I guess we are getting a bit off thread here now, but so be it...
HEINZ 57
It was the middle of the “Cold War”, late summer 1967; I was a very young RAF flight engineer on a Shackleton Mk 3 squadron based at Kinloss in Scotland. Our job was to keep an eye on Russian warships, particularly missile firing submarines and cruisers, and I had been well programmed to think that my squadron was at the sharp end, protecting civilisation against communist hordes.
Although very slow by modern standards, the Shack measured it’s endurance in days not hours, and a 12 hour sortie was regarded as normal. Shack crews ate well, the off duty watch cooking up some amazing meals in the amidships galley. The nautical theme continued with an operating height of 1000 ft, and attack height of below 100 ft. Shacks were fitted with washers to keep the sea spray off the windscreens, and the rest of the RAF believed that Shack crews set their altimeters according to high or low tide. Falling into the ocean was a constant hazard for Shacks, and aircraft on my squadron had returned minus the enormous underslung radar scanner, and / or bent prop tips due to hitting the sea on patrol. My own crew preferred to leave the HF radio trailing aerial extended during operations, as it hung about 50ft below the aircraft. The radio operator left his set on TX calling out “climb” “climb” whenever the meter zeroed meaning the end of the aerial was in the water.
My story begins at the strangest airfield I have ever seen, somewhere beyond the Arctic Circle on the Norwegian coast. The Russian Barents Sea fleet had been active, and my crew had been sent to a Norwegian airforce base from which to operate recce patrols. We had found the base, which consisted of a single runway next to a fjord and surrounded by mountains. There were no houses, no hangars, no control tower, no sign of anything except the long runway, but still the Norwegian controller directed us from somewhere. On landing we were directed to taxi towards a solid rock face at the side of the runway and stop. To my amazement the rock moved and exposed a cavernous interior, from which emerged first a Starfighter jet, and then our ground crew. This was 1967, what must that place be like now?
I refuelled the Shackleton, while the rest of the crew went off for operations briefing and extra rations. They arrived back cool, and refreshed while I as always was hot sweaty and clutching oily rags. (Don’t be horrible to your engineer…we are people just like you!)
It was the Arctic summer so there was no night, the Sun just moves around the horizon, and operations wanted us to get airborne immediately. Risking court-martial I rushed into the cavern to find a loo and washing facility, emerging slightly cleaner and less smelly to do battle with the Russians. We took-off and headed up the coast towards North Cape, a couple of hours later we were patrolling the mouth of the Barents Sea. Slow as it was the Shack had very powerful radar, able to pick out a submarine periscope at great distance, and our radar operator became quite excited at what his equipment was picking up. In those cold war days a convention had emerged between the RAF and the Russian Navy. Patrolling aircraft were allowed two circuits of a warship for photographs, but a third circuit would be considered a hostile action liable to retaliation. However Russians have a good sense of humour, and when encountered would usually send friendly insults to us over the radio. More sinister was their target practice with gun-laying radar, which could be heard on the inter-com as a series of rapid machine gun like popping sounds.
The radar operator homed us onto his contact, which suddenly split into many individual points. Spotting ships ahead, our Skipper called “action stations” and the off duty crew scrambled forward from the galley. We wound the propellers & engines up to fine pitch and combat power, bone-domes on and seat straps tight. Bloody hell! it looked like the whole Russian Navy was out there today. There were two missile cruisers, four destroyers, and lots of support ships. Our Skipper put the aeroplane into a shallow right hand circuit around this impressive fleet, and I remember thinking it odd as I looked out of my window, that I could not see any guns. Then I realised that I was looking down their barrels! On the second circuit it happened!! There was a tremendous bang from amidships, and vapour filled the aircraft. “They’re firing at us,” someone said, and the Skipper banked us away from the fleet, dived towards the sea and we headed for the horizon rapidly. “Sigs send a plain English distress to ops” said the Skipper, and “Eng. go back and check for damage” I grabbed the crash axe and fire extinguisher and headed towards the galley fearing the worst. It was a terrible sight, we had indeed taken a direct hit where it mattered, the galley oven door was off it’s hinges, baked beans were everywhere, SUPPER WAS RUINED. Why can’t some people make a hole in baked bean cans before heating them?
Is this true tale: genuinely boring, excruciating, embarrassing, and/or should you encourage me to tell more, or join a monastery, or just fade away quietly.
MG