Danny and The Day that the Rains Came.
I flew the last aircraft out of Cannanore when the '45 Monsoon broke. The other two VVs had gone on a day or two before to Sulur (Coimbatore) where we were to be detached to sit out the rainy season (as it had a paved runway, taxiways and dispersals).
All my MT (a Fordson canvas tilt 15 cwt, a Bedford 900-gallon bowser and a nice newish Bedford 2-ton truck) had gone down already (but not the WOT1, which we didn't need at Sulur as they had their own crash trucks; in any case I don't think the old thing would have made it down there under its own steam). The bulk of my airmen had gone with the MT or by train (only a day's journey), leaving one or two to see me off and follow by rail.
The Harvard was left behind, huddled under tarpaulins and well picketed down. Although it was on my inventory and we maintained it, this aircraft was really provided for the use of W/Cdr Edmondes as a runabout. Checking my log, I see that I never flew it at all. There was no reason to, there was always a spare VV to do all the odd flying, and that was much more comfortable, could carry more people and stores, cruised slightly faster and was much nicer handling on rough ground, where the Harvard tended to be rather skittish.
I had to get out fast, for the rain came down in a solid sheet (I think they measured 13 inches in the first 12 hours), and our strip would soon be flooded. I'd done some monsoon flying in previous years, and knew that even in the heaviest rain there always seemed to be a few hundred feet clear between cloud and ground that you could use - so long as you didn't run into any hills.
"Roaring down the runway, throttles open wide,
Second dicky snoring - he just came for the ride.
Over the treetops out of sight,
It's pouring down and black as night -
We're right a-round the corn-er.
We're right a-round the bend !" (31 Sqn. song, to the tune of "Lilli Marlene"):
My plan was to stay down and mapread south along the coast until I reached the "Coimbatore Gap", a wide pass through the Western Ghats, which otherwise run up to 6-7,000 ft in a range parallel to the coast all up the Western side of India. There I'd turn inland, pick up the "Iron Beam" (railway), wiggle my way through the Gap and come out onto the Deccan Plain.
The monsoon wouldn't have got over to the East of the Ghats so soon after hitting the coast; it should be clear there; I 'd have no difficulty following the line to Coimbatore; Sulur was just on the far side of town. Overconfident, I trundled off into the downpour. For once, I'd to close my canopy, heat or no heat, or get soaked.
Airborne, I found that I'd got my ground clearance all right, but visibility in the heavy rain was about "as far as the prop". I hung grimly onto the shoreline, but this was enlivened every few miles by a headland jutting out to sea. I had to follow these round rather than take the risk of flying across when I couldn't see what was in front of me.
And each one I followed naturally slung me off the end out to sea. The visibility got worse, and each turn back to shore more and more hair-raising. It was plain that there was no future in this carry-on; a CFIT was looking more probable by the minute.
We'd never had to do any instrument flying since leaving OTU (and there were no navigation aids of any kind here to help us), but now I had no option. Needs must when the devil drives ! Up into the "clag" I went, clinging to the AH like grim death and doing some hasty mental navigation. I reckoned that if I flew the heading of the coast for another fifteen minutes, I should be about opposite the Gap. Then I'd turn East, continuing to climb until I came out on top, keep going inland until the monsoon cloud broke up, come down and find my way back to Coimbatore.
The cloud over the hills was an unknown quantity, for in this first, most violent stage of the monsoon, there'd be a lot of fully developed "cu-nimbs" embedded in it, and if I ran into one of these I'd be in for a "rough ride" indeed. It was unlikely to be turbulent enough to damage the slow-moving and massively built Vengeance, but flimsier aircraft had been torn to pieces many times. A greater danger was that I might become disorientated and lose control; in turbulent cloud this was generally fatal. All this added up to the reason why we kept safely down below monsoon cloud for as long as we could.
If we couldn't, then the drill was to slow down as far as possible (no trouble for me: the VV only did "slow"), turn the cockpit lights full up to lessen the shock of a lightning strike (but I didn't have any lights). Strikes rarely cause any structural damage, as the current goes right through on its way to earth, but your radio may get fried and the compass goes to pot. One final precaution, lower your seat to the bottom and tighten harness straps. That way, you're less likely to get thrown up and knock yourself out on the canopy bars.
All this advice, the result of hard experience, I followed to the letter. Being Prepared, as a good Scout should be, meant that nothing happened - always the way! Up I climbed in the dark, wet cloud, until I reckoned it time for my turn. The altimeter needle crawled round, 7-8-9 thousand. I must be starting to cross over the Ghats now.
Suddenly a huge black shape shot over my head and disappeared. It gave me the fright of my life. What a big bird was doing at that height in cloud, and why it didn't get out of the way when it must have heard me coming, I can't imagine. It was lucky to get through the 12 ft prop disk and not hit my screen (so was I, but the armoured panel should have resisted the impact anyway).
Nine thousand feet, still in cloud, then ten, then eleven. How high does this stuff go ? What now ? I daren't let down over the hills in this. ("if you'd end up safe and sound, don't fly through cloud to reach the ground !"). Twelve thousand (and no oxygen). How much further ? Thirteen thousand, and I'm really getting worried.
Then suddenly things brightened up and in a few seconds I broke out into dazzling blue sky. Almost immediately the cloud broke up into long tendrils and I found myself sailing over Ootacamund (about 20 miles north of my intended track, but never mind). There was Coimbatore down on the southern horizon, so nose down and get in for lunch.
Now our happy family must settle in for a month's constant heavy rain, followed by three more with it slackening-off. There would be little flying; all our kit would get damp and mouldy, the white ants would have a field day and everybody would get "cheesed-off". (C'ést la guerre).
Get your monsoon capes out, chaps.
Goodnight again,
Danny42C.
Raindrops keep fallin' on my head.