Roving - re your #11361, hope the log books contain what you are looking for!
What follows is an account of a day at Boscombe Down in February 1956, originally written for 'MagDrop', the journal of the Beverley Association.
Sitting inside the Handling Squadron Offices at Boscombe Down, my colleague and I surveyed the bleak scene outside without enthusiasm; an artic spell of weather had brought the usual British paralysis, and most flying had been suspended. However it was not just the low overcast carried on a bitter east wind, nor the ice and snow largely covering the tarmac, that kept us grounded; additional discouragement was provided by the sight of the Beverley that we hoped to fly standing immobile on the ramp and festooned with icicles. Attempts to remove them seemed to result in the rapid appearance of others, while there were dark hints of meltwater having refrozen in out-of-the-way places housing control rods and cables – so, the immediate future looked bleak in every sense. There in order to familiarise ourselves with the beast prior to undertaking conversion of 47 Squadron at Abingdon, this task appeared infinitely remote.
"That b----y block of flats will never fly" brayed a rather 'blah' voice behind us, "why not fly a real aeroplane, I have just the thing for you airborne bus drivers". Turning, we beheld the fastidious form of 'Dizzy' Steer, the Fleet Air Arm pilot whose task it was to assess naval aircraft. I affected to ignore him on this occasion but, some days later when the weather had improved yet the Beverley was still rooted immovably to the deck for some reason or other, his words returned to haunt me. Anything to get out of this wretched office I thought, going down the passage and banging on his door.
"Thought you would come round, Old Boy" he said cheerily, "afraid I can only offer you a Firefly but it's a super aircraft even if a bit out of date. Here, have a look at Pilots' Notes and come back after lunch". Dubiously perusing the slim booklet back at the Mess it looked simple enough, even though I had previously flown no single larger than a Harvard (and that only briefly). Still, the object was to get airborne and have a bit of fun, and anyway Dizzy would be along to hold my hand. It was a nice day, overcast at about 2500ft. but with good visibility beneath and a light NE wind down the runway, so why not have a go?
"Hello" he said on my return, "the kite's ready and my CPO and his team are waiting for you". I observed that it would help if he could point me towards a parachute. "Better take mine Old Boy" he leered, "I won't need it today". It was like a blow to the stomach, for I suddenly realised that I had been superlatively conned. "What do you mean" I spluttered feebly, "aren’t you coming too?"
"Not on your b----y life Old Boy, surely you don't think I'll fly with someone who hasn't been up in the b----y kite before?" Willing the floor to swallow me up, I despairingly realised that there was no way out; not only was the honour of the RAF at stake, there was no question of allowing myself to be bested by a mere fish-head. So, clipping on the unaccustomed 'chute, I waddled awkwardly towards the flight line.
The wizened old CPO and his team of manically grinning matelots had obviously seen this particular show before, many times; approaching their accursed flying tumbril, the malicious glint in their eyes was only too plain. Clambering inelegantly up the side of what was suddenly a monstrously large aircraft, I was lashed in with excessive zeal, no doubt to forestall any last-minute attempt at escape.
"Right Sir", says the CPO, "when I gives yer thumbs up yer presses that there button an' orf yer goes". Smiling weakly at him as he returned to ground level I ran through the pre-start checks as slowly as was decently possible, finally showing a reluctant thumb above the cockpit edge. Receiving his acknowledgement, I pressed 'that there button' to be answered with a deafening explosion and a dense pall of smoke. Panic-stricken, I fumbled fruitlessly for the harness release thinking that the aircraft had blown up but then noticed the big Rolls-Royce Griffon was turning over sweetly with that lovely staccato music barking from the exhaust stacks; and, as the smoke blew clear, it slowly dawned on me that I had experienced a cartridge starter for the first time (yes, I should have read those Pilots’ Notes more closely!).
Waving the chocks away I commenced taxiing gingerly towards the runway, swinging the nose from side to side in the approved manner. It seemed easier than expected, and even though I was still on the ground some confidence slowly returned. The power check presented no problems, but pre-takeoff checks were repeated several times until the moment of truth could no longer be decently postponed. Sliding the canopy part-closed as the tower gave takeoff clearance I lined up on the runway and slowly opened the throttle, to be answered by a snarling roar that, with its accompaniment of deep orange flame jetting from the stacks, was highly satisfying and stirred within me a previously unsuspected Biggles factor. Even with slightly less than full power applied acceleration was rapid, and in what appeared to be no time at all a gentle backward pressure on the column achieved lift-off, the wheels retracting into the wings beneath as I climbed away.
It has to be said that the rest of the story is rather anticlimactic. Flying beneath the overcast, I unexpectedly found that I was hugely enjoying myself. Coming from the closed world of Transport Command, where one was hardly allowed to set eyes on an unfamiliar aircraft without having first completed a ground school course of interminable length, now with no previous instruction of any kind I had a totally alien bird all to myself. The contrast was so extreme as to be almost ridiculous.
By instinct a straight & level pilot, I satisfied myself with bumbling about the local area and staying beneath the cloud deck meanwhile. After half an hour or so I headed back towards the field to carry out a few circuits and landings, but the Firefly seemed almost to land itself; better pack it in, I thought, before destroying the illusion.
Arriving back at the ramp in a euphoric mood, I sensed (probably unjustly) an air of disappointment on the CPO's part at my evident good spirits. However Dizzy was in no way put out, accepting as perfectly proper that any pilot should be able to climb into a completely strange aircraft and fly it without further ado; in fact I was mildly surprised not to be asked to write up a
précis on the Firefly's handling characteristics, normal procedure for a test pilot.
What has all this to do with the Beverley, I hear voices ask. Not very much at all really, except that its unserviceability presented me with an opportunity of the sort that comes only once in a lifetime, and so I remain eternally in its debt. Over sixty years later I can still hear that V12's rasping roar and recall with pleasure the Firefly's crisp, vice-free handling, an experience granted now only to a select handful of display pilots; it also gives some small satisfaction that the Royal Navy's base attempt to faze the RAF was met head-on and duly foiled (well sort of, anyway).
A pilot with experience of the Firefly alleged that I have over-praised it, and that it was something of a cow to handle. Be that as it may, after some years of that arch-pig the Hastings Mk1 even a brick s---house would have appeared to fly like a dream.
A couple more pieces featuring the Beverley will appear in due course, but require some editing first.