Air display at Weston-super-Mare, 1972. In the front cockpit is Barry Tempest, display pilot extraordinary who is still flying displays at the age of 74. On the right, Royal Naval Air Yard Sydenham, 1971.
As so many of Danny's generation knew it, and some even loved it, I pray your tolerance while I ramble on about the Tiger Moth.
This venerable biplane dates from 1932 and I was lucky to have owned one of the 10,000 produced. It was a superb trainer because it was (and is) very difficult to fly really well, but forgave the pilot who made a mess of things. It was said that if you could three-point a Tiger in a strong breeze you could land anything, and I would agree with that.
At war's end a Tiger could be bought for £50. There were so many in storage that they were tipped on their noses and stacked like toast-racks, which is why many show repairs on their cowling 'chin'. And because they were thumped in so many ways, there are repair schemes for almost every component.
I learned all this, and much more, from Air Registration Board surveyor C. H. Taylor, who during the war had responsibility for 70 Tiger Moths at a training airfield in England. In the 1960s the would-be aircraft engineer had to spend at least three years on aircraft maintenance, with a further 18 months on type. All work had to be logged, the log book forming the question paper for the oral exam which was taken after one had passed the written exams.
My Tiger Moth oral took an exhausting two hours, and was not so much an exam as a lesson from a master engineer. We crawled over the three Tigers in our hangar and he pointed out repairs which dated from the war years -- in one case the original camouflage paint was still there beneath a coat of silver. Working night and day in all weathers, Charlie Taylor was one of thousands of engineers without whom the great battle could not have been won.
Danny, all the jet jockeys had trouble with the Tiger. My friend Tom came from another de Havilland product, the Sea Vixen, staggered off the runway and held the nose to the stars so the Tiger mushed across the airfield rather than climbing until he realised there was only 120hp up front rather than 8000hp down the back. On our return he, too, floated along the runway for almost half a mile. (Fortunately for the local populace, I was not allowed to exercise my limited skills in Tom's Sea Vixen.)
Because RNAY Sydenham's Captain Monk had been a Fleet Air Arm wartime instructor, the Tiger Moth was allowed to live with the Sea Vixens, provided that a very large drip tray was positioned to catch the oil which the Gipsy Major engine exuded from every joint. The slipstream then spread the oil along the belly so most parts could drip onto the Royal Navy's spotless painted floor, a keel-hauling offence. But all was forgiven for a Tiger Moth. Especially when she was available to the Skipper ...
The Tiger had no brakes, its tailskid working very well on the grass airfields of the day. On tarmac it's a nightmare, for it weathercocks into wind and downwind picks up speed like a galleon in full sail. After the fourth occasion of shutting down, baling out and grabbing the tail to stop it from attacking a harmless Trident, I welded a rock drill bit to a worn-out skid and achieved reasonable steering. However, the appearance of deep scores across airport aprons did not encourage return visits and regular destinations allowed me to use their grass areas, controlling my non-radio movements by Aldis light just like the old days.
Today, most airfields are tarmac so a few Tigers have been fitted with brakes and tailwheels from their cousin the Stampe. If you wondered, the Stampe is much lighter and more responsive on the controls than the Tiger, but it's much more fragile in inexperienced hands. The sturdy, reliable, pupil-proven Tiger Moth played a vital role, and well deserves the affection bestowed upon it.