Lightning Engineer Airborne?
Guest
Posts: n/a
This connects with my #38 (27th June). It happened, I'm told in July '66. I first recorded it (from memory) on floppy disc in '98. Last year I was loaned one of the books mentioned here (not sure which one, but it was a sort of anthology of: "I Learned about Flying from Thats" from the "horse's mouth" (as it were). And I believe Wing Cdr Holden has told the true story here.
This is an account (as nearly I can remember) of the rumour of the affair that we heard in Shawbury in '66 (so nearly 50 years ago). Naturally it is at variance with the facts. I reproduce my Floppy Disc verbatim.
===================
The Tale of the Lyneham "Lightning"
*****************************
(or Le Pilote malgré lui - sorry, Molière !)
Lyneham, in Wiltshire, is now a passenger airfield for RAF aircraft coming in from overseas. But some years ago it housed a Maintenance Unit for English Electric "Lightnings", a big twin-jet interceptor of the sixties.
On a warm summer Saturday morning, this Unit was working overtime. A Lightning had developed a fault with its wheel brakes, and it was important to get it "back on its feet" ASAP. At last the mechanics straightened their backs, put their tools back in the boxes and wiped their hands: the snag had been fixed. But it still had to have a brake test to make sure. For that they needed a pilot - nobody else is allowed to move an RAF aircraft under its own power.
But all the pilots were doing their Saturday morning duty - in town, pushing a supermarket trolley. The Wing Commander (Tech) had an idea. He would (on his own responsibility) do the brake test himself. This was not as silly as it sounds. Technically, he knew as much or more about the aircraft systems than most of his pilots. And he had flying experience, too.
Some years before, the RAF had the idea of giving a few selected ground officers (notably doctors, but also some Technical), a shortened flying course, not to Wings standard, but about 80 hours, which is quite useful. This was to give them a better understanding of "how the other half lives". The Wing Commander had done one of these Courses, but that was far from qualifying him to fly a Lightning.
But there was nobody to say him nay. He cleared a "brake test" with Air Traffic Control (Lyneham was a "Master Airfield", open 24/7. The Tower would be manned, although the rest of the Station worked 8-5, M/F). ATC was quite used to brake tests: they involved high speed runs down the main runway. But there were no air movements "on the board". No flying was involved, so they didn't want a pilot's name. The Brake Test was cleared.
Our man got a good deep cushion for his ejector seat (pins left in), and he wouldn't need a parachute. And of course he didn't have a helmet, so no radio contact. But ATC knew all about him, they could always give him a red "Aldis" (or, in extremis, a red "Verey") to clear off if they wanted him out of the way.
He fired-up the aircraft, moved gingerly out to the runway and lined up. Now the idea was to open up to full normal power, get it up to about 100 knots, close throttles, clap the anchors full-on and see how far it needed to stop the thing.
How it happened was a mystery even to him. Somehow he lost control over the power, the engines went into reheat. Before he managed to get a grip on them again, he was far too fast and too far down the runway to avoid running off the end. There was only one thing for it. He put the reheat back on, and eased the stick back. He was flying.
The indignant Controller was on the phone at once. Who the Hell was this ? The shaken MU staff had no idea what had happened. And they were not the only Seekers after Enlightenment. Who dat man ? The Station Commander had been mowing his lawn. He knew there was no flying scheduled that day. He (and just about everybody else on the Station who could possibly be interested) was jamming the ATC switchboard. The Lightning thundered helplessly round the airfield like a shark circling its prey. Cars came screeching up to the Tower, which soon filled up with a mob in a state of full-blown panic.
The Wing Commander's action must be assumed to be deliberate. But why ? One fanciful suggestion: he was a Russian agent, about to defect to the East and stealing one of our finest aircraft for them to try out. If so, he was making a pretty poor fist of it - he didn't seem to be getting very far. Might he have gone mad ? Was he bent on suicide - to end like a Viking chief, floating out to sea on his burning longboat ? Stranger things had happened, and would again. All this was no help with the main question: What on earth do we do next ?
The Germans put in a nutshell; "Nun war guter rat teuer" - (Now good advice was at a premium !) It was a case of "quot homines, tot sententiae (everyone had his own idea). But the only practicable suggestion by far was - "All together now ! Repeat after me: "Our Father ...."
In the Lightning, the hapless Wing Commander was reviewing his options. He didn't have many. He couldn't bale out - he had no parachute. He had no radio, he couldn't ask for advice. He could either stay up till he ran out of fuel (which would't take long), and perish. Or try to put the thing down on the grass wheels-up. Or (slimmest chance of all) land on the runway.
In for a penny, in for a pound. The wheels had been down all the time, that was one worry less. He knew how to operate the flaps and airbrakes. And he was a pilot, after all. He knew the landing speed. He'd have a stab at it.
It was too much to expect him to bring it off first time. Or the second, or the third, or the fourth. If they had been "having kittens" in the Tower before he started, it was nothing to compare with the mass hysteria there now, each time he came round for yet another unsuccessful attempt. People aged visibly. The Controller took full Crash Action. Fire Crew and Ambulance turned out and licked their lips. Business was coming their way.
Some Samaritan had told the Wing Commander's wife, so that OMQ was hardly a place of joy and merriment. The Lord heard her prayers. He got it down on the seventh attempt - and they had fixed the brakes, after all; for he managed to stop on the tarmac. The sighs of relief in the Tower almost lifted the roof off. Then they all slumped like pricked balloons, tottered down to their cars, and back to the Mess for a stiff gin (or two).
Now what ? The Station Commander's first instinct was to clap the chap in irons. But wait a minute. No harm had been done. The Lightning hadn't even been scratched. Just think of the unwelcome publicity there'd be if the Press got hold of this ! The Air Council would not be amused. The RAF would be a national laughing stock.
Could they possibly keep the story from getting out ? They decided to try. All personnel were sworn to secrecy, with drastic threats to any "whistleblower". Besides, people had a genuine regard for the good name of their Station. They kept their mouths shut.
In the RAF, the rumour started spreading at once. Over the weekend, it reached Shawbury by a process of osmosis. From the ATC School, we rang Lyneham Tower on the Monday afternoon, but they were tight-lipped, we could get nothing out of them - but they didn't deny it. The Press didn't get hold of it until years later, when the news was cold.
And the Wing Commander ? I don't think he made Group Captain - but he certainly had a good story to tell his grandchildren !
This is an account (as nearly I can remember) of the rumour of the affair that we heard in Shawbury in '66 (so nearly 50 years ago). Naturally it is at variance with the facts. I reproduce my Floppy Disc verbatim.
===================
The Tale of the Lyneham "Lightning"
*****************************
(or Le Pilote malgré lui - sorry, Molière !)
Lyneham, in Wiltshire, is now a passenger airfield for RAF aircraft coming in from overseas. But some years ago it housed a Maintenance Unit for English Electric "Lightnings", a big twin-jet interceptor of the sixties.
On a warm summer Saturday morning, this Unit was working overtime. A Lightning had developed a fault with its wheel brakes, and it was important to get it "back on its feet" ASAP. At last the mechanics straightened their backs, put their tools back in the boxes and wiped their hands: the snag had been fixed. But it still had to have a brake test to make sure. For that they needed a pilot - nobody else is allowed to move an RAF aircraft under its own power.
But all the pilots were doing their Saturday morning duty - in town, pushing a supermarket trolley. The Wing Commander (Tech) had an idea. He would (on his own responsibility) do the brake test himself. This was not as silly as it sounds. Technically, he knew as much or more about the aircraft systems than most of his pilots. And he had flying experience, too.
Some years before, the RAF had the idea of giving a few selected ground officers (notably doctors, but also some Technical), a shortened flying course, not to Wings standard, but about 80 hours, which is quite useful. This was to give them a better understanding of "how the other half lives". The Wing Commander had done one of these Courses, but that was far from qualifying him to fly a Lightning.
But there was nobody to say him nay. He cleared a "brake test" with Air Traffic Control (Lyneham was a "Master Airfield", open 24/7. The Tower would be manned, although the rest of the Station worked 8-5, M/F). ATC was quite used to brake tests: they involved high speed runs down the main runway. But there were no air movements "on the board". No flying was involved, so they didn't want a pilot's name. The Brake Test was cleared.
Our man got a good deep cushion for his ejector seat (pins left in), and he wouldn't need a parachute. And of course he didn't have a helmet, so no radio contact. But ATC knew all about him, they could always give him a red "Aldis" (or, in extremis, a red "Verey") to clear off if they wanted him out of the way.
He fired-up the aircraft, moved gingerly out to the runway and lined up. Now the idea was to open up to full normal power, get it up to about 100 knots, close throttles, clap the anchors full-on and see how far it needed to stop the thing.
How it happened was a mystery even to him. Somehow he lost control over the power, the engines went into reheat. Before he managed to get a grip on them again, he was far too fast and too far down the runway to avoid running off the end. There was only one thing for it. He put the reheat back on, and eased the stick back. He was flying.
The indignant Controller was on the phone at once. Who the Hell was this ? The shaken MU staff had no idea what had happened. And they were not the only Seekers after Enlightenment. Who dat man ? The Station Commander had been mowing his lawn. He knew there was no flying scheduled that day. He (and just about everybody else on the Station who could possibly be interested) was jamming the ATC switchboard. The Lightning thundered helplessly round the airfield like a shark circling its prey. Cars came screeching up to the Tower, which soon filled up with a mob in a state of full-blown panic.
The Wing Commander's action must be assumed to be deliberate. But why ? One fanciful suggestion: he was a Russian agent, about to defect to the East and stealing one of our finest aircraft for them to try out. If so, he was making a pretty poor fist of it - he didn't seem to be getting very far. Might he have gone mad ? Was he bent on suicide - to end like a Viking chief, floating out to sea on his burning longboat ? Stranger things had happened, and would again. All this was no help with the main question: What on earth do we do next ?
The Germans put in a nutshell; "Nun war guter rat teuer" - (Now good advice was at a premium !) It was a case of "quot homines, tot sententiae (everyone had his own idea). But the only practicable suggestion by far was - "All together now ! Repeat after me: "Our Father ...."
In the Lightning, the hapless Wing Commander was reviewing his options. He didn't have many. He couldn't bale out - he had no parachute. He had no radio, he couldn't ask for advice. He could either stay up till he ran out of fuel (which would't take long), and perish. Or try to put the thing down on the grass wheels-up. Or (slimmest chance of all) land on the runway.
In for a penny, in for a pound. The wheels had been down all the time, that was one worry less. He knew how to operate the flaps and airbrakes. And he was a pilot, after all. He knew the landing speed. He'd have a stab at it.
It was too much to expect him to bring it off first time. Or the second, or the third, or the fourth. If they had been "having kittens" in the Tower before he started, it was nothing to compare with the mass hysteria there now, each time he came round for yet another unsuccessful attempt. People aged visibly. The Controller took full Crash Action. Fire Crew and Ambulance turned out and licked their lips. Business was coming their way.
Some Samaritan had told the Wing Commander's wife, so that OMQ was hardly a place of joy and merriment. The Lord heard her prayers. He got it down on the seventh attempt - and they had fixed the brakes, after all; for he managed to stop on the tarmac. The sighs of relief in the Tower almost lifted the roof off. Then they all slumped like pricked balloons, tottered down to their cars, and back to the Mess for a stiff gin (or two).
Now what ? The Station Commander's first instinct was to clap the chap in irons. But wait a minute. No harm had been done. The Lightning hadn't even been scratched. Just think of the unwelcome publicity there'd be if the Press got hold of this ! The Air Council would not be amused. The RAF would be a national laughing stock.
Could they possibly keep the story from getting out ? They decided to try. All personnel were sworn to secrecy, with drastic threats to any "whistleblower". Besides, people had a genuine regard for the good name of their Station. They kept their mouths shut.
In the RAF, the rumour started spreading at once. Over the weekend, it reached Shawbury by a process of osmosis. From the ATC School, we rang Lyneham Tower on the Monday afternoon, but they were tight-lipped, we could get nothing out of them - but they didn't deny it. The Press didn't get hold of it until years later, when the news was cold.
And the Wing Commander ? I don't think he made Group Captain - but he certainly had a good story to tell his grandchildren !
