OTU
Chugalug2:- I recall something called HARCO, a moving map gizmo which I think was a development of Decca. When it worked it was fairly convincing, but not as accurate for airways work as VOR.
Ref the zero reader, I flew the Hastings Mk4 for 2 1/2 years but my specimen certainly did not have it. Possibly the other three specimens (there were only four Mk4s in total) being UK based were retro-fitted, I do remember our Singapore-based bird never received various mods applied to the others.
My OTU account follows. I apologise again for some of my rather elementary descriptive writing, but re-state that it was all set down with non-aviators in mind and I deemed it best to leave things that way.
PART 6--OPERATIONAL TRAINING.
Proof as to the rumoured surfeit of instructors was provided by a posting to No.28 OTU, a bomber training station situated several miles to the east of Loughborough near the village of Wymeswold . That (for us) the unpleasant face of war was drawing closer now became evident, for as with others of its ilk the base's instructional staff consisted largely of experienced aircrew fresh from recently completed tours of duty on operational bomber squadrons. Physically hardly older than us, they had seen action through a period during which Bomber Command had sustained its heaviest losses and gave an impression of belonging to another generation; while for my part I found myself torn between the naive and idealistic hope that the war would not end before I had achieved something "useful", as against a very natural instinct for survival.
Like all such units Wymeswold was equipped with Britain's famed "cloth bomber", a title accorded the faithful old Wellington by our US allies on account of it being 100% fabric-skinned. By this time retired from front-line work, it found wide employment on training duties and so we spent much time in ground school learning the mysteries of balance cocks A & B, sleeve-valve engines, bomb racks etc, not to mention such new esoterics as Gee, the then state-of the-art navigation aid and our first sight of a cathode ray tube. Aside from the Link Trainer, synthetic training as such was very much in its infancy and what little of it I recall involved the crew sitting at separate tables in a darkened room in a condition of pretended flight, fed at intervals with scraps of information representing sundry facets of flight progress. Each crew member was then supposed to take correct action in furtherance of the "mission", but whereas the navigator could be expected to keep a fake air plot going, the signaller happily play with a real T1154/R1155 set-up, and the bomb aimer perhaps achieve something on a crude training rig there was little for the pilot to do other than yawn. Somewhat appropriately this farce went under the pseudonym of "Grope", my only clear memory of one such exercise being service of a summons by the local bobby while being supposedly off the Dutch coast, the local beaks subsequently relieving me of ten shillings for the dire offence of cycling without lights.
My first and only flight in a Wellington failed to impress; not only did the controls feel unresponsive and heavy after the Oxford, the aircraft itself seemed ponderous and sluggish while I was surprised to discover that engine and ancillary controls were situated on the pilot's left side rather than the right. Thus I was not sorry when, next day and quite out of the blue, came news that Wymeswold was with immediate effect to become No.108 (Transport) OTU; furthermore, those who like myself were less than halfway through training were to cease such training forthwith and await conversion to the new role. Some years later I was to fly the Wellington again briefly and quite enjoyed it, but that is no part of this tale.
As facilities for transport training were not expected to be in place for some weeks, given the Service’s dislike of idleness some employment had to be found for us meantime; so daily we marched up to the ground school buildings, our task to redecorate them from top to bottom. The job was doubtless done with a fair degree of incompetence, as no instruction was given, tools and materials of half a century ago were hardly of today's quality and there was plenty of opportunity for larking about. Various new uses were found for some of the strange articles that came to hand, among them the explosive qualities of aluminium powder (from old sea markers) that was available in quantity; poured into the top of a stove, it flashed off most satisfactorily while the vast clouds of fumes did wonders for the surrounding decor.
After breakfast all students customarily got "fell in" behind the Officers' Mess where Spike Nolan, our unloved, cast-eyed (but all-seeing) Warrant Officer i/c trainees, would call the roll and then sourly issue various instructions and/or bollockings prior to marching us the odd mile or so to work. Now during this autumn of 1944 the Germans had commenced V2 rocket attacks on London, two of which we observed from our parade ground standpoint. On two separate occasions vapour trails rising from the southeastern horizon, clearly visible in the early morning light, excited a buzz of comment which even Spike was unable to quell; the first rising almost vertically before disappearing at the top of its trajectory, but the second a few days later described a series of erratic spirals low in the sky before plunging earthwards, no doubt to the discomfiture of its launch crew. Later I was to experience this terrifying weapon myself, luckily from a safe distance.
Along with some friends I dwelt on one of the camp's more remote sites, a cluster of huts in a shallow valley adjoining a copse full of game. A few of us would sometimes venture out with my ancient but newly-acquired 12-bore, to the displeasure of a local tenant farmer who informed us in reverent tones that " 'is h'lordship" would strongly disapprove of our temerity; however, our protestations that vermin control was a public duty were totally ignored (rabbits were indeed a real pest at this time, myxomatosis being unknown). Of course we took no notice and, following a subsequent discharge of my fowling piece on another poaching expedition, were chased off by his son atop a rickety bicycle; but as he wielded a large cudgel in one hand, it was impossible for him to ride at any speed over the rough, wet ground and so we got away. Revenge on the farmer's hen house was then planned but it proved too secure, further attempts being aborted when he was heard to declare in the local tavern that somebody had been after his chickens and "son would be waiting for 'un wi' shot gun". From then on we decided that the pub offered a safer form of recreation; it was anyway a very good one, with friendly landlord and excellent ale, his "old, mild & Tadcaster" being especially favoured for induction of general bonhomie (not to mention its warming qualities). Besides, nights were now drawing in so poaching after work was both difficult and uncomfortable as well as dangerous. To liven things up, one of my wilder companions subsequently dropped a Verey pistol cartridge down the chimney of a hut containing some RCAF personnel, causing much confusion but fortunately no injury. He was, incidentally, the one who had fired the near-fatal shot alluded to above - immediately following which, he had shoved the still smoking gun into my hands and shouted "run"; strange to relate, we remained friends for life (!).
As winter drew on the discomfort afforded by our crude accommodation became acute, so with our quarters being in a frost hollow the ablution block soon froze solid. By dint of stuffing the hut's stove with coke and then closing the dampers, the worst of the cold was kept at bay overnight. I suppose we were lucky not to asphyxiate ourselves with Co1, a very real risk using such a procedure; even so the heat produced was not always sufficient, so that one had to sleep almost fully dressed ed as well as resorting to such stratagems as putting a slip mat over the bedclothes. The same primitive stoves "heated" (in theory) all messes, classroom blocks etc, but as there was a perpetual shortage of fuel being cold became a fact of life; only when jammed into the pub's stuffy bar, or briefly home at weekends, was I warm again (but see later).
Eventually our efforts at painting & decorating were declared more or less acceptable and we reverted to the acquisition of learning with considerable enthusiasm, for a new and exciting vista had opened up consequent on our change of role; no longer bomber fodder, we were to fly the DC3 Dakota, the world's most famous airliner and wartime transport. Even in the classroom it soon became apparent that this fabled aircraft was in many respects superior to any contemporary from a British factory, especially so in the matter of its ancillary equipment, and the day when we would meet it face to face was eagerly awaited. At the same time, lectures on global weather, climatology and many other new subjects brought realisation that beyond the narrow confines of NW Europe a whole big new world awaited.
Initial flight conversion training was carried out at the satellite field of Castle Donington (now East Midlands Airport). In some respects a pleasant change - the Mess was smaller and more friendly, and Spike's eagle eye some miles distant - on the other hand accommodation was even more uncomfortable than at Wymeswold, and with Loughborough station now far off home visits became something of a marathon. However, set against the prospect of flying our new toy nothing else mattered..........
All the Daks were brand new, straight off the Santa Monica production line with only ferry hours to UK logged; they even smelt new, while the flight deck's relative luxury brought gasps of astonishment. By present day standards it was of course cramped, poky and not over-comfortable, but as compared with the Spartan interiors of contemporary British aircraft it was pure "Rolls- Royce". Cushioned seats with armrests and a properly insulated flight deck (sitting on a hard parachute being a pilot's normal lot elsewhere), plus a heating system that actually produced real heat, promised hitherto unheard-of luxury; while as for the practical side, its comprehensive instrumentation, Sperry autopilot & modern radio plus good layout of engine & ancillary controls were the stuff of pilots' dreams. An added bonus was being able to discard all our cumbersome flying kit including even helmet and mask, each crew station being provided with headset and hand mike. Designed to maintain airline schedules across a vast continent of climatic extremes, it was perhaps not surprising that the DC3's avionics and weather protection systems were of near space-age quality as compared to the primitive facilities offered elsewhere. Shamingly, in at least one respect it remained for some time yet light-years ahead of European counterparts, for its panel lighting was (in my experience, anyway) never surpassed - fifteen years on, that of the Britannia appeared to have been put together from surplus WW2 bits & pieces, while still later even the VC10 proved to be not much better in this context.
Indeed by 1940's standards the flight deck layout was an ergonomic triumph, even if somewhat cramped; throttles, propeller & mixture controls, elevator trim and tail wheel lock lever lay nicely to hand on the centre console, with fuel selectors and other important secondary controls also easily in reach. Batteries of clearly labelled switches were ranked on panels just above the windscreens, among them those for engine start (of which more anon), while said screens were cleared by real wipers that actually worked, an unheard-of luxury for those days. Various main elements of the hydraulic system were grouped immediately behind the copilot, bringing some advantages but also drawbacks, among which were loud and sometimes distracting noises emitted by this collection of miscellaneous plumbing. It also posed a potential hazard in the event of fluid leakage at a working pressure of 750 psi; fortunately this was very rare and never happened to me, however postwar standards rightly required all hydraulic components in new-build to be routed away from the cabin.
Fulfillment proved every bit as good as anticipation for the DC3 was indeed a delight; right from "blocks away" it handled nicely, the efficient toe-operated brakes and lockable tail wheel rendering taxiing and takeoff kids' stuff as compared with the desperate antics demanded by most other contemporary aircraft. By jet-age standards somewhat underpowered, so in truth were all piston-engined aircraft other than (possibly) front-rank fighters, and indeed for the period it was probably somewhat above average in this respect; in its natural element vice-free and driver-friendly, we soon became its willing slaves.
Our stay at Castle Donington coincided with a spell of bitter cold, with the mercury retreating into thermometer bulbs Europe-wide. Our miserable Nissen huts were probably no worse than those provided in countless other military encampments (and certainly better than tents) but, inured as we were to discomfort, conditions really were pretty arctic; so airborne training was thus even more eagerly anticipated, for the Dak's snug flight deck offered warmth and comfort unavailable on the ground. Fortunately the frosty but largely clear December weather facilitated our initial familiarisation with this most likeable of aircraft, every moment sheer delight, the pleasure and satisfaction at having such a responsive classic in one's hands clearly remembered as if it were yesterday instead of over half a century ago. Christmas soon passed in an alcoholic haze and so, with initial "circuits & bumps" completed, let's return to Wymeswold for some cross-country work.
A frosty January morning found my three-man crew detailed for a navigational exercise out beyond the Western Isles, before heading back to Wymeswold. Following an extended flight planning session, the crew bus rattled across the airfield bound for one of the more remote dispersal areas where our aircraft awaited in a boggy wilderness, surrounded on three sides by a hoary thicket; ahead, a meandering and narrow taxiway lead to the unseen airfield, on the way crossing a local road bereft of barriers or even any warning notice. Completion of outside checks included not only essentials such as removal of the pitot/static head covers, but also one or two items peculiar to the Dakota such as removal of ground lock pins from each main landing gear assembly, checking that the four fuel tank water drain cocks were wire-locked shut, and last but not least that all five control surface gust locks were removed. Unbelievably it was not unknown for this last item to be overlooked by even experienced pilots, with invariably fatal results.
Engine starting was fairly straightforward, although some prior experience as the proverbial one-armed paper-hanger would undoubtedly have helped. The two Pratt & Whitney R1830 engines (1200hp each) possessed inertia starters, the drill being for one switch on the roof panel to be held down so as to energise a small flywheel up to astronomical revolutions, then pushing another switch (while yet still holding the first) in order to mesh starter to engine, and operating (judiciously) the primer switch while moving the associated mixture control lever to "rich" as soon as the engine fired. While this was going on it was also necessary (if unfortunate enough to be in a MK3 – the Mk 4 mercifully had electric booster pumps) to operate a hand-operated 'wobble' pump while it also helped to perhaps juggle the throttle so as to "catch" the engine if it showed signs of dying after a few first hesitant coughs; following which pantomime, there was a repeat performance to get the other one running. With some dexterity this task could be accomplished on one's own, but it did help to have the assistance of either the navigator or radio operator, acquisition of a copilot lying some time in the future. Occasionally an engine would splutter along solely on the priming pump's efforts, due to jamming of a main needle valve in the carburettor; in which event it was necessary to shake it free by inducing a hearty backfire with ham-handed use of the throttle, this usually effecting a cure. Life was further complicated by some aircraft having different starter switch layouts, resulting in much confusion, frustration and cursing plus some delay in achieving a state of engines running.
Having made an initial check of essential instrument readings (oil & hydraulic pressures, and so on), engine rpm were set at the warm-up value and various functional checks of ancillary equipment such as radio and navigational equipment carried out while engine temperatures rose to the minimum value for taxiing. Once achieved, and permission obtained by radio from the unseen control tower, we trundled along our rural track towards the main airfield taxiway. To the present-day aviator all this may seem somewhat elementary, but bear in mind that, in the course of nearly 300 hours of training, this was not only the first aircraft type in which I had actually used radio as a part of the flight process, I was also (at a bare 20 years of age) in sole command of a state of the art transport aircraft; so, for me, the big time had indeed arrived!
Time spent taxiing towards the holding point, or whatever it was called in those days, was sufficient for oil & cylinder head temperatures to attain minimum safe levels, so after checking correct propeller & magneto functioning we were ready to go. With an OK from the tower I swung onto the runway, allowing the tail wheel lock to engage as we lined up, and then steadily advanced the throttles to the maximum 48 inches manifold pressure. The props responded with a puissant and highly satisfying Hollywood-type droning roar, the initial snarl of the exhausts diminishing as speed increased. What little tendency to swing existed was easily countered initially by use of differential throttle, the effective rudder gaining authority as acceleration continued; following which the Dakota lifted easily into the crisp air at about 90 mph (knots lay in the future!). Acting as temporary copilot the radio operator executed the somewhat cumbersome procedure for raising main wheels, following which we turned towards the northwest and climbed steadily to our cruising altitude of 8,000 ft.
As we progressed, the very light dusting of snow beneath us gradually became a proper covering and the approaching Pennines assumed a positively Alpine aspect as they came into view in the brilliantly clear air. Here & there trailing white plumes marked the progress of various trains, a once commonplace sight now utterly vanished, while the Manchester conurbation was marked by a thick blanket of evil-coloured smog. Through it poked a large number of tall factory chimneys belching out their contribution to the general miasma, a foul and unlovely contrast to the purity of the surrounding snow-blanketed countryside. I had plenty of time to study this phenomenon, for the sky was empty and the superb autopilot left me little to do; visibility was unlimited, navigation by eyeball and the mountains of the Lake District soon lay directly ahead. Having checked the sky was clear I took advantage of Mr. Sperry, left my seat and went back to discuss flight progress with navigator & radio operator, a foolhardy and potentially dangerous action by any standards; however, the potential hazards of runaway autopilots were less well taught or appreciated in those innocent times, and in fact I never heard of any such event with the Dakota. In later years I learned better sense, though fortunately for me my education was by courtesy of the misfortunes of others.
Clad overall in winter whiteness the Lakes and their mountains looked quite magnificent in the bright sun, even the Cumbrian plain being covered, while further yet beyond the Solway Firth loomed the hills of Galloway in similar garb. The cockpit was warm and snug, the engines droned smoothly, all instrument needles indicated correctly, even our meal boxes contained passable offerings while a tolerably drinkable hot coffee nicely completed my sense of wellbeing; this, I felt, was what aviation was meant to be like. Indeed, given the luxury of an autopilot it was probably the first occasion on which I had been able to relax and really enjoy the sheer pleasure of flight in such perfect conditions; later, I would learn to savour and treasure such occasions to the full as a counterbalance to the thousands of other hours of tedium endured over the years - not to mention other, briefer, periods of worry, fear, or (very occasionally) stark terror.
As the Isle of Man fell behind on the left, the radio operator passed a message slip bearing the legend "return to base". No reason was given, and with only a distant cloud bank visible far to the north west I deemed it reasonable to request confirmation; which, being duly given, left me no alternative but to effect a 180o turn and head back. Following arrival at a wide-open Wymeswold, we found that a meteorological forecast of bad weather at our expected time of return was responsible for the recall, but the expected conditions never materialised and it was an early lesson in not placing too much faith in meteorological ‘experts’; sixty-plus years on, I still regret the early termination of what had been a perfectly delightful flight. However, as one of our aircraft had recently crashed during a blizzard, presumably the authorities were now playing safe.
Shortly before this my crew had undertaken another flight in fairly atrocious weather to Nutts Corner, an airfield on the north west coast of Ulster; but, being accompanied by an instructor, no restrictions had applied. It was a day of snow showers that became heavier and more frequent as we went on, so much so that frequent alterations of heading became necessary to avoid the closely-packed storms. Lacking "Gee", my inexperienced navigator was unable to keep up with our zigzag progress, the radio compass needle spun uselessly due to static, and with no landmarks visible our position became uncertain. When a coastline was finally discerned through the murk it was held to be Northern Ireland, and although it did not look quite right we attempted to make what was visible ‘fit’ the map, a process that became increasingly unconvincing as we headed inland. Eventually the nav caught up with events, pronouncing that, due to a combination of stronger than forecast wind plus more "zag" than "zig", we were now over SW Scotland and to turn 90o left immediately; following which, a snow-blown Nutts Corner eventually hove in sight. Well it was supposed to be a navigational exercise, and certainly lessons were learnt - not least the necessity for intelligent map-reading!
Some night X-country flights naturally formed part of the syllabus, my main recollection of these being the almost dangerously snug atmosphere of the pilots' small domain. With gangway blackout curtains drawn, sole illumination came from the myriad luminous needles and calibration markings glowing brightly on the instrument dial faces, shaded ultraviolet lamps ensuring that these stood out clearly while all other cockpit detail remained virtually invisible; the synchronised propellers droned away comfortingly, and a 700 temperature added to the illusion of security born of inexperience. The rear crew members continued with their esoteric duties behind the curtains, passing messages from time to time plus the occasional cup of coffee; it was all rather other-worldly, although reality intruded now & then and especially so when weather was encountered. Then one would watch the airspeed closely for evidence of ice build-up, whilst simultaneously reassured by the Dak's excellent protection systems; one dramatic encounter with St. Elmo's Fire, with mysterious green feathers sparking across the screens and the propeller arcs described in brilliant rings of flickering bluish flame came as a glimpse into the previously unknown. At the time this was all great stuff; but with later exposure to weather in its more violent manifestations I would learn to be wary of such phenomena, for they might well herald much worse to follow.
Our course successfully completed sometime in February 1945 there followed a spell of leave, after which my crew proceeded to a holding unit at Morecambe. So down to Loughborough station (Great Central) for the last time, a place from which so many weekend journeys had commenced, and as the inevitable "V2" hicupped its way south at the head of our train I reflected on what the future might hold; for with the war in Europe plainly on its last lap, a posting to the Far Eastern theatre had to be considered as more than likely.