Classic Story from a long dead thread
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Classic Story from a long dead thread
I was looking back at some of the very old threads and come across this classic from the 'OK IT'S APOCRYPHAL STORY TIME' started back in Sept 2000.
I know it might be considered bad form to repost but wanted to show this to remind some of the newer PPruners on here it is well worth looking back at some of the old posts, as there are some classics in there.
Anyose here is the dit, posted by a PPruner called Wiley.
Another good one is 'What were you doing?'
I know it might be considered bad form to repost but wanted to show this to remind some of the newer PPruners on here it is well worth looking back at some of the old posts, as there are some classics in there.
Anyose here is the dit, posted by a PPruner called Wiley.
Now I swear this one is true, or fair dinkum as we say in the Antipodes… (But aren’t they all?)
Mid fifties, when the RAAF used the Wirraway, (the Aussie version of the Harvard) as their primary trainer - which was a bit like taking your initial driving lessons in a Mack truck.
Cadet Bloggs was ready for his first solo and his instructor was, shall we say, just a little overweight.
They taxi back to the threshold, Sir unstraps and climbs, not without difficulty, up into the ‘Pie Cart’, (the mobile tower positioned at the threshold when massed first solos were on the programme).
Bloggs approached for his first solo landing, a touch and go. However, on the ‘go’ part of the T&G, he ground looped.
Now there are ground loops and there are ground loops. This one was a doozey. The aircraft’s wing tip dug into the ground, the tail rose and the aircraft rolled sideways, completely destroying the wings, propeller, and tail. With bits of airframe flying in all directions and the whole scene swathed in a growing pall of dust, Sir leapt from the Pie Cart, and with his bum pack parachute banging against his buttocks, sprinted - for the first time in at least ten years - to where the remains of the aircraft were finally coming to rest.
On arriving, he was confronted by a very battered fuselage becoming visible as the dust settled. Inside the shattered cockpit sat Bloggs - completely unscathed. Fearful of fire, Sir extricated him from the cockpit and led him away from the aircraft.
Adrenaline fast draining, Sir’s body at last got the message through to his brain that three-minute miles were a bit beyond it, thank you very much. He promptly collapsed exhausted upon the ground beside his rather bemused student.
At this moment, the Fire Engines and Ambulance screeched to a halt beside the two pilots, and taking in the scene in a moment - the injured pilot lying on the ground, pulled from the wreckage by his heroic colleague seen running to the rescue - the Medicos went into their act. As they lifted the still panting instructor onto a stretcher, he went into a creditable outboard motor impersonation (“But, but, but...!” .
However, knowing the dangers of shock, the doctor injected him with a sedative, sending the already exhausted body quickly into a narcotic sleep.
Cadet Bloggs meanwhile was left standing among the chaos of fire hoses, foam, and disappointed Firemen. (Disappointed? I hear you say - the aircraft hadn’t caught fire.)
As the crowd gathered, the CFI joined the throng. Espying Cdt Bloggs, he realised that if the kid was given any time to think about what had happened, he’d almost certainly baulk at ever getting into an aeroplane again. After ensuring that he was unharmed, the CFI got him into another aircraft immediately, took him up for a circuit, was happy with what he saw, and sent him solo - again.
Most people on the base that day agreed that the events of the day were a little extraordinary. After standdown that day, all retired to the bar where Cdt Bloggs was plied with many congratulatory drinks by all. After all, it’s not often a young man goes solo, totally writes off an aeroplane, and goes solo a second time, and all in under two hours!
By around 9 pm, the instructor had at last recovered from the well-meaning attention of the Base Medical Section, and been able to convince them that they had the wrong body in their hospital. It was SOP to keep an accident victim in hospital overnight for observation. Consequently, at 9 pm, the doors of the Mess bar swung open as two stretcher-bearing medical orderlies trotted into the bar, grasped the by now very rubber-legged Cdt Bloggs, lay him upon it, and took him off to the Sick Bay for the night.
Mid fifties, when the RAAF used the Wirraway, (the Aussie version of the Harvard) as their primary trainer - which was a bit like taking your initial driving lessons in a Mack truck.
Cadet Bloggs was ready for his first solo and his instructor was, shall we say, just a little overweight.
They taxi back to the threshold, Sir unstraps and climbs, not without difficulty, up into the ‘Pie Cart’, (the mobile tower positioned at the threshold when massed first solos were on the programme).
Bloggs approached for his first solo landing, a touch and go. However, on the ‘go’ part of the T&G, he ground looped.
Now there are ground loops and there are ground loops. This one was a doozey. The aircraft’s wing tip dug into the ground, the tail rose and the aircraft rolled sideways, completely destroying the wings, propeller, and tail. With bits of airframe flying in all directions and the whole scene swathed in a growing pall of dust, Sir leapt from the Pie Cart, and with his bum pack parachute banging against his buttocks, sprinted - for the first time in at least ten years - to where the remains of the aircraft were finally coming to rest.
On arriving, he was confronted by a very battered fuselage becoming visible as the dust settled. Inside the shattered cockpit sat Bloggs - completely unscathed. Fearful of fire, Sir extricated him from the cockpit and led him away from the aircraft.
Adrenaline fast draining, Sir’s body at last got the message through to his brain that three-minute miles were a bit beyond it, thank you very much. He promptly collapsed exhausted upon the ground beside his rather bemused student.
At this moment, the Fire Engines and Ambulance screeched to a halt beside the two pilots, and taking in the scene in a moment - the injured pilot lying on the ground, pulled from the wreckage by his heroic colleague seen running to the rescue - the Medicos went into their act. As they lifted the still panting instructor onto a stretcher, he went into a creditable outboard motor impersonation (“But, but, but...!” .
However, knowing the dangers of shock, the doctor injected him with a sedative, sending the already exhausted body quickly into a narcotic sleep.
Cadet Bloggs meanwhile was left standing among the chaos of fire hoses, foam, and disappointed Firemen. (Disappointed? I hear you say - the aircraft hadn’t caught fire.)
As the crowd gathered, the CFI joined the throng. Espying Cdt Bloggs, he realised that if the kid was given any time to think about what had happened, he’d almost certainly baulk at ever getting into an aeroplane again. After ensuring that he was unharmed, the CFI got him into another aircraft immediately, took him up for a circuit, was happy with what he saw, and sent him solo - again.
Most people on the base that day agreed that the events of the day were a little extraordinary. After standdown that day, all retired to the bar where Cdt Bloggs was plied with many congratulatory drinks by all. After all, it’s not often a young man goes solo, totally writes off an aeroplane, and goes solo a second time, and all in under two hours!
By around 9 pm, the instructor had at last recovered from the well-meaning attention of the Base Medical Section, and been able to convince them that they had the wrong body in their hospital. It was SOP to keep an accident victim in hospital overnight for observation. Consequently, at 9 pm, the doors of the Mess bar swung open as two stretcher-bearing medical orderlies trotted into the bar, grasped the by now very rubber-legged Cdt Bloggs, lay him upon it, and took him off to the Sick Bay for the night.
No Radar Returns — Gan, Addu Atoll Incident - 1962
No Radar Returns — Gan, Addu Atoll Incident - 1962
The night is one of those which can only be read about in a Mills and Boone novel - but is real. The warm, gentle, breeze blows off the Indian Ocean and rustles the Coconut Palm tree leaves. In the distance is the soft murmur as the rollers break on the reef. Stars shine down and seem no more than arms length away. The moon shines so brightly as to make it possible to read a newspaper, outside, in the middle of the night, and I can - I tried!
Things could be perfect, or as perfect as they can get on Gan, but the situation has gone horribly “Pear-shaped”.
It’s like this; manpower on the Transit Aircraft Servicing Flight dictates a permanent three-shift system each twelve hours “On” and twenty-four “Off”. No weekends, no Bank Holidays, no leave, nothing but “Time Ex” to relieve the repetition. We have Two/Three Airframe trades, Two/Three Engine, two Electricians, two Instrument and one “Electronics” man, plus a Boss, on each shift. The usual total of thirteen is definitely unlucky for some.
At the moment we have a problem. Due to sickness and family difficulties back in the UK we are down to just one “Electronic” representative, Cliff, among the three shifts. He can’t work 24h/day, so he is not on any one shift, but available at any time. “Available” in Cliff’s language means that you have to search the right watering hole in order to catch him for work when he is required. We need him tonight because we received a “Tech Warning” from a Britannia coming in from Singapore, “No Returns on CCWR (Cloud Collision Warning Radar)”. This means the crew cannot use Radar to see tropical storms ahead. They won’t be happy with a “Turnaround” servicing and Take-off again. Gan has to increase its population from around three hundred to four hundred with all the feeding and shelter for crew and passengers this entails, until the aircraft is fit to fly once more. No-one is happy at the prospect. Cliff must be found!
Everything that can be done is done and we are ready for the arrival. As the aircraft stops we go through the turn-round procedure. Cooler, Oxygen/Air bottle/Bog Trolleys, Ground Power Unit, Fuel Bowsers etc. are brought into position and the inspection starts and finishes as far as we are concerned, Radar excepted. Excuses are found to go onto the A/C to see how the Shift Boss is getting on with the Navigator. The “Rover” arrives - the driver has found Cliff. Mixing him and the Navigator is likely to be a problem. Cliff looks and smells like someone who hasn’t showered, eaten or slept for some time. The Nav. is immaculate; for someone who has just flown a leg from Changi, he is a walking miracle. SD hat TDC, creases only where required in trousers. No sweat streak down the middle of the shirt back above a ramrod spine, tie straight and mat black. Shoes with no marks to mar the high polish and not a pinpoint of a sweat on his brow. A regulation picture.
Cliff gets down to business; that is, he sits at the Nav’s station and closes his eyes. Electricians hover with AVO Meter and lamp and batteries at the ready. “Check Resistance between “D” and “F” on Number Three plug”, the check is made and the result passed back to Cliff. “Check between “A” and “K” on Number Two”. The assistants down in the “Forward Freight” carry out further instructions as requested, the shift boss anxiously consults his watch, the Nav. stands waiting (Why doesn’t he sit, go away, or at least, lean). Time passes, Cliff sweats even more, brow furrowed, heads peek out from the forward freight, everyone is at the ready, waiting for him to work his magic. Our meagre store of spare “Boxes” etc. for the CCWR system are gathered and we are ready to change, repair as far as we can or just thump the item that Cliff indicates is U/S, but he seems stuck. Everything is back to the way it was when we started. We are going round in circles. The A/C is cleared of equipment, except for Ground Power and the Cooler, ready to go when it’s fixed. We await Cliff...
“Run it” said Cliff. In no time I have three and four going in S’fine and the radar “ON”, we wait. Time seems to stand still, no one moves. The roar of the GPU intrudes above the engines and they are the only sounds in the world, apart from the thump, felt rather than heard, of the oscillating scanner. Suddenly, Cliff surges to the front of the cockpit, crying “Let me see that f*****g display”. He stares at the screen, turns to me and says “Stop it”. He stays there as the engines stop and the steps come in. We wait for Cliff to say something.
He turns and says “Who snagged this f*****g thing?”
“I did” states the Nav.
Cliff looks at him and, apparently, sees him for the first time. He puts his face close to the Nav’s, breathes out, and tries to focus. Everyone stays frozen in impossible positions, thinking he has finally cracked.
“You?”
Cliff hangs on his tie, flows round him and then pulls him, by the tie, to the top of the steps, we follow. He swings his spare arm in a gesture that covers the star-spangled firmament and declares.
“Can you see any f*****g clouds?”
Then, “How do you expect to get any f*****g returns?”
The Nav enters the cabin while Cliff stumbles down the steps and into the back of the Rover, shouting “Get me back to the 180”. It goes off. So do we, fast.
No one but the Shift boss and the Nav. is on the A/C. Everyone is back on the Flight veranda, gazing back at the Brit and wondering what will happen now. After a few minutes the shift boss comes in and calls “Ops”. “The Brit is finished, F700 cleared, and it’s ready to go”.
I suppose we never will find out what happened after we left the A/C, or what was said - unless someone really knows.........?
As related to me by someone who was on 99 Sqn at the same time as me.
The night is one of those which can only be read about in a Mills and Boone novel - but is real. The warm, gentle, breeze blows off the Indian Ocean and rustles the Coconut Palm tree leaves. In the distance is the soft murmur as the rollers break on the reef. Stars shine down and seem no more than arms length away. The moon shines so brightly as to make it possible to read a newspaper, outside, in the middle of the night, and I can - I tried!
Things could be perfect, or as perfect as they can get on Gan, but the situation has gone horribly “Pear-shaped”.
It’s like this; manpower on the Transit Aircraft Servicing Flight dictates a permanent three-shift system each twelve hours “On” and twenty-four “Off”. No weekends, no Bank Holidays, no leave, nothing but “Time Ex” to relieve the repetition. We have Two/Three Airframe trades, Two/Three Engine, two Electricians, two Instrument and one “Electronics” man, plus a Boss, on each shift. The usual total of thirteen is definitely unlucky for some.
At the moment we have a problem. Due to sickness and family difficulties back in the UK we are down to just one “Electronic” representative, Cliff, among the three shifts. He can’t work 24h/day, so he is not on any one shift, but available at any time. “Available” in Cliff’s language means that you have to search the right watering hole in order to catch him for work when he is required. We need him tonight because we received a “Tech Warning” from a Britannia coming in from Singapore, “No Returns on CCWR (Cloud Collision Warning Radar)”. This means the crew cannot use Radar to see tropical storms ahead. They won’t be happy with a “Turnaround” servicing and Take-off again. Gan has to increase its population from around three hundred to four hundred with all the feeding and shelter for crew and passengers this entails, until the aircraft is fit to fly once more. No-one is happy at the prospect. Cliff must be found!
Everything that can be done is done and we are ready for the arrival. As the aircraft stops we go through the turn-round procedure. Cooler, Oxygen/Air bottle/Bog Trolleys, Ground Power Unit, Fuel Bowsers etc. are brought into position and the inspection starts and finishes as far as we are concerned, Radar excepted. Excuses are found to go onto the A/C to see how the Shift Boss is getting on with the Navigator. The “Rover” arrives - the driver has found Cliff. Mixing him and the Navigator is likely to be a problem. Cliff looks and smells like someone who hasn’t showered, eaten or slept for some time. The Nav. is immaculate; for someone who has just flown a leg from Changi, he is a walking miracle. SD hat TDC, creases only where required in trousers. No sweat streak down the middle of the shirt back above a ramrod spine, tie straight and mat black. Shoes with no marks to mar the high polish and not a pinpoint of a sweat on his brow. A regulation picture.
Cliff gets down to business; that is, he sits at the Nav’s station and closes his eyes. Electricians hover with AVO Meter and lamp and batteries at the ready. “Check Resistance between “D” and “F” on Number Three plug”, the check is made and the result passed back to Cliff. “Check between “A” and “K” on Number Two”. The assistants down in the “Forward Freight” carry out further instructions as requested, the shift boss anxiously consults his watch, the Nav. stands waiting (Why doesn’t he sit, go away, or at least, lean). Time passes, Cliff sweats even more, brow furrowed, heads peek out from the forward freight, everyone is at the ready, waiting for him to work his magic. Our meagre store of spare “Boxes” etc. for the CCWR system are gathered and we are ready to change, repair as far as we can or just thump the item that Cliff indicates is U/S, but he seems stuck. Everything is back to the way it was when we started. We are going round in circles. The A/C is cleared of equipment, except for Ground Power and the Cooler, ready to go when it’s fixed. We await Cliff...
“Run it” said Cliff. In no time I have three and four going in S’fine and the radar “ON”, we wait. Time seems to stand still, no one moves. The roar of the GPU intrudes above the engines and they are the only sounds in the world, apart from the thump, felt rather than heard, of the oscillating scanner. Suddenly, Cliff surges to the front of the cockpit, crying “Let me see that f*****g display”. He stares at the screen, turns to me and says “Stop it”. He stays there as the engines stop and the steps come in. We wait for Cliff to say something.
He turns and says “Who snagged this f*****g thing?”
“I did” states the Nav.
Cliff looks at him and, apparently, sees him for the first time. He puts his face close to the Nav’s, breathes out, and tries to focus. Everyone stays frozen in impossible positions, thinking he has finally cracked.
“You?”
Cliff hangs on his tie, flows round him and then pulls him, by the tie, to the top of the steps, we follow. He swings his spare arm in a gesture that covers the star-spangled firmament and declares.
“Can you see any f*****g clouds?”
Then, “How do you expect to get any f*****g returns?”
The Nav enters the cabin while Cliff stumbles down the steps and into the back of the Rover, shouting “Get me back to the 180”. It goes off. So do we, fast.
No one but the Shift boss and the Nav. is on the A/C. Everyone is back on the Flight veranda, gazing back at the Brit and wondering what will happen now. After a few minutes the shift boss comes in and calls “Ops”. “The Brit is finished, F700 cleared, and it’s ready to go”.
I suppose we never will find out what happened after we left the A/C, or what was said - unless someone really knows.........?
As related to me by someone who was on 99 Sqn at the same time as me.
