Flying, shining, and wet sports.
Firstly, may I take this opportunity to extend my very best wishes to you all for the New Year.
Although I have never seen the Mohne, Eder or Sorpe dams (pictures excepted) I clearly remember on one flight, looking through the Dakota windshield at the passing water a few feet below followed by the ramparts of the Derwent dam. A very moving part of the flight which heavily renewed my respect for those who had gone to the Ruhr in May 1943, at night, low level, fired upon, and successfully completed their mission, albeit at horrific cost. (I accept that not all the dams were breeched, but I also accept the mission was successful).
Halton (contd)
As we sit around our crewroom, bloated and content, I must hang my head low. I incorrectly stated that the engine in the Me 262 was of BMW manufacture. I am pleased to see my error was quickly spotted. Never, throughout my life has it been my intention to be inaccurate. Unfortunately, as previously mentioned, the memory bank seems to be suffering some corrosion to its walls, allowing good gen to sift out, only to be replaced by duff gen, which being lighter, sits on top, and is recovered first. I will take this lesson on board and attempt to verify my facts in future.
While enjoying the warm days of summer at Halton, one of our compatriots mentioned his chosen weekend pastime, namely gliding. My curiosity was aroused. After a few minutes, I had learned that the RAF even had its own gliding branch, the RAFGSA, and the nearest base was at RAF Bicester. And the RAF even supplied the transport, and if I remember correctly, the lunch-packs. What was more, it was FREE. Well, I had to have a go at this. The following Saturday, camlobe and another half dozen young and steely-eyed airmen climbed on the Bedford bus and went to have some fun. Upon our arrival, we were made to feel very welcome, and immediately put to work. Laying out the tow cable, extracting the various gliders out of the hangar, cleaning windscreens, and a multitude of other tasks. Although a couple of the lads were less than enthralled, I was fully immersed and enjoying myself, soaking up all information and advice, and happy to be of some small assistance. As the day went on, I started to "get the picture" regarding the ground ops. The various hand signals initially looked like a pseudo-signer at Nelson Mandela's memorial service, but soon made sense, as did the procedure for a launch. "All clear above and behind" followed by the cable slack been taken up, then run with the wingtip for a few paces until the aircraft had left wingman and indeed ground behind. The climb angle looked incredibly steep on the winch launch, but it was a very effective way to get to 500 feet in less than half a mile. (Although the Bicester winch could only get aircraft up to around 500 feet, I believe some modern winches can get aircraft up to over 2000 nowadays. Smudge, can you enlighten us?). Towards the end of the day, our efforts are rewarded with a flight in the 'Barge', or Slingsby T21 Sedburgh. This rather basic, open cockpit machine was constructed in the fashion of the very earliest aircraft, powered or otherwise. There was a wooden structure, glued together, and covered by Cotton fabric. Dope was applied to shrink the cotton tightly onto the wooden structure. Paint then being applied to protect the fabric from the ravages of ultra-violet rays. These same materials, techniques and results that were familiar to many tens of thousands of young boys in their bedrooms, making their early model gliders. And I was about to climb in to a full-size example. I was terrified that my foot/elbow would make a hole through the fabric somewhere, so sat knees together and elbows tight to my side, just precautionary, of course. The wing tips were held up while the tow line slack was taken up, and then...OH, MY GOD. I was immediately overwhelmed by fright and elation at the same time. Certain that I was about to die as we were going up far too steeply, and therefore must be about to crash, coupled with that fantastic pit-of-the-stomach feeling that all young men cherish, acceleration. Although not a macho admission, I am sure I screamed in despair and delight...all the way up. The ever so patient chap flying smiled, as I'm sure he did every weekend. After dipping the nose to release the cable, we gently eased our way around the circuit, no lift coming our way. The small screens in front of each seat did little in the way of deflecting wind blast, my streaming eyes bore proof of this. But they seemed very efficient at deflecting bugs. All too soon, we are on finals, and it suddenly occurs to me, if my left-hand-seater judges it wrong, we can't have another go. But of course, he got it right, as did every other pilot I saw that day, and every other day I went to fly for free at RAF Bicester. A number of years ago, I was told that the chap who was running RAF Bicester gliding club at the time later perished in a gilder, but I am not certain about the details. I'm sure one of my fellow tea drinkers here will probably know the full story.
During our hands-on part of getting to know the Rolls Royce Dart, I spilled some oil onto one of my shoes without noticing. A few minutes later, I bend down to pick up my spanner and am taken aback by the extremely shinny toecap. The technical instructors weren't too concerned about the mirror finish of our footwear, but the Discip staff most certainly were, and we were inspected on the parade ground every morning after breakfast prior to marching down the hill. Camlobe has a cunning plan. After the morning NAAFI break, an empty small milk carton is retained and rinsed out. A small amount of this new wonder shine fluid is decanted into said milk container. The following morning, everyone is on parade. Camlobe breaks ranks (one step rear wards), crouches down to the pile of books and the milk container, takes a finger wipe of the wonder fluid and applies it to the toecaps. Stand up, rejoin the ranks, and wait nervously while Discip Corporals and Sergeants inspect the ranks. The Corporal, who is far nastier than the Sergeant, is reviewing our rank. Oh, no. I shouldn't have been so foolish. Who do I think I am kidding. These people have seen every trick in the book. I am a bloody fool. I should have...he walks past me, and doesn't turn around. I am stupidly elated. A small victory, but it feels massively out of proportion. I even have a smirk on my face. Oh, no, he is coming back. He has never done that before. I am lost. He comes right up to...my friend Shane Hubbard stood right beside me. I am a wreck. I want to be sick. And he goes away again. Shane knew what deceit I was attempting, and as we march off down the hill, we both chuckle under our breath, both knowing how close I was to the brink of disaster. But fools never learn, and my 'wonder fluid" came out every morning for the duration of our time at Halton. But, this little 'time and effort saver' idea of mine almost cost me dear, but more of that later. Without doubt, I saved many man hours polishing, being able to concentrate on other important issues, such as working out who was buying the first round. The only drawback was, leather doesn't appreciate synthetic jet engine oil, in this case, OX38, and the shoes disintegrated soon after leaving Halton.
I had been an active swimmer from an extremely young age, and proficient enough to be Life Guard qualified well before my 13th birthday. The pool at Halton was old but well cared for and clean and I spent a lot of time keeping myself fit with swimming and cross country (thar be hills here, unlike Swinderby). The chap who was the pool caretaker suggested I consider water polo. Never having played, I decided to give it a go. Without a doubt, water polo was the most physically demanding activity I have ever attempted. But, it was also one of the most vicious. I played water polo for RAF Halton a few times, but the scratch injuries and sore eyes put me off for fear of my eyesight.
Camlobe
Splish, splash, I was taken' a bath.