Close Encounters.
A word all round: jobbing back a few pages, I came across "Project Propeller" by nmarshal (#2260 p113). I quote: "Annual reunion for 150+ WW2 aircrew". It's a wonderful, generous idea: have they really got a hundred and fifty WWII chaps on their books? If so, why aren't they (or at least a good few of them) here? I have been beginning to think that we were the last half dozen of the old brigade alive. What can we do by way of a recruiting drive?
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I was a bit slack one day. Half way round there was this big black shadow. I looked up into the wheels and underside of a Wellington! Being cut out by another Spitfire would be bad enough, but this! In all fairness to myself, I must say that the (newly assembled) "Wimpey" *, with an expert test pilot, no crew, no load, no guns in the turrets, and little fuel, could manage it, but even so it was a "poor show" on my part. I went round again with my tail between my legs.
* ("Popeye" had a pal: "J. Wellington Wimpey"), There was an assembly factory for the things at Hawarden. I had better elaborate.
There was quite a mixed bag of units sharing the airfield. Most of one side was taken up by De Havilland's factory where they assembled the Wellingtons (yes, I know it was a Vickers Wellington, but everybody was sub-contracting then). I had a good look at their assembly line, and was fascinated by the "geodetic" construction of the fuselages. They looked like the old wicker waste-paper baskets, but of course fabricated in light alloy. They were supposed to be able to take more punishment than the conventional arrangement of longerons and frames. When complete, they were fabric covered and doped. Wings, engines and turrets were added; the finished aircraft were wheeled out for test and delivery.
Across on our side, there were four (or six) training flights of Spitfires. From memory, I think that each of these flights had eight aircraft. Further down there was a mysterious Armament Practice Flight. We certainly didn't do any air-to-air firing in the Spitfires. They operated small twin high-wing aircraft (I think they were something by Percival or Fairey). We had nothing to do with them.
There was an Air Transport Auxiliary unit to do the Wellington deliveries. The ATA was a civilian outfit of pilots too old or unfit for the RAF. They took women - I believe they had one grandmother delivering Lancasters! The famous Amy Johnson (now Mrs Jim Mollison, another record-breaking pilot of the time) was killed in the ATA during the war. Some of their deliveries staged through Hawarden, so interesting novelties flew in from time to time.
All these aircraft took to the air pretty well as they liked and the result was a hectic circuit. No attempt was made to control it: indeed Air Traffic Control as we know it today was simply impossible. although we had TR9 R/T sets. It was "every man for himself and the devil take the hindmost". There was one small concession to flight safety. A "duty" student was parked on the grass near touchdown. He had a kitchen chair, a Verey pistol, a big bag of "reds" and his groundsheet if it looked like rain (we had no ATC caravan in those days).
If collision threatened on final approach, he'd bang off a red. The rule was that the higher aircraft must overshoot, but often both would go round together (another collision hazard). Beginner's luck held: I don't remember a collision while I was there. At busy times you'd have quite a crowd of aircraft in the circuit. Twenty was not unusual. Years later, I'd reminisce about this to a new generation of student pilots (and tell them about flying with no ASI). They'd exchange meaningful glances - "the old chap's rambling again - he's off his head" - but it was true.
I saw my first "Typhoon" there, flown in by the ATA; in early 42 that was a very rare bird indeed. They hadn't got the carburetion sorted out properly yet; every start was a toss-up whether the engine would run or burst into flames. A fire truck had to stand by every time, and this always attracted a crowd (don't we all enjoy a good bonfire?) On the morning of the Typhoon's departure, a small bunch of us, not scheduled to fly till later, strolled round the taxyway to watch the fun from a safe distance.
All was made ready, the pilot came out and jaws dropped. A pert little blonde in a snazzy white flying overall hopped up into the cockpit. This put quite a different face on things. We hadn't come here to watch a re-run of St-Joan-at-Rouen, and were glad to see that she didn't strap herself in before pressing the button. The fire crew gripped their extinguishers, we held our breath.
The ancients believed the unicorn to be a savage beast, only to be subdued by a chaste young maiden. There may have been something in it, the big "Sabre" fired-up with no more than the customary snarl of fire and brimstone from the exhaust stubs, then idled sweet as a nut. Our aviatrix ran through the checks, imperiously waved chocks away, and off she went.
We walked back pensively to our Spitfires with male egos sadly deflated. If this chit of a girl could handle a monster like that, where did that leave us? The message was reinforced as we came up to the marshalling point, the thing came bellowing down the runway and flashed past us fifty feet in the air. We trudged glumly back to our Flights.
That's about enough for the moment,
Goodnight, everyone,
Danny42C
Easy come, easy go.
Last edited by Danny42C; 23rd Mar 2012 at 16:55.