One more, then I'm through

[con-pilot]

Not accident, not really an incident. But I did have an engine fire on a DC-3 that was really not a fire. But it got my attention.

We’d borrowed a DC-3 to use with ours to take a group of VVIPs to Western Oklahoma to show off the completion of a super deep natural gas well, over 27,000 feet deep. We do the trip and I am taking the borrowed DC-3 back to its home airport. My co-pilot had seen a DC-3 maybe three-four times in his life, matter of fact all of his time in DC-3s was on this VVIP trip that day. He ended up as MD-11 captain for FedEx.


I takeoff and make a left turn that would take us to the home airport for this DC-3. I level off at 5,500 feet and set cruise power. So there I am, fat dumb and happy looking around, listening to the roar of those two magnificent Pratt and Whitney 1820s humming away. As I am looking outside I turn to look at that marvel of 1930s technology, all the moving parts banging away in some kind of harmony that only the lovers of round motors can know and appreciate. As I am viewing this marvelous miracle I notice that the paint on the rear of the engine cowling is bubbling.

BUBBLING? ‘Now why in the hell would the paint on an engine cowl bubble?’ I ask myself. As I start to look at the Cylinder head and oil temperature it hits me, FIRE! I look up at the fire light and it stares back at me darkly. ****, I yell “FIRENUMBERONEENGINECHECKLIST”. Then I started going through the memory items “Number one throttle”, co-pilot “check” closed the number one throttle, “Number one mixture” “check” cut the mixture on number one, “Number one Prop full back” “check” number one prop back to the stop. “Number one feather button” “check” pushed and prop feathered. “Run the engine fire/failure/shutdown check list, I have the radios for now.”

Now while we were shutting down the engine I had started a slow turn to the left to go back to home base, it was the closest and we were set up for a left downwind from the southeast and we were about 25 miles away for a south landing, no problem, practiced this a lot. I call approach, tell them of the situation and they cleared us for a visual approach to 17L. Sounded good to me. About this time the guy in the right seat announces that he had finished the checklist and that everything was done except firing the bottle, as we never had smoke or saw fire, so I was holding the bottle in reserve. The paint bubbling stopped the second the engine was shut down.

Well here we were, flying along, one engine caged the other purring like a kitty when the co-pilot yells at me that the paint on the cowling on number two was bubbling. I almost turned around to see if Ernie Gann was standing in the cockpit behind us. The guy in the right seat, not thinking, reached for the number two throttle. I stopped him and told him that we would most likely need that engine for a while longer. With perfect timing approach called right then and told us to contact the tower. I told the guy in the right seat to tell approach that we were landing downwind on 35R. Approach called back and told us we were cleared to land any runway. I’m still at 5,500 feet and I’m not going to descend an inch until I know that I can make a runway with no power at all. Thinking as hard as I could I could not recall ever being a glider pilot or even taken one lousy lesson. The guy in the right seat taps me on the shoulder and then tells me that the paint is turning black. I ask him if he sees any smoke or fire and has it spread back past the engine to the wing. 20 miles to go.


Now I’m looking for a good field to park this thing in if he sees smoke, fire or if the wing behind the engine is showing and signs of fire or damage. From his seat he cannot see anything, so I tell him to run back to cabin and see if there is anything that I can use as a ‘There I was Story’ at happy hour. He unbuckles, jumps out of his seat and like a shot goes back to the cabin. He comes back very quickly shaking his head no. Well there two way to take that no, we’re going to live or we’re going to die. Yeah, I can get melodramatic at times. It was no as in he didn't see anything. Now I’ve got the right engine pulled back to where we are barely maintaining 5,500 feet. 15 miles to go.

I cannot figure out why we have fires in both engine, this thing made the three hour round trip without a hiccup, even though I didn’t fly it, I flew ours. The reason I was flying it now was because I lost a coin toss as to who would fly it back and I lost. I make one of those command decisions and tell the future MD-11 captain who is in the right seat that as the winds were light that we’d make a straight in to runway 30. He looks at me and said it sounded good to him and to carry on. Still no sign of a fire, just some sort of overheat on both engines. I must say that he was taking all of this very calmly, good kid. 10 miles to go.

We tell the tower of our plans and we can see the emergency equipment pulling from 35R and heading over to 30. I really hope that we don’t crash, because if we survive the firemen will most likely drown us in that foam they have in the trucks. Not much happens for those guys and they can get real excited when they think that they can cover an aircraft in foam. I make a slight left turn to line up on 30 and make realizes I have made a horrible mistake. One that can kill us. 5 miles to go

If there is an aircraft in the world that you never want to have to lose a lot of altitude in a hurry, it would be the DC-3. I call gear down and pull right engine back to idle. I tell the guy in the right seat to go to full flaps. Nope, not losing enough altitude fast enough. So I go into a side slip, nobody ever told me you couldn’t sideslip a DC-3, so I did and by God it was working. The CFR chief later told me that when I started the sideslip he thought we were going to crash for sure. 2 miles to go

I kick it out of the side slip about a half mile final and pass over the end of the runway at about a hundred feet, a little high but the runway is 7,000 feet long, so plenty of room to stop. Shockingly, at least to me anyway I grease it on and we stop about mid-field on the center line, another shock. I tell the guy who is going to buy me Scotch at happy hour that night, who is also in the right seat to help me shut this thing down and get out of here before we get covered with foam. In short order we are out of the DC-3 waving down the fire trucks not to cover the DC-3 in foam, they do not. Now, what the hell happened? The FBO that we are based with was waiting with a car and tug with a DC-3 towbar. Now the problem is, this is not my aircraft, we borrowed for this trip. I’ve not a clue where the owner is and want to know what the hell happened to both engines. My mechanic, Terry, had been headed to a bar when he saw us coming back in, so he turned around and headed back to the hangar where he was waiting for us. As they parked the DC-3 on a tie-down.

Terry grabs his tool box and heads out to the DC-3 telling me he didn’t care who owned it as he was off duty and by God he was going find out what happened to cause both engines to do what they did. He goes to the left engine, looks through the open cowl flaps (we’d opened them after landing). Then he motions me over. “I don’t need to open her up, look at the exhaust manifold.” I did, the exhaust manifold had separated allowing raw exhaust to blow on the engine cowling causing the overheat condition. Why had this happened, whoever install the exhaust the last time, used nuts that plastic lock washers on the end of the nuts. The plastic melted, the nuts vibrated back out and caused the exhaust manifold to come apart. The reason the fire warning did not sound was because somehow the idiots that used plastic washers on the exhaust manifold hooked the fire warning up where it would test, but not actually detect a fire of overheat condition like we had encountered.

The conversation with the owner was very interesting. But I’d bet that his conversation with his maintenance people was a lot more interesting.

Oh, and I bought the poor guy I almost killed his booze that night.

The moral of this story, things are not always what they seem.

[Pilot DAR]

Another great one... Please don't be through yet!

I had occasion to be right seat in a turbine DC-3, with a ski check cable problem, and a sideslip seemed to be a good approach to a solution. It worked, and I can attest that a DC-3 will slip nicely at 130 knots.

[con-pilot]

Originally Posted by Pilot DAR

Another great one... Please don't be through yet!

I had occasion to be right seat in a turbine DC-3, with a ski check cable problem, and a sideslip seemed to be a good approach to a solution. It worked, and I can attest that a DC-3 will slip nicely at 130 knots.

I just meant for the day. I'm working on the story of a good friend in Turbo Commander nearly hitting a fire truck.

On second thought, I'll post part one of 'How to fly through thunderstorms four times and live through it.'

[Centaurus]

In the 1960's the Royal Australian Air Force had two Convair 440 Metropolitans based at Canberra, Australia. They were set up as VIP transports and I was the local QFI (Qualified Flying instructor) on type.

I was scheduled to conduct a period of dual instruction on a new pilot to the squadron. The P&W R2800 engine was difficult to start; particularly in cold weather. The pre-start throttle setting was critical and if too much throttle was set, extremely loud back-firing occurred and would continue until the offending throttle lever was pulled back.

The starting technique included running the engine on prime fuel alone until reaching a certain RPM, when the mixture control was slowly moved out of the cut-off position. Once the mixture cut in the engine would momentarily lose RPM and it was important to release the primer switch at that instant. Failure to do so would result in an over-rich mixture with a guarantee of an exhaust fire. Because of the complicated and quite critical starting procedure, pilots were given at least twenty practice starts before being signed off as competent to operate the engines. Not so the RAAF ground staff, who were lucky to be shown two starts before being cleared for solo engine runs.

Arriving at the Convair on the tarmac I was surprised to see three airmen boarding prior to an engine run. One of the airmen was “Taffy” an electrical fitter whose job today was to adjust the generator output of the engines. The other two were engine fitters with one being given his first dual exercise on engine starting.

I watched with interest and then some alarm as the starboard propeller turned slowly and the engine caught with several huge backfires that reverberated between the hangars. Eventually the engine ran normally. Hands could be seen flashing around the cockpit as switches were selected and the port engine started. It died initially then started again with a series of backfires then died again. To my consternation a long flame shot out of the open cowl flaps at the top of the engine and then it was on for young and old. On the ground, a fire-guard quickly moved his wheeled fire extinguisher towards the now slowly rotating propeller while at the same time another airman warned him to stay well clear while the prop was turning.

In the cockpit, the supervising engine fitter directed his student to keep the propeller turning in the hope of blowing out the fire. He failed to notice his student was still actuating the primer switch and feeding the fire. ATC saw the fire and sounded the emergency siren and fire engines set forth from the other side of the airfield. With the fire still erupting from the cowl flaps, the supervising engineer called for Taffy the electrician to open the hydraulically operated door.

I could see Taffy’s white face pressed against various windows as he ran up and down the cabin in fear. With Taffy having panicked at the sight of the flames, the engineer was forced to leave the cockpit to open the door himself. Meanwhile the student engineer kept his fingers on the starter switch and the primer.

As the air-stairs touched the tarmac I raced up the stairs only to be knocked flat by a gibbering Taffy bounding down the stairs to safety. Having managed to regain lost dignity I again headed for the cockpit and saw that the mixture control was in the forward or rich position and the student was still toggling the primer switch. I told him to stop priming and cut the mixture control – which he did. The fire went out almost immediately and apart from scorching of the cowl flaps there was no damage. The fire crew were quite disappointed that they weren’t needed.

Hearing the commotion, the squadron leader engineering officer, a cranky former pugilist known for his general belligerence, arrived puffing on to the scene and immediately laid charges on both engineers for dereliction of duty or whatever the official term was. I thought that was unfair since it was clear that neither airman had received proper dual instruction on starting Convair engines. Certainly they were qualified to start the engines of the squadron Dakotas, but no way were those engines comparable to the big R2800’s of the Convair 440.

Later over a beer I suggested to the CEO (chief engineering officer) that he drop the charges against his airmen but he stubbornly refused. I tried another tack and asked if he himself had started a Convair engine and he admitted he hadn’t. I then suggested he should at least be qualified before hearing the charges which he himself had initiated; otherwise how could he prove dereliction of duty when he did not know that duty himself?

I suggested he should carry out a couple of engine starts under my supervision and he went along with that. The following day I was due to fly the same Convair, so the CEO and I took our seats and I showed him the multi-fingered switching technique. Looking out of the right hand cockpit window I noticed the fire-guard in position near the wing was the supervising airman under charge. The engineering officer tried to start the first engine and rocked the hangars with a series of loud back fires. He had set the throttle just a bit too wide. At each backfire I thought I could hear the sound of cheering.

Glancing outside I saw a crowd of airmen clapping their hands and cheering at each explosion. The fire-guard winked at me from his safe position under the wing. The CEO had the same problem with his next attempted start and this time he saw his men cheering.

After I manage to convince him that his men had never been given a course of dual instruction on engine starting and had been learning on the job, he realized it was his own lack of supervision of his ground staff that had led to the current situation. The next day, all charges against the two airmen were dropped. It was a happy ending, more so when a six pack of beer from the airmen was left at my locker in the crew room.

[con-pilot]

After I manage to convince him that his men had never been given a course of dual instruction on engine starting and had been learning on the job, he realized it was his own lack of supervision of his ground staff that had led to the current situation. The next day, all charges against the two airmen were dropped. It was a happy ending, more so when a six pack of beer from the airmen was left at my locker in the crew room.

I love a story with a happy ending. As you flew 440s, did you read by story here about 'Hanger flying in a bar can save your life'? It involved a Convair 300 that I flew part time as a co-pilot.

[con-pilot]

Here is a story about cold starting the R-2800s on a Howard 350, same company and chief pilot of the Convair "Bar" story.

One morning in Gunnison Colorado I was a new hire on a Howard 350. We had spent the weekend and the temperatures at night was really cold, hell, it was still in the teens that morning. We got to the airport Monday morning and as a new, young exuberant co-pilot I wanted to make a good impression to my seasoned, elder, senior Captain (he was about 40), if for no other reason than not being able to keep up with him drinking Scotch over the weekend. So I asked him if he wanted me to have the FBO bring out the engine pre-heaters.

"Nah, don't need 'em." He was a man of few words as well. So we get into the cockpit with the intention of starting the engines, warming them up before the passengers get there. "Clear on two" he calls and engages the starter. I reply clear, thinking a bit late for that as he has already hit the starter. But as I was looking at the engine, nothing was happening, looked back into the cockpit, yup the starter was still engaged, so I look back out at the engine. I could hear the starter groaning and then very, very, very slowly the prop started to turn. "It turning yet?" he asked.

"Yes sir, it is moving, but really slow." I answer and he says, "Let me know when fuel starts pouring out on the ramp". 'Let me know what!' I think, "Yes sir I answer. Well the prop is moving a little better and by now it has turned about three agonizingly slow times and I see fuel start pouring on the ramp. "Fuel is coming out on the ramp now." I called out.

"K" he says and turns on the mags. BANG, POP, POW, BANG, COUGH, COUGH, BANG, POW and flames start shooting out of the stacks, the front of the engine, hell flames are coming out of everywhere, as it keeps banging, popping and coughing. Pretty soon to my amazement, it actually starts running, all the flames go away and I don't have to call the fire department.

So I look at him as he is getting ready to start the left engine and I say to him, "Okay, I figured out how to start these things when cold soaked, catch them on fire and the heat of the fire warms the engine up enough to start."

He just looked at me and hit the left engine starter.

[Centaurus]

I love a story with a happy ending

Con-Pilot. While the forum is called Accidents and Close Calls, it seems to me the forum so far has failed to attract much interest in the two subjects.. It may be because the relating of accidents and close calls are sometimes regarded as a line shooting exercise and most pilots tend to shy away from that.
It would be a great pity to see fine contributors such as yourself eventually fade away from the forum (I sincerely hope you don't). It is all too easy to get discouraged from writing amusing anecdotes that yet have a serious side, when one sees few other contributions coming into the forum.

Your delightful story of the former military Colonel that you flew with, brought back to me memories of similar characters with whom I flew. In my case the Royal Australian Air Force.

I called the following story THE AMBERLEY FREIGHTER RUN and it is about flying the Avro Lincoln heavy four engine bomber; the advanced version of the well known RAF wartime Lancaster. The era was the 1950's

The Lincoln bomb bay had capacity and hard points for thousands of pounds weight of bombs. Freight could be carried instead of bombs or torpedoes. The strangest load that I ever carried in the bomb bays, was three tons of roofing tiles inside special large canisters hooked up to the normal bomb attachment points. These roofing tiles once graced the roofs of the living quarters of the RAAF base at Momote in the Admiralty Group of islands a few hundred miles north of New Guinea.

In the early Fifties, Coca Cola had not yet reached the shops of Far North Queensland. Brisbane in Southern Queensland had Coca Cola and so did the Officers Mess at Amberley. There was plenty of Rum at the Officers Mess at Townsville, and as we all know, Rum and Coke go together like a horse and carriage. And so it was decided to lay on a Lincoln at tax payers expense to slip down the road from Townsville to Amberley (around 600 miles) and return with fifty or so, crates of coke from the RAAF Amberley Officers Mess.

Amberley made a healthy profit from flogging its coke and to pick up the drinks we enjoyed a low level jaunt at 500 feet through the beautiful Whitsunday Islands along the Great Barrier Reef. Flight time around four hours each way.

We would leave Townsville at 0700 with a crew of seven, the navigator would lay a course to Cape Bowling Green 30 miles to the south-east (the last point of departure from the FNQ coast), then fly sedately following the coastline until approaching the Whitsundays. Then it was down on the deck at 50 feet above the Barrier Reef to flash (165 knots?) over yachts and occasional coastal ships. Photographs would be snapped from a huge F51 hand-held camera, smoke floats would be dropped as the navigator ordered three-drift winds, and a lovely time was had by all. There was a serious side to all this, of course.

New graduated young navigators would be posted to the squadron at various intervals throughout the year and as the war mission of the squadron was anti-submarine searches and shipping convoy escort, they had to gain experience at this specialist navigation. There was nothing more boring than flying hundreds of miles out into the Coral Sea just to turn back and come home again, so the Coca Cola runs were a perfect excuse to give the navigators continuation training, and the rest of the crew, ship identification practice. All shipping sightings and position reports were flashed back by High Frequency radio to Headquarters Operational Command (HQOPCOM), at Penrith near Sydney.

Depending on the type of navigational exercise scheduled, the route to Amberley might be via a turning point several hundred miles out to sea. The navigator would use a sextant to take bearings on the sun in order to establish his position, while the pilot needed to fly a steady heading for several minutes to ensure an accurate position line. There would be much bitching from the nav if the pilot flew inaccurately. The navigator’s charts and calculations were assessed by the squadron senior navigation officer after the aircraft returned to base and poor flying by the pilot could ruin an otherwise flawless navigational exercise.

These ocean flights were not as popular as the coastal runs, mainly because the bar might be closed by the time the Lincoln got into Amberley in the evening. Although the average age of the Lincoln crew could be only 23 years old, I cannot recall ever having been lost during these long range flights. Where bad weather or cloud cover prevented use of the sun or the stars for position fixing, the navigator relied on deduced reckoning until he could pick up a long range radio bearing from high frequency (HF)military radio stations.

I had just recently obtained my command as a maritime captain when I was scheduled to fly a coastal maritime exercise to Amberley. Another Lincoln had taken off an hour earlier to fly direct to Amberley to undergo a major inspection. It was planned that we would land a few hours later, keep the engines running while the other crew climbed aboard, and then return direct to Townsville. The other crew had been briefed to pick up crates of coke from the Officers Mess and load them on our aircraft. This was cost efficient exercise guaranteed to satisfy the most eagle eyed accountant officer.

The crew of the first Lincoln included the squadron’s most hardened drinkers. The captain was Flying Officer Wally, a former wartime Lancaster pilot. His copilot was Sergeant Bill who many years later served in Vietnam on Canberra bombers and I am unable to recall the name of the navigator. The signaller was a Warrant Officer called Joe. As we taxied in at Amberley, Wally and his (merry) men were waiting on the tarmac with a jeep loaded with crates of coke. As it was going to be a long trip home, they had bought some bottles of rum to go with the coke. Merry being the operative word, they lost little time between dropping off their Lincoln for maintenance and getting into the rum and coke.

Amberley was the home base of No 1 Bomber squadron which also operated Lincolns, and several of Wally's wartime colleagues were based there. There was nothing that RAAF aircrew enjoy more than to meet old friends from days of yore and enjoy a few beers in the Officers Mess. Because of this, Coca Cola runs were generally planned to stay overnight at Amberley, and a late departure made the following day to allow time to sober up. Wally was no exception and it was soon clear that he was determined to stay overnight.

After heaving their parachutes and Mae Wests (life jackets named after a full breasted blonde film actress of an earlier era), into the back of the Lincoln, Wally and his crew made themselves comfortable on the hard metal floor behind the signaller’s position. The crates of coke were stored unsecured throughout the length of the long fuselage. The wheel chocks were removed and we taxied to the run-up bay. Now, the Lincoln is not a pressurised aircraft, is very noisy, and has an intercommunication system which requires the use of microphones fitted into the crew oxygen masks. Pilots wore leather or cloth helmets and goggles were optional.

One should keep in mind that it was an operational bomber, not a passenger transport. If the intercomm system is inoperative, then messages are either passed by hand – or by shouting into someone’s ear – or by a hard tap on the shoulder in order to gain instant attention. It was the last named that got my instant attention while I was engaged in running up all four engines to test them.

While checking the magneto switches at high power, I became aware of the odour of alcohol seeping into my oxygen mask. Unlike Dakota aircraft, the Lincoln was not equipped with the luxury of an alcohol operated de-icing system for the windshields or propeller blades. We had nothing to combat icing in bad weather. I was bemused therefore to smell what seemed to be an alcohol tainted breath. When the apparition that appeared behind me hit me hard on the shoulder and demanded that we taxi back to the tarmac, I realised that Wally was going to cause a real problem on this flight.

Wally had left the crowd drinking rum and coke down the back and crawling past the now irate navigator, was leaning over between the copilot and myself watching the run up procedure. He had no helmet, therefore no means of communicating except by shouting into my ear. As the starboard inboard Rolls Royce Merlin engine was at high power less than fifteen feet from the cockpit, Wally had to shout very loud indeed. He was also well on the way to getting drunk. To make my day, he thought he could detect a non-existent rough running of the engine we were testing, and so redoubled his attempts for us to abandon the flight so that he could enjoy another hard night of drinking at the Mess. .

There was nothing wrong with the engines and so I asked him politely to leave the cockpit and let us get on with our job of flying His Majesty’s aircraft back home to Townsville. Fortunately he understood that as captain of the aircraft I had full authority to run the show, despite that I was a low rank Sergeant while he was a commissioned officer.

In the event, Wally vanished, only to reappear some hours later demanding that I stop flying in severe turbulence as it was interfering with the drinking activities of his crew down the back. ..Granted, it was bumpy, because we were threading our way between heavy clouds and as weather radar was not available in those days, it was inevitable that we would run into the odd thunderstorm or two.

This was bad enough for a sober crew, but understandably damned annoying if you were trying to have a civilised drink down aft. Keep in mind the Lincoln had no seat belts other than for the crew. Despite doing our best to avoid the turbulence I became the target of much abuse from Wally, co-pilot Bill and Warrant Officer Joe. They thought I was flying into cloud purely to upset their party. While that was patently untrue, I admit I was keen on logging more cloud flying hours towards gaining the prestigious Green Card instrument rating and so perhaps they had a valid point.

We landed at Townsville four hours later with the freight load diminished by half a crate of rum and coke. Flying Officer Wally and his crew practically fell on to the tarmac and weaved unsteadily towards the crew room under the base of the control tower – there to divest themselves of parachutes and sundry other flying regalia. The odd chunder was heard. Meanwhile Wally sought out the Commanding Officer and demanded that I be put on a charge for deliberately flying into heavy clouds and upsetting his party.

The CO’s reply, on seeing the dishevelled Wally, was unprintable, and he was ordered home to sober up. That was the end of the matter.

[superq7]

Lovely story Centaurus,

[con-pilot]

Centaurus

An excellent and funny story, keep them coming.

PLEASE!


And to all you other pilots here in Pprune, from old farts like me to student pilots and in between don’t just read our stories, join in. You older guys and gals I know have stories that would fill volumes, so post a few of those stories here. For the lower time students and/or Private Pilots, tell some of your experiences as well.

Together we all could make this forum the most popular in Pprune.

Cheers to all.

[Centaurus]

AN ADVENTUROUS FLIGHT

Midnight in the Boeing 737 flight simulator is called the graveyard shift, and there I was teaching two cadet pilots from China the finer points of flying jet transports. They had learnt to fly in New Zealand and just out of flying school with only 230 hours in their log books, were destined to fly the Boeing 737 as second in command.

Both were landing the simulator quite safely, so I put up my feet and watched them fly without further help. The cockpit was warm, I was tired and soon my eyelids grew heavy. As the years pass, some get nostalgic for their youth and I was no exception, finding myself daydreaming of the good old days as a pilot in the RAAF and the airlines. While dozing, my thoughts drifted back in years to the time I first flew a Sea Fury.

My eyes had hardly closed when I was jolted awake by the sound of a massive crunch from the simulator, accompanied by a string of Chinese oaths. These signified that one of my students had failed to round-out at Guang Zhou International. The poor old simulator had then done a major dummy spit, and accompanied by dreadful groaning and crashing noises, the landing gear had collapsed. It was time for a coffee break and a crash reset. By some strange quirk of the sub-conscious, the impact of the simulator crashing coincided with the Sea Fury landing in my dream. Funny thing was, that I once nearly wrote off a real Sea Fury and only its sturdy Doughty undercarriage saved the day. Let me tell you the story.

After graduation in December 1952 I was posted to the RAAF fighter base at Williamtown to fly Mustangs and Vampires. While I enjoyed the hack, flick and zoom thing, I was a lousy shot and sadly lacked the skills needed to be a true fighter pilot. I could bracket a tank with my rockets, but never hit it. Despite spraying bullets all over the firing range, I rarely hit the target. I blamed this on poor harmonization of the Mustang machine guns, which I suspected were set to 250 miles instead of 250 yards.

My commanding officer, a thoughtful ex-Spitfire pilot, wisely decided that Australia would be safer with me as a bomber pilot, where I was unlikely to hurt anyone with stray bullets. And so I was posted to fly Lincolns at Townsville. To my delight there was a Mustang on strength, but its guns had been removed and I was unable to practice my new found firing skills. Swamp crocodiles could rest in peace and the bombing range on Rattlesnake Island would remain a safe haven for wildlife. The Mustang was modified for target towing, and besides flying Lincolns, I spent many hours towing a drogue at which air gunners fired cannon shells. With relief, tempered by moments of fear, I realised I wasn’t the only lousy shot in the Air Force.

Our task was to chase foreign submarines. The tame ones were based at Sydney and we would fly to the RAN base at Nowra to practice the art of submarine hunting. Each year we were allowed to drop one Mk 34 homing torpedo aimed at an acoustic buoy that made submarine noises. Torpedoes were expensive, the defence budget tight, so we saw the annual torpedo drop, (all of five minutes), as a joyous occasion.

The torpedo, launched from the Lincoln at 200 feet, would hit the sea, then go feral, circling the unfortunate buoy before arrowing in with the ferocity of a White Pointer. On hitting the buoy, it would broach the surface, then continue to circle until lining up for another go. After five minutes, it would run out of puff and float lazily on the surface until retrieved by a waiting rescue launch. Overhead, the Lincoln would steep turn to allow the crew to see the results of a year of waiting for this precious moment in time. Intelligence reports later revealed that most Russian submarines could out-run our torpedoes, hence the exercise was somewhat academic.

On 12th October 1953, I flew to Nowra in Lincoln A73-57, to undergo training on No 7 Joint Anti-Submarine Course. Our crew stayed at the Petty Officer’s Mess where we received free food and lodgings for the month. The officers were less fortunate. They stayed at the Officers Mess – in Navy parlance the Ward Room, and were charged for extra eggs at breakfast. They watched in envy as Navy officers knocked down pink gin at lunch-time, while our chaps were on the wagon till off duty. Lincoln crews spent a few days in the class room learning about Sugar Sugars and Huff Duffs (submerged submarines and high frequency direction finding). War games were played in a large hall with the floor representing the sea. Model ships and submarines were moved around under orders from Wing Commanders and Captains situated in adjacent small cubicles, while naval ratings would act as messenger boys between opposing fleets. An exploding thunder-flash would signify the end of some unfortunate ship, and umpires would toss firecrackers into the cubicles of those deemed responsible for yet another maritime disaster.

A truce was called for 20th October, and I wandered down to the hangars to look at aeroplanes. On the tarmac I saw lines of Sea Furies and Fireflies. In the hangars were Venoms and Wirraways plus a Dakota, Auster, and some Wessex helicopters. A few months earlier in Darwin, I had neatly stood a Wirraway on its nose when the brakes jammed. Notwithstanding, I decided to ask permission to borrow a Navy Wirraway for some general flying practice. One could do that sort of thing in those days- in fact it was encouraged, in order to give young Service pilots as wide experience as possible. Nowadays, - no way. Modern aircraft cost big money and the spectre of media headlines has made squadron commanders more cautious than those of the early post war days.

The flight commander was a delightful chap called Lieutenant Colin Wheatley. I asked him if I could fly a Wirraway, mentioning that I had flown Mustangs and was now second dickey on Long Nose Lincolns. He was very enthusiastic and said “ Oh! – So you have flown ‘Stangs, eh? Well forget the Wirraway, how about a Fury instead?” I could hardly believe my ears and quickly accepted his offer, little realising what I had let myself in for. From a bookshelf he handed me Pilot’s Notes Sea Fury Mk 11, and said “Read this Sergeant, and after lunch we’ll fix you up” .

I spent the next two hours avidly swotting. Page 40, paragraph 63 gave advice on spinning. “Intentional spinning is prohibited. Should an accidental spin occur, normal recovery action should be applied immediately and a speed of 175 knots should be attained before recovery from the resulting dive is attempted.” Must remember that one I thought, in case I get a bit careless with aerobatics - for which paragraph 65 tabled the various speeds. Loop were flown at 320-360 knots, upward roll 350-400 knots. Heady speeds indeed after the 165 knots cruise speed of the stately Lincoln, although you could get 300 knots in a dive while pretending not to notice the flexing of the wings. Like most British engines, power was indicated as pounds of boost per square inch - rather than in manifold pressure in inches of mercury as with American aircraft. Zero boost equating to 30 inches of mercury.

Then, having enjoyed the condemned’s last meal in the Petty Officers Mess, I straightened my tie and marched down the hill to the tarmac at 1300. My allotted aircraft, Sea Fury RAN 920 with its wings smartly folded in salute, was among several others on line. A Sub-Lieutenant of my own age briefed me on emergencies, general flying, take-off technique and go around procedure. Time dims the finer details of that briefing, but I still remember a few vital points.

“First thing to remember on take-off is that it swings right” said the Sub-Lieutenant. “For that reason avoid opening the throttle too fast and don’t push the tail up too early. Use +9 ½ boost and the rich mixture cuts in at +4. That’s when the swing will occur. Take-off with the canopy in the open position in case of engine failure after take-off. And very important - when you wind the canopy shut don’t let your hand slip off the handle, because if it does, the airflow will slam the canopy forward and hit the back of your head. We lost a pilot last year because of that. Finally, no spins please, and 90 knots over the fence”.

Sounded like good advice, except that I felt that 90 knots over the fence was a bit slow for such a big fighter - especially after the 105 knots I had used in Mustangs. Still, I assumed that the Sub-Lieutenant knew what he was talking about and asked no more questions. Throwing my parachute nonchalantly over one shoulder I accompanied my mentor to the flight line. Approaching the aircraft, I got that nervous flutter in the pit of my stomach and wondered did I really want to fly this brute with its 2500HP Centaurus engine and massive five bladed propeller? Close up, I was surprised how high from the ground was the cockpit and how small in comparison with the size of the aircraft. I needed more time to familiarize myself with the cockpit layout and too late began to think that perhaps I should have stuck with the Wirraway.

The walk-around complete, I climbed into the cockpit assisted by the Sub-Lieutenant and a Naval rating known as a “Pilot’s Mate”. After a further discussion on start up procedures, I was ready to go.
First carry out a left to right check (in Boeings this is called the scan). Confirm ignition switch off, main fuel cock on, throttle ½ inch open, supercharger control in low gear, and park brake on. Now prime the cylinders, ignition on, select the cartridge starter, and get the all clear to start. That done, press the combined starter and booster coil push-button.
There was a muffled explosion, a cloud of black smoke and a few revolutions of the propeller. Then the engine simply stopped.

The Sub-Lieutenant, who was standing on the port wing leaning into the cockpit, muttered something about a jammed starter solenoid. He called this news down to the Pilot’s Mate, who had been standing at ease by the starboard wing with his hands behind his back. The Mate leapt Tarzan-like on to the starboard wheel and from there on to the wing. Astonished, I saw him produce a rubber mallet and give a resounding whack to the engine cowl in front of the windscreen. This presumably freed the offending solenoid and after springing back to the ground, the Mate gave me the thumbs up for another start.

After a second cartridge was placed in the firing chamber, I checked all clear and pressed the starter button. There was another big bang with accompanying smoke and the propeller made more desultory turns and stopped. Soot from the cartridge exhaust drifted over the white uniform of the Sub-Lieutenant who was still standing on the wing, and scowling at this latest turn of events. Turned out that I had forgotten to turn on the ignition switch. Guilty as charged, Your Honour!

A third cartridge was selected, ignition switch on, throttle set, and I pressed the starter button. A big bang as the cartridge fired and magnifique! -the prop spun and the engine caught on all 18 cylinders. Adjusting the throttle to idle, I turned to the Sub-Lieutenant only to see him hopping around on the ground having been blown off the wing by the slipstream. I nearly wept with laughter! Selecting the wing-locking lever, I watched fascinated as the wings slowly lowered into place. On my signal, the Pilot’s Mate withdrew the wheel chocks and gave me a salute from the safety of the starboard wing tip. The Sub-Lieutenant had already exited stage left, shaking his head in disbelief.

Having received taxi instructions from the tower controller, I released the tail-wheel lock and swung out of the lines. The long nose of the Sea Fury meant that I had to continuously weave to check ahead, meanwhile keeping an eye on the brake air pressure gauge. Each squeeze of the brake lever depleted the air reservoir and at idle rpm the air compressor was inefficient. I discovered that exhaust smoke from the engine was being drawn into the cockpit by the slipstream, and it was necessary to wear the oxygen mask while taxying. After being cleared for take-off, I did a final check of the trims, ensured the canopy was locked open, adjusted the seat, noted the position of the airspeed indicator and muttered a small incantation to the patron saint of pilots.

As I gingerly opened the throttle, I noticed two red fire tenders on either side of the runway, their occupants dressed in asbestos suits (or whatever they wore in those days), helmets on and ready for battle. These chaps were serious about their job, and as I began the take-off roll, both tenders initially kept up till about 40 knots, and then rapidly fell behind. With full left rudder trim, it was easy to keep straight with coarse rudder, while the acceleration was similar to that experienced in a Mustang.

I had just raised the tail when I momentarily lost sight of the airspeed indicator. Engrossed in keeping straight and with the shattering noise of 2500HP belting my ears, I was beyond the normal 100 knot take-off speed when I found it again. After lifting off I realised that the beast was airborne at less than half throttle. If you think that improbable, then page three of the Pilots Notes states:- “ Full throttle should always be used for take-off, even though the aircraft may become airborne before a full throttle position is reached”.

Now off the deck, I hurriedly pushed the throttle to full take-off power. As it went through the rich mixture cut-in point of +4 boost, the extra torque caused a rapid roll. I picked the wing up smartly and tried to raise the gear. This was no mean feat, as being rather short and with a locked shoulder harness, I could barely reach the undercarriage lever. The lever could only be raised after a safety catch was unlatched and this was a tricky one-fingered effort. The Fury porpoised a few times as I groped for the safety catch and gear combination with my right hand, while I transferred my left hand from the throttle to the stick. This ridiculous switching of hands at a critical moment of take-off was a feature of several British fighters, including the Spitfire. Finally I got the gear up and pulled the propeller pitch control back into what would normally be full coarse pitch on most aircraft – but which was called “Auto” in the Sea Fury. Henceforth the propeller pitch was controlled automatically by the throttle. Climbing at 165 knots and passing 1500 feet, I swapped hands to close the canopy.

What happened then, beggars belief. I was wearing a standard issue cloth helmet to which my goggles were attached by an elastic band. While winding the canopy handle forward my gloved hand slipped and the handle ran free under aerodynamic load. I ducked instinctively, remembering in a flash the warning from the Sub-Lieutenant of the lethality of an unlocked free-sliding canopy. The canopy slammed shut missing my head, but catching the top of my goggles. I was jerked up by the elastic band and by the force of the slipstream tugging against the goggles, which were whipping around outside the canopy.

I lost sight of the instrument panel, seeing nothing but blue sky while by now the Fury was accelerating and getting badly out of trim. I was up the proverbial creek, not game to let go of the stick in order to use both hands to force the canopy open. It was sheer farce, but by now I had lost my sense of humour.

In between straining with my neck to break clear of the goggles, and groping for the elevator trim to relieve the stick pressures, my head was twanged back hard several times against the top of the canopy. Meanwhile the Sea Fury was rocketing skyward at 3000 feet per minute. Fortunately, after one more savage neck pull, the elastic band snapped and my goggles disappeared below, leaving me with a sore neck and high pulse rate. I was miffed some weeks later, when explaining to a disbelieving RAAF stores officer that I had indeed lost my goggles from a Sea Fury. He was unconvinced that my story was true, adding that if I was so stupid as to beg for rides in Navy aircraft, I deserved to pay for the lost goggles.

Having regained my lost dignity, I now enjoyed myself doing steep turns, stalls in the landing configuration (I was a bit worried about spinning if I stuffed the recovery), and a few aerobatics. Apart from the high noise level inside the cockpit, the Sea Fury proved a beautiful aircraft to fly. I was surprised at how short the wings looked from the cockpit and the feather lightness of the controls even at 400 knots. The rate of roll was impressive and in retrospect, I preferred the Sea Fury to the Mustang. I felt, however, that the Mustang would be more forgiving in belly landing.

Trying combinations of power settings I found that at maximum range configuration the aircraft steadied at 195 knots with only 1400 rpm. With climb power for aerobatics the speed quickly reached 400 knots, with an acceleration in a dive near that of a Vampire. I was tempted to do a vertical climbing roll, but again the thought of an inadvertent spin made me cautious, so I satisfied myself instead with numerous barrel rolls.

Just before one slow roll, I aimed the Fury at a cloud for nose reference and was startled to see another aircraft coming at me head on. I broke violently then straightened up long enough to look over the port wing. Nothing seen in that direction. Glancing ahead through the bullet-proof windscreen, I again saw the same aircraft. Relieved and slightly foolish, I realized that it was only a squashed insect on the windscreen.

It was time to go home. I had trouble opening the canopy, but finally got it locked turning final. The long nose began to block my view of the runway as I caught a glimpse of the fire tenders beginning to move. Then came the second unforgettable moment of my flight. Passing the threshold, I closed the throttle and rounded out.

To this day I swear it looked nice to me, with my speed was right on 90 knots, a calm day and really, I couldn’t miss… But to my horror the Sea Fury ran out of elevator, bounced heavily into the air and left me with no choice but to go around. Visions of a full power torque roll made me change my mind and I was fortunate to recover with a burst of power and frantic juggling of the stick. After that, all went well, although the aircraft seemed to slow up quickly once the tail was down. Meanwhile the fire tenders on the grass verge had shot past me and must have misjudged my stopping speed, judging from the clods of earth torn up by their skidding wheels as they changed down through a thousand gears.

The penny dropped when I realized that after the first bounce I had inadvertently squeezed the brake lever on the control column, landing with the brakes partially on. No wonder the aircraft pulled up faster than anticipated by the fire tenders. So, that is the end of the story. Well, almost..

A few years later, on November 4th, 1958, I was back at Nowra, this time in Dakota A65-65. I was now a Flight Lieutenant, which is one stripe more than a Sub-Lieutenant. There was a Sea Fury on the tarmac and we weren’t leaving till later that evening. So I walked down the hill to the tarmac and said hello to the Senior Pilot.

“ Oh, so you have flown the Fury before?” said the Senior Pilot – a Navy Commander.
“Did you enjoy it, old man?”
Yes, I loved it I said (lying in my teeth). Any chance of doing a couple of circuits, I added? No problem, said the Man. This time I was offered Sea Fury RAN 893, issued with a bone-dome and briefed by the duty Sub-Lieutenant to use “ Around 105 knots over the fence, seeing it’s your first trip in a Fury for a few years”.

105 knots suited me fine and I told him that my previous mentor had told me to go for 90 knots. This Sub-Lieutenant was shocked and said that it was fortunate that I did not bend the aircraft, because 90 knots was just above the stall and used strictly for carrier landings. Back then, I must have missed page 42, paragraph 6b(d) of my trusty Pilot’s Notes Sea Fury which read “The recommended speed for deck landing is 90-92 knots. It is necessary to pull the control column well back to effect a three-point touch-down.” I am still looking for the first Sub-Lieutenant…

The trip in RAN 893 went off without drama and I enjoyed every minute, greasing the Fury with a tail-high wheel landing. I have flown many different types of aircraft since those days and at the time I first wrote this article was happily poling the delightful Boeing 737 around South Pacific skies. Now, long since retired to the safe job as a flight simulator instructor, I would give the world to be able to renew my acquaintance with a Sea Fury – minus the earlier frights, of course..

[Pilot DAR]

Thanks for the great tales Con pilot and Centaurus, they add much appreciated colour to the forum!

Con-Pilot. While the forum is called Accidents and Close Calls, it seems to me the forum so far has failed to attract much interest in the two subjects.. It may be because the relating of accidents and close calls are sometimes regarded as a line shooting exercise and most pilots tend to shy away from that.

I'll hope that this forum builds inertia over time, and becomes a repository for experience to be shared. As pilot read these valuable tales, they will retain themes, and me more inclined to think as they fly! Accidents will be prevented when pilots think as they fly!

[Bushfiva]

Originally Posted by Pilot DAR

I'll hope that this forum builds inertia!

Let's go for momentum?

[CharlieGolfBravo]

Thank you very much for the wonderful stories! (This is a silent reader outing. I’m no pilot, but i love the well told tales of aviation now and then.)

Keep them coming, please!
CGB