.18 EPR, and at the same instant I noticed the captain begin to glance rapidly from the instruments to the remaining runway ahead. There was no readily discernible problem but I had an uneasy feeling that something was not quite right.

The company procedure was that, apart from the 80 knot airspeed check, no calls were to be made by either pilot unless something was seriously amiss. On this occasion, the take off seemed to proceeding normally and, apart from my vague unease at the perceived lack of marked acceleration, I was unable to pinpoint any impending problem.

The control tower and passenger terminal building flashed past the right wing tip, as I strained forward against my shoulder straps in an attempt to focus more clearly on the vital N1 gauges. The EPR needles were clear - exactly 2.18, but again I could not get an accurate look at the N1 without glasses. The airspeed reading went through 110 knots, we should have been perhaps 10 knots faster from my experience, and my unease grew stronger. One thing was happening for sure, and that was we were rapidly using up the remaining runway. Six runway lights to go, and we were still at least 10 knots below V1, the go/stop decision speed. It was, to say the least, an interesting situation and I hoped that the captain would not make a split second decision to abort the take off, because we could now never pull up in time, even with maximum reverse thrust and braking. Our V1 speed was useless now, and the invisible sea swept rocks were only seconds ahead.

My unease had just changed into the cold realization that we were never going to attain lift off speed before reaching the end of the runway, when suddenly the captain urgently called " ROTATE NOW!", and hauling back on the control column he pushed both throttles hard against their forward stops. Boeing term it "firewalling the thrust levers",to be used as a last resort to climb out of trouble.

The last runway light disappeared under us, as did a fleeting close up sight of the brilliant blue flashing strobe light of a shocked traffic cop's motor bike. I felt the reassuring surge of thrust propel the 737 upwards at a body angle of 20 degrees, and silently thanked the Lord that the captain had made an instant correct decision to firewall the Pratt & Whitneys. I knew that the Potomac accident might have been averted if the crew had only hit the throttles wide open to the stops, to prevent their ice laden Boeing from stalling.

We were later told that the flight data recorder showed that the aircraft had lifted off at 15 knots BELOW the calculated VR or rotation speed, and that the aircraft had flown just 19 feet above the sea for several hundred yards before gradually climbing away. We never did see the towering metal structure of the phosphate cantilevers that passed above our altitude, and situated 200 yards to the right of the extended runway centre line...

Ahead was sheer blackness and the captain locked on to instruments as the ASI needle crept towards safe flap retraction speed. The VSI was held at 1000 fpm, and the first officer set the climb thrust at 1.93 EPR as the flaps were slowly retracted in sequence. It seemed an abnormally long time before the aircraft reached 250 knots, which was the scheduled climb speed that night, and the rate of climb was well below normal. Finally we passed 5,000 ft, engaged the autopilot, and called for coffee whilst we held a round table conference on the recent events. The maintenance engineer who had been seated in the cabin came up front and said that a couple of deadheading pilots down the back sent their respects to the captain but they hoped he had finished playing silly buggers with the aircraft as they were hoping to get some shut eye! They had obviously felt the thrust change through the seat of their pants.

We turned our attention to a detailed scan of the engine instruments and the engineer remarked that the N1 indications seemed low when compared with the 1.93 EPR climb setting. From the back of my mind came the recollections of previous problems that I had experienced several months ago with an over reading EPR gauge. On the first occasion, we had just attained take off thrust early in the roll, when one EPR needle moved to an apparent overboost figure of 2.35 EPR, whilst the second needle stayed steady at the planned 2.10 EPR. The other engine parameters were normal for take off and, in particular, both engines were turning up nicely at 100% N1. Clearly the problem was a faulty EPR indication and, as our speed was only 50 knots, I decided to stop the take off run and return to the terminal for a chat with the engineers. A check of the PT2 tube, plus an engine run up indicated the problem had cleared itself and we departed an hour later.

More recently, at 100 knots on take off, a similar fault occurred and this time, the F/O urgently called that the engine was over speeding. He attempted to pull back the throttle on that engine to limit the peak EPR, but I quickly stopped his hand and told him to ignore the faulty reading. He was convinced however, that the engine was over boosting because of the high EPR reading, although I felt no asymmetric yaw on the flight controls. I again prevented him from dragging the offending EPR back and we continued the take off using the N1 RPM (which was steady at normal take off thrust). Once at a safe altitude, I turned on the hot air bleed system to the engine anti ice, and almost immediately the offending EPR needle did a few cartwheels and returned to normal. We were not in icing conditions but the hot air used for de-icing had obviously cleared some obstruction in the PT2 tube. The flight was continued without further incident.

Back now to the present situation, where early indications of long distance storm activity began to show up on the weather radar screen. The storm tops were around 35,000 ft, and at our dismal rate of climb we would be in the thick of things in the next 20 minutes.

With the throttles set at the computed climb EPR, it was readily apparent that both N1 readings of 88% and commensurate low fuel flows meant that some common denominator was affecting both engines at the same time. We
discussed fuel contamination but decided that it was unlikely, given that the engines had delivered maximum available overboost when the throttles had been firewalled earlier. I gave fleeting thought to the possibility of EPR gauge malfunction, especially after my previous experience with this problem, and a knowledge of the Potomac accident. With an aerodrome temperature of 30 degrees centigrade, icing of the PT2 tubes could be discounted and, in any case, it would be highly unlikely that an identical malfunction would affect both PT2 tubes simultaneously.

On my suggestion, the captain momentarily switched on the engine anti-ice to both engines. This would normally cause a small loss of about 5% N1 and an EPR drop of .08, which reflected the stealing of some hot compressor air for piping to the engine inlet cowls and PT2 tubes.
The N1 dropped obediently but both EPR gauges went crazy, increasing by an unheard of amount, and in the opposite direction to that expected. My mind went back to a paragraph in the Potomac accident report which mentioned that with the engine anti-ice switched on and PT2 tube blocked, the EPR needle would indicate a reverse reading to that expected. Thus, tonight, the impossible had occurred, an identical erroneous reading on both EPR gauges at the same time. The PT2 tubes were obviously still blocked but we now knew for sure that both engines were operating normally. The decision was made to return to land and, at 500 ft, the landing lights were switched on, illuminating drifting mists of phosphate dust from the nearby mine. The touch down was perfect, right on the 1000 ft runway marker.
Well coordinated reverse thrust and braking gave nice cool brakes on arrival back at the terminal.
As the passengers disembarked to wait out the delay in the airport terminal, engineers had already removed the engine nose cones in order to check out the PT2 system. With the aid of a torch the cause of our troubles was soon discovered. The PT2 tube of each engine, the sensor that gave the vital Engine Pressure Ratio readings for take off, were blocked, not with ice but with congealed phosphate dust and some other glutinous substance. It was impossible to determine the precise time that the tubes became blocked, or how the substance found its way into the system.

At dawn a few hours later, early workers driving past the departure end of the runway were the first to see debris from the coast road and nearby cliff face rocks, blasted back over the threshold by the jet efflux of the 737. Black skid marks on the road showed where the traffic policeman had burned up rubber in a spectacular scramble for safety.

Later calculations showed that the actual power on take off was around 2.05 EPR, even though the EPR needles were steady at 2.18. That power would have been ample for a long runway, and in fact was a setting frequently used for the right combination of runway length and gross take off weight. The N1 gauge scale between 91% and 100% is less than 3mm and very difficult to read in dim light, especially at a quick glance. This might explain why the crew were unable to pick the apparent lower than normal N1 readings on the take off run. At night especially, it is also impossible to make any meaningful correlation between rate of acceleration and runway remaining. Until it is almost too late, that is.

Several months afterwards, I read a report which described an incident on a Boeing 727 which departed at night from an airport in USA. The aircraft used 9000 ft of runway and during rotation, it cleaned up the ILS localiser aerials situated more than 1000 ft beyond the overrun area. The aircraft was damaged but continued to fly. Investigation revealed that icing conditions had prevailed and the crew had failed to actuate the engine anti ice switches for take off. All the PT2 tubes had iced up during the take off roll, giving significant EPR gauge error. The crew did not detect any acceleration problem until almost too late and also did not firewall the throttles.

Later versions of the Boeing 737 have CFM56 engines which rely on N1 gauges as the primary power indication. EPR gauges still remain on many older jet transports.

[Centaurus]

TEN TONNES AND HOLD THE POTION.


Normally I am not superstitious. Well, maybe just a little. OK, I avoid walking under ladders, I am tempted to throw salt over my left shoulder and I certainly touch wood. Yes, I believe rats will leave a sinking ship – but wouldn’t you?


In the Pacific islands superstition is rife. A former airline pilot I know has lived on a tiny Pacific island for 29 years. He is unemployed, does not have citizenship but the government let him stay there with free housing. He keeps fit by running around the island and the locals accept him as one of their own. Let’s call him Bill, although that is not his real name.


Bill joined the local airline around 1977 and elected to be based there on the island rather than in Australia. It was tax free, accommodation provided and his contract included free medical and hospital services. The money was good and because there was little to spend it on, his bank account grew nicely. In 1988 the airline’s 30 Australian based pilots went on strike over pay and conditions of service and perceived safety issues. At that time, only four pilots lived on the island. Their salary was tax free, the booze plentiful and cheap and it was pleasant life style. The airline flew to exotic destinations such as Hong Kong and Honolulu and the flight attendants who lived on the island were good company.

The government of the island made a lot of money from natural resources and they owned ships and several Boeings. They named these ships and Boeings after island chiefs. One ship was destined for the ship-breakers in Taiwan as it was going to cost a mint to renew the sea-worthy certificate. It had been found un-seaworthy by the local authorities of another island 500 miles away who prevented it from leaving their harbour. The vessel was named after an eminent lady of the rich island who was still alive but very old. The superstitious islanders considered it bad luck to get rid of the ship while the old lady was still around. So it was left at anchor in the lagoon with a skeleton crew aboard to run the generators and pump out sea water. They had no shortage of girl-friends with whom to enjoy the warm nights. This went on for several years when eventually the old lady went to Heaven and the ship was towed to Taiwan and sold for scrap metal.


The islanders who lived on the rich island were grateful when the four pilots who lived on the island refused to join the strike. The government refused to bow to the pilot’s demands and their contracts were terminated, leaving just four pilots and three Boeings. More pilots were recruited this time from India and essential services resumed. Food supplies and other goods were flown from Australia.

Although unpopular with their colleagues in Australia the four remaining pilots who lived on the island were heroes in the eyes of the government and the people. Time passed and these pilots themselves moved on, leaving Bill as the last of the original pilots that manned the airline in 1977.

Perceived by some as eccentric, Bill clashed with the wrong person and was removed from flying in 1992. In a similar position, other expatriate workers on the island would have deported by the government on the first plane out. The turn-over of qualified expatriates had historically been high. Cross the wrong island official and you were out, fast.

Although Bill did not know it, he was regarded by a grateful government as the last of the Mohicians – the band of four pilots who had remained with the airline. It would bring bad luck to sack him. Financially he was secure, living on investments and bank interest made during his airline years. With the island’s natural resources drying up there was no more money coming in and the once rich islanders became poor. The government was broke and so was the bank that had Bill’s money. Despite numerous changes of government, none were game to deport Bill back to Australia. The decision had long been made to let Bill stay as long as he wished. Such is the power of superstition.

In the early 1980’s the airline’s Boeings were landing on islands in Micronesia, the Marshalls, the Carolines and the Solomons. Guam, Saipan, Chuuk (Truk), and Koror in Palau were popular destinations for Japanese tourists in particular. Flight attendants of the airline were recruited from several Pacific islands. Each brought with them individual superstitions common to their own country.

One particular flight attendant from Malaita Island in the Solomons, was feared by her colleagues because Malaita, a mountainous jungle covered island, had an evil reputation for black magic and sorcerers. Playing on their fears, this attractive dark skinned young woman let it be known she possessed certain magic powers and that unless the other flight attendants “volunteered” to do her flights, she would eat their eyeballs while they slept. It worked, because she rarely flew and spent much of her time relaxing on the beach on full pay. Not bad if you can get away with it..

The power of superstitious beliefs, on one island at least, is well illustrated by the two preceding stories. The next story however is about my own clash with superstition and starts on a balmy evening at the bar of the Hilton Hotel in Guam. Our crew had arrived from Hong Kong and were relaxing before resuming duty next day. Some had gone shopping, others were sleeping, and I was reading a book by the pool when I was joined by Henrietta, a air hostess from the Micronesian atoll of Chuuk. In those days it was called Truk and the title of air hostess has been long replaced by the more neutral term Flight Attendant, or FA for short.

Henrietta isn’t her real name, but close enough for the purpose of this story. She was attractive with laid back manner. Where possible the airline rostered the FA’s through their home islands. Some had children there and of course, relatives. In the islands everyone is a cousin. When passing through Truk on previous occasions I had seen two small children waiting for Henrietta behind the airport security fence and as she stepped from the aircraft they would wave and call out to her. The Immigration staff knew her well and allowed the children into the terminal building to greet her.

On the following day we were scheduled to return to our home island via Truk and Ponape and I asked Henrietta about the two children at Truk airport. They belonged to her, she said, and always met the inbound Boeing in the hope their mother would on it. During the Pacific war, Truk was a Japanese military base and the target of constant air attacks by American bombers. After the war Truk Lagoon became a popular destination for dive parties eager to explore the many sunken Japanese ships.


With two children, I assumed therefore that Henrietta was married although she certainly had no shortage of suitors among the airline pilots. When asked for how long she had been married, she replied quite simply that she was still single. I could understand one child for a single mother, but how come two – I asked. She had no choice – it was black magic, she replied.

You must be kidding, I said – You are an intelligent woman, how did you fall for that line? At that Henrietta got quite huffy and scolded me for laughing at her. I was fascinated and after I bought her a drink, she told me this story.


She was sweet sixteen and living with her parents and many sisters and brothers. A local lad was keen on her but she was too naive to know that he only wanted one thing. She told him to get lost. One night, after her parents had retired, she thought she heard a quiet knock on her bedroom window. Unlatching it, she became aware of a strange compelling scent wafting from a figure crouching in the shadows outside. It was the man who had wanted to marry her. The Trukese are a superstitious race and Henrietta had been brought up by her mother to believe in the power of love potions, as well antidotes to dilute their effect if forewarned. But now she had been caught unawares.

She knew immediately her suitor must sailed away to one of the outer islands and from someone dealing in black magic, had obtained a love potion. Her mind in a hypnotic daze, she soon succumbed to his advances, while as far as the suitor was concerned, the canoe trip over rough seas to get the potion was worth every penny – or US dollar. Twice Henrietta fell pregnant before the spell wore off leaving the boyfriend to try his luck elsewhere.


Her story intrigued me and back on base I talked to Pamela, an island lady married to an Australian surveyor. I told her of my conversation with Henrietta. She was not surprised and explained that superstitions had existed all over the Pacific for centuries. She herself believed implicitly in certain events, despite being educated in Australia where magic spells are unheard of. But, she said, when sensing I was more than casually interested in this love potion thing – take my advice and never stuff around with black magic, because it can turn around and bite you. Meaning of course it can bring bad luck as well as good luck.

The potion concerned is gathered in a small phial and rubbed into the skin. Once the object of desire is aware of it’s scent it is only a matter of time before you are in like Flynn – that was according to Freddie our Trukese refueller, when I asked him during my next flight there.


A few weeks later I was in Hong Kong and bought some Brute after-shave. Back again on my island after dropping into Guam and Truk, I hitched a lift to Pamela’s house with goodies from overseas including fruit, veggies and magazines for her husband in return for lunch and a beer. Apart from driving aimlessly around the island clockwise and then counter-clockwise, there was little to do, and to remain sane, pilots would drop in on expatriate friends with goodies and news of the outer world. In turn, the families would welcome the pilots with open arms and something to eat. The local hotel where they stayed had food, but the mice would piddle into the flour and all that sort of thing.

Possessed with an unfortunate warped sense of humour, I had sprinkled after-shave on my arm ( it was good for keeping the mossies away) and when Pamela opened the door I waved my arm in front of her and said in a deep down south voice “Hi Sweetie, what do you think of love potion No.1” All in absolute jest, I might add.

Of course, she was a happily married woman I had known for years and I was practically one of the family. But, she was still a Pacific islander and superstitious. She recoiled in horror and quickly backed away from me. OK, so the Brute aftershave was a bit overpowering, but I was staggered at her response. I tried to explain lamely it was only a joke but it took a while before she calmed down. Even then it was obvious the joke had gone badly wrong. She warned me that islanders never joke about superstition, and that I was playing with fire. This well educated woman who had lived in Australia with her husband and her two attractive daughters, one married to an Australian policeman – clearly still retained deep superstitions from her island culture. Her warning of bad luck was to haunt me within weeks.

It was time of political instability in the government and mutterings in Cabinet about a huge budget deficit. The airline was losing big money and there was ominous rumours of crews being laid off. My seniority in the airline assured my security of tenure – or so I thought at the time.

I was back at Truk a few days later, watching Henrietta cuddle her two adoring children, and I thought maybe the love potion had brought her eventual bundles of joy regardless of the original carnal intent. In those days the internet had not yet arrived so let me fast forward to 2006 and type into Google, the words “Chuuk Love Potions”. Time can play tricks with one’s memory and I confess to sometimes wondering if things really did happen as I remembered it, or was it all the result of my vivid imagination. One site said it all - and I quote:

“Of all the islands scattered throughout the Western Pacific, none is more famous than the Micronesian island of Chuuk for magic spells and potions, especially for potions. The love potions are said to give the powerful attraction needed to attract and hold the object of one’s affection”. So there it was in a nutshell – or maybe a phial?

The last of the passengers were boarding and Heneritta was waving a sad farewell to her offspring. I signed the refueling docket and beckoned slyly to Freddy, the refueller. Slipping him a bottle of duty free from Guam I asked him if it was true that a love potion could guarantee a successful seduction. Of course, captain – he replied. It never fails. Do you want some? Cost you fifty bucks. A swift glance around and I slipped $50 US into his hand and told him I would be back in a couple of weeks. He gave me a wink and said he would have it ready by then.

Now in case you get the wrong idea, my plan was to surprise my ever-loving spouse with the love potion. I can hear you say that you may believe me, but thousands wouldn’t. God’s truth, so help me.

I flew down to Melbourne a few days later. I imagined the love potion was being brewed on some remote outer island of Micronesia and would be carried by outrigger canoe to Truk in time for my next trip. My wife had always hinted she would prefer something of many carats value from overseas as a surprise gift. I had other ideas…

I was having breakfast and reading the paper when there was a phone call from the chief pilot on the island. Fifteen pilots have been retrenched as from today and you are one of them – said the curt voice. Island politics are one thing, but pilot politics can be vicious especially when it comes to who stays and who goes. In short, I was now unemployed. Pamela’s words of warning about playing with the fire of black magic had come to haunt me. I touched wood to break the spell but that didn’t work and I rued the day I talked to Freddie the refueller from Truk.


Two years passed and I drove taxis and became a poorly paid flying instructor. Nearing sixty I was too old for the airlines in Australia. The thought of a career cut short, depressed the hell out of me. Since leaving the airline I had kept in touch with Pamela and her husband and with other islander friends. Perhaps it was out of nostalgia for the good times, rather than anything else. Back on the island the budget was balanced and within a month of being retrenched, the pilots had their jobs back – all except those who had crossed the airline management’s A team.


At home in Melbourne 3000 miles away from the island, the phone rang. It was the island’s Director of Civil Aviation. There had been a change of management and would I like to come back and fly for the airline again? Pamela and her island friends had put in a good word on my behalf and the President of the island had given the nod. It had taken two years for the black cloud of depression to be lifted and I was elated at the prospect of flying a Boeing again.

Within weeks I was back at Truk. Henrietta had long since left the airline and was now happily married to an Australian engineer who welcomed her children as his own. Freddie the refueller was there, connecting the hose as I walked towards him with a bottle of duty free. He was delighted to see me and remembered my name, asking how much fuel I needed. It was dark with lightning on the horizon and I needed enough to get through to my island plus diversion fuel at this time of the year. I had long since forgotten about the love potion that cost me fifty green-backs.

Freddie hadn’t forgotten, though, and asking me where I had been all this time, he added he still had the potion at home waiting to give it to me. I thought of my loving wife and figured giving her carats would be safer. I wasn’t superstitious, I told myself but nevertheless I wanted nothing to do with the bloody love potion. In any case, one could never be sure if bad luck really exists and I wasn’t willing to take the chance. Once burnt, twice shy was my motto.

“ Thanks for the offer Freddie” I said – “Just give me ten tonnes of fuel and hold the potion…. “

[Centaurus]

A SHAKY FIRST SOLO


This is not about my first solo but about someone I sent on their first solo. His name was Bill. He arrived at the small flying school where I did part time instructing in between teaching airline pilots on a Boeing 737 flight simulator. His first flight was a disaster, Bill being so nervous he would try to hang on to me even on gentle turns. He was convinced he would fall out of the Cessna 150 we were flying. When it came to stalling, he simply refused to do one. I had to inveigle him by asking him to keep an eye out for eagles that I said I had seen near his left wing tip. Of course there were no eagles but at least it distracted his attention while I quietly raised the nose of the Cessna and did an ever so gentle stall. He never noticed it until I explained we had just stalled and recovered while he was looking for eagles. He was happy to practice stalls after that.
A few lessons later we started circuit training. During all our flying Bill was twitchy on the controls with his hands shaking and quivering causing the Cessna to wobble around the circuit. On take off his feet would shake like someone with Parkinsons causing the rudder to oscillate almost uncontrollably. Yet, he always managed to stay in the centre of the strip on take off using the law of averages. In other words plus or minus six feet either side of the centreline. It was quite mesmerising to watch. For all this however, Bill did safe landings and judged the flare and hold off perfectly with no twitch. But as soon as all wheels were on the ground his rudder would flap all the way to when we stopped.
After just 8 hours I thought it was time to let him go solo. Bill immediately became alarmed and tried to stop me from leaving the aircraft. We had been already lined up with pre-take off drills completed. I was ready for him this time and said “Bill, I am busting for a piss – so I can’t argue with you, so off you go for just one circuit and pick me up back here after you land because I don’t want to walk half a mile back to the club house”. He looked at me stunned and opened his mouth to say something. I slammed my door shut, gave him a thumbs up and walked away not looking back. It must have shocked him into reality and I watched from directly behind as he started his take off run.
Well, it was the funniest thing I ever saw as the Cessna took off with its rudder furiously flapping left to right and I watched as it lifted off with ailerons and rudder furiously wobbling. His approach to land was steady and sure and I was mightily relieved to see a smooth touch down. As expected the rudder flapping started during his landing roll. Bill had forgotten all about me in his excitement on going solo and left me to walk the half mile back to the aero club. It was only then that I felt the real need to have a nervous one and the windsock was handy.
I congratulated Bill on a perfect first solo and added I was expecting him to have a lot of trouble learning to land. He told me landing never worried him because he flew radio controlled model aircraft and knew all about flare technique and smooth hold off’s. No wonder his first solo was so confident.

[Centaurus]

THE KID GLOVE TREATMENT

New recruits to the so called "hospitality" industry are taught that in all things, the customer is always right. Obnoxious fools that complain unfairly about the standard of food or service, are to be treated with the utmost politeness and servility according to management instructions. I envy the patience and fortitude that is often displayed by shop assistants, waitresses, hotel staff towards customers who are rude and insulting and who should be thrown out on their ear. Yet it is ultimately the customer who pays the money that keeps the employee in a job, and puts food on the table. This applies from the manager of a business right down the line to the newest employee. Keep the customer happy and you eat - it is as simple as that.

In the airline industry it is usually the cabin crew who come face to face with the loud mouths, the drunks, the ungrateful, and sometimes the dangerous. One written complaint and invariably the flight attendant is before the Management court with his or her job on the line. There is no grilling of the customer, but the flight attendant will be interrogated with the view of guilty of upsetting a passenger unless irrevocably proven innocent. Membership of a strong trade union will sometimes balance the scales of justice.

Occasionally a nasty passenger will get just deserts. Like the groping Kiribati seaman in seat 75A of the Air Nauru Boeing 727 which was en-route from Hong Kong to Tarawa via stops at Taipei, Guam, Ponape and Nauru. With other members from the crew of a cargo ship, he had been paid off after the vessel had completed its voyage to Hong Kong. His six month contract completed, the seaman was returning to his island home. The sight and close proximity of a cabin crew of beautiful Pacific Islands air hostesses was all too much for him after the hardened whores in Hong Kong.

A few beers, and the seaman became bolder in his advances towards the No.4 junior air hostess working in the rear of the cabin. Her training had briefly covered the handling of cranky customers and crying children, but she was ill prepared for the groping hand of a leering seaman. She snapped back which caused much loud laughter from the rest of the seamen in adjoining seats. The culprit grew angry at the lack of interest from the young air hostess who was from his own island, and renewed his passes at her. Eventually she complained to the captain who decided to personally sort out the chap in 75A.

Leaving the first officer at the controls, the captain entered the cabin and ordered the seamen to keep his hands to himself. He also instructed the cabin staff not to serve any more alcohol to the man.

The seaman was unimpressed by the presence of the captain wearing four gold bars on his epaulettes, but agreed to behave. Shortly after the captain had returned to the flight deck however, the seaman made a drunken pass at another of the air hostesses, and it became obvious that the situation was deteriorating with the junior hostesses fearful of continuing with cabin service at the rear of the aircraft.

The aircraft had just started to descend toward Taipei, when the captain again appeared in the cabin and shirt fronting the seaman threatened to have him put off the aircraft on arrival at Taipei. The seaman considered himself somewhat of a bush lawyer and argued with the captain over his rights as a fare paying passenger.

The captain calmly played his trump card and told the passenger that unless he promised not to make a further nuisance of himself, not only would the captain have him arrested by the airport police on arrival at Taipei, but that arrangements would be made to have him tortured in prison. This threat had the immediate desired effect, and to twist the knife a little further, the captain ordered the seaman to apologize to each of the cabin crew individually. The remainder of the flight was uneventful, with the seaman and his ship mates being model passengers all the way to Kiribati. There were no complaints made to the airline management..

UP YOURS

A few years later I was in command of G-BKMS a British Paramount Airways Boeing 737 operating a holiday charter flight from Berlin to Tel Aviv and return. We had a full load of passengers for the return trip, which meant we could not take enough fuel in the tanks to get to Berlin with normal reserves. The problem was exacerbated by strong forecast headwinds and poor weather for the arrival.
We contacted our company agent by radio who advised that approval had been received to land en-route for fuel at Linz in Austria.

After take off from Tel Aviv, I made a PA to the passengers that our arrival into Berlin would be behind schedule due to a requirement to refuel at Linz. Most of them were Germans nationals returning from sight seeing tours of the Holy Land. An hour into the flight, a German cabin attendant reported that one of the passengers, who was a journalist for a Berlin newspaper, was being generally rude and unpleasant to the cabin staff and making pointed criticism of the decision to stop at Linz.

Now German female cabin attendants are invariably tall, blonde and beautiful. Our crew were no exception, and certainly they are no shrinking violets when it comes to handling prickly passengers. I was surprised therefore when a little later the senior hostess appeared on the flight deck with tears in her eyes. She said that the journalist passenger had been complaining to all around that the service was poor and that in his opinion there was no reason for the aircraft to land at Linz.

I made another PA apologizing for the delay into Berlin due to the intermediate landing, and stated a requirement for passengers to remain on board at Linz while refuelling took place. The senior flight attendant repeated the message in German. Apparently this did not satisfy the journalist, and he continued to annoy the staff with continuous pressing of his service call button.

I felt very sorry for the hostesses who had had a long and arduous flight from Berlin, because by the end of the day they would have been on duty for 14 hours, and this clown had really upset their routine. I decided to have a chat with him during the stop-over at Linz. At this stage I was unsure of the ramifications of tackling a recalcitrant German passenger on the ground in Austria in a British registered aircraft leased by a Berlin tour operator!
Nevertheless, as the captain of the flight, I had a legal responsibility for its safe conduct.

After landing at Linz, the first officer took care of the refuelling and paperwork, while I jammed my uniform cap on my head to make me look taller, and went down the back amongst the sea of passengers to find my man. Fortunately he was a short-arse too, and he spoke excellent English.
He told me that he had done the trip several times with a German airline and had always flown direct Tel Aviv to Berlin without a stop. I tried to explain patiently that the hot temperatures at Tel Aviv coupled with strong return headwinds dictated that a landing was essential at Linz. He began to argue and at that point I blew up, and suggested somewhat incautiously that he fly the bloody aircraft himself. Our relationship deteriorated immediately, and I told him to stop hassling the cabin crew and to sit down and shut up. To my amazement there was loud hand-clapping and cheers from the rest of the passengers who had also been annoyed at his boorish behaviour towards the cabin crew.

I pondered my limited future with this airline if the journalist went to print, and decided reluctantly to write a short note of apology to him. I gave a brief listing of the weight of the aircraft, its payload, and the fuel requirements, stating that these figures would prove that an en-route landing was necessary. The note was delivered to the passenger just before landing. He tore it up in front of the air hostess who had given to him.

At Berlin the wind and rain lashed the aircraft, and as we landed my mood was as foul as the weather. The passengers disembarked and climbed aboard waiting buses while our company agent came into the flight deck to collect the paperwork. His name was Klaus, and he asked did we have a pleasant trip. The senior hostess had already mentioned the troublesome passenger to him, and as we talked I had a glimpse of the journalist stepping into a bus. I pointed to him through the cockpit window and told Klaus that this bloke had been a problem to us all, and could he perhaps take the passenger aside and have a word in his pink ear.

Klaus then said that he recognized the passenger as a regular traveller who was known to airline staff as complaining type. Meanwhile he promised to have a chat with the journalist in the airport terminal.

Twenty minutes later, and as we boarded the crew bus to go to our hotel, a smiling Klaus appeared in the doorway. He said that he had had a word with his colleagues at Customs and Immigration at the airport, and explained that a certain passenger had been a real pain in the neck to the crew, and could they suggest a remedy. They certainly could apparently, and the passenger was quickly separated from the rest and taken to a special room. There he was told politely to strip off and a full body search was carried out. When the passenger protested, a rubber gloved finger was unceremoniously shoved up his posterior and carefully rotated a few times. He was then left to shiver in the cold room, until his clothes were returned. Klaus said that the chap had definitely got the message, and doubted that he would cause any more trouble in the future..

So yes Virginia, there really is a Santa Klaus, and he lives in Berlin...

[Ex FSO GRIFFO]

Beautiful Mr 'C', simply beautiful......

:ok:

[Three Wire]

Wunderbar, fantastich!

Wins like that are few and far between.

[Fantome]

A propos the impossible passenger, the one described so well by Centaurus, that is the Berliner who got the finger, another of that man's ilk was boarding his flight in Frankfurt, bound Luxembourg. This fellow was dressed all in black, with the head gear that proclaimed his faith, along with his general demeanour. As the flight attendant, an Australian fluent in several European languages, greeted him in the doorway he pushed up one sleeve of his coat revealing on his wrist a tattooed string of numerals. He snarled venomously, "You will you know never in a thousand years be forgiven", to which she replied - "Ah sir, you are mistaken. I am an Australian. We were, for your information, on the other side." The man, unplacated, muttered an oath in a language unfamiliar to the FA, though it's import was to her quite obvious, to which she coolly suggested he take his seat, adding softly in the pleasantest tones, "If you are hungry later, during our cabin service, I would be pleased to see if we can't rustle up a nice little ham sandwich for you. Specially."

Yes, she was carpeted. And yes, she was cautioned against ever uttering a racist slur.

That good woman's initials are LC. She may be known to some long-serving QF hands as she later came back to Australia, flying for many years with the national carrier. Incidentally, her dad who flew with the army and later for airlines, is an entertaining repository of numerous well spun tales of a flying life, but unlike Centaurus is uninclined to share them with a wider audience. What a shame.

Centaurus says he thought splashing a bit of the old Brute about might be good for a laugh. Now these sort of potions are not all they're cracked up to be. They can also be so bad that just a faint whiff is enough to cause women to gag. Many's the silly fool who thinks he's irresistible drenched in Old Spice, aka Old Yuck, a powerful repellant, especially when it's turned rancid.

"Ah . .. . but the smell of the bloom was a failure."

It is recorded that Josephine wanted Bonaparte on his return from fighting wars, for weeks, and often months, unwashed, just as is.

But all such aromatics or pheromones are left for dead by the ultimate aphrodisiac - money. Just picture Scrooge McDuck, if he is of your vintage.

[OZBUSDRIVER]

Interesting speaker at 2.00pm, this Saturday at the airways museum EN:ok:

[Kodachrome]

Is the book still available?

[tail wheel]

Kodachrome. It is a great read. Send a PM to Centaurus - I'm sure he'll be happy to organise a personally authographed copy for you!!! :ok:

[OverRun]

I gave a couple of copies as Christmas presents last year - absolutely perfect for males aged from 35 to 70 IMHO. I'll give a couple more next Christmas.

And I gave a copy to myself :)

Lulu.com have it:
Tall Tails of The South Pacific by John Laming (Paperback) - Lulu (http://www.lulu.com/shop/john-laming/tall-tails-of-the-south-pacific/paperback/product-6006188.html)