Gaining An R.A.F Pilots Brevet In WW II
mmitch
Not sure if this should go here or perhaps be the start of a new thread, but anyway as it's Christmas here's to starting the ball rolling
My first Christmas in the R.A.F. was spent at 5 FTS (R.A.F. Thornhill) S. Rhodesia. I remember the main course of Christmas lunch in the Airmen’s Mess was served by officers is this a tradition that still takes place overseas?
Photo shows the ‘Erks’ waiting to be served.
Sports wise another tradition was the Sergeant’s Mess played football against the Officer’s Mess — the sergeants offered a handicap to help the officers win by dressing up in silly outfits as below.
Families were catered for too. An Anson flew in from the North Pole with Santa aboard complete with a large sack of toys that he dispensed to the waiting kids after they’d towed him away from the apron in a make-shift sleigh.
Perhaps some memories of Christmases spent on duty are in order?
My first Christmas in the R.A.F. was spent at 5 FTS (R.A.F. Thornhill) S. Rhodesia. I remember the main course of Christmas lunch in the Airmen’s Mess was served by officers is this a tradition that still takes place overseas?
Photo shows the ‘Erks’ waiting to be served.
Sports wise another tradition was the Sergeant’s Mess played football against the Officer’s Mess — the sergeants offered a handicap to help the officers win by dressing up in silly outfits as below.
Families were catered for too. An Anson flew in from the North Pole with Santa aboard complete with a large sack of toys that he dispensed to the waiting kids after they’d towed him away from the apron in a make-shift sleigh.
Also it was before the advent of mobile phones as we know them now, we would have been flood with calls otherwise with few callers knowing exactly were they were.
Although Skodas of today are vastly superior to the wretched things of those days. Not quite as bad as the truly dreadful 'FSO Polonez' though - aka the 'KGB GT'.
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Christmas in the RAF
Clicker,
Always time for a Skoda joke.
Why do Skoda's have heated rear windows? To keep your hands warm when pushing the piece of $#|¥.
What do you call a Skoda convertible? A skip.
How do you double the value of a Skoda? Fill the tank.
Danny,
Salt into the wound. Some of us had our own rugs beside our bed...so our little tootsies didn't get cold on the floor when we swung out of bed. Rug rolled up and put into locker before leaving the room, of course.
Warmtoast,
I don't know if it still happens overseas, or indeed anywhere else in the RAF, but it was the norm in the late '70's and into the '80's. The added benefit for the erks, was being waited on by the station execs...and the SWO. Invariably, this generous and considerate re-enactment of the Monarch washing the feet of the poor halted immediately upon the start of the food fight. Looking back now, I never remember any Staish or SWO taking it in bad humour. And I'm sure the dry cleaning bill was paid for through the Stn Cdr's fund.
Mrs camlobe and I were reminiscing whilst addressing crimble cards to far away friends. Every year of our married life while I was serving, we always made sure any of the young singlies we knew who were on duty over the Christmas break, got as close to a home Christmas as possible. The biggest complaint consistently heard from these fine young men was of an over-enhanced abdomen. Mrs camlobe, who came from a large family, was in her absolute element, clucking and fussing with the best of mother hens, while miraculously re-appearing every few minutes with yet more edible offerings. Our daughter grew up with an inordinate number of "older brothers", some of whom we retain contact with to this day. Of course, dear daughter was spoilt rotten by her "siblings".
It was a good life for one and all.
Our thoughts this Christmas go out to those now serving and away from their homes.
Camlobe
Always time for a Skoda joke.
Why do Skoda's have heated rear windows? To keep your hands warm when pushing the piece of $#|¥.
What do you call a Skoda convertible? A skip.
How do you double the value of a Skoda? Fill the tank.
Danny,
Salt into the wound. Some of us had our own rugs beside our bed...so our little tootsies didn't get cold on the floor when we swung out of bed. Rug rolled up and put into locker before leaving the room, of course.
Warmtoast,
I don't know if it still happens overseas, or indeed anywhere else in the RAF, but it was the norm in the late '70's and into the '80's. The added benefit for the erks, was being waited on by the station execs...and the SWO. Invariably, this generous and considerate re-enactment of the Monarch washing the feet of the poor halted immediately upon the start of the food fight. Looking back now, I never remember any Staish or SWO taking it in bad humour. And I'm sure the dry cleaning bill was paid for through the Stn Cdr's fund.
Mrs camlobe and I were reminiscing whilst addressing crimble cards to far away friends. Every year of our married life while I was serving, we always made sure any of the young singlies we knew who were on duty over the Christmas break, got as close to a home Christmas as possible. The biggest complaint consistently heard from these fine young men was of an over-enhanced abdomen. Mrs camlobe, who came from a large family, was in her absolute element, clucking and fussing with the best of mother hens, while miraculously re-appearing every few minutes with yet more edible offerings. Our daughter grew up with an inordinate number of "older brothers", some of whom we retain contact with to this day. Of course, dear daughter was spoilt rotten by her "siblings".
It was a good life for one and all.
Our thoughts this Christmas go out to those now serving and away from their homes.
Camlobe
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Merry Christmas !
Warmtoast,
I'm interested in your mention of Elephantiasis. Some time ago, when I was telling tales of old wartime Calcutta, I put in a Post about a pretended (scrotal) case of the disease being used as a ploy to cover the theft of a lathe chuck (for scrap value) from the Dum-Dum arms factory.
As for the time-honoured practice of the Officers and NCOs serving Christmas Dinner to the troops, it was certainly in operation in my day. Concerning '42 in Worli (Bombay), I'm sure I wrote a Post here about having to do my duty, which involved crossing 50 yds of open ground (between cookhouse and dining "basha") with the dinners, under relentless ground-attack by every s####hawk in Bombay.
Curiously, I can't find the Post again now. But long may the tradition continue !...D.
camlobe,
Rugs, too ! Where will it all end ?
Your: "Our thoughts this Christmas go out to those now serving and away from their homes". Amen to that ! ...D.
Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to you all, Danny.
I'm interested in your mention of Elephantiasis. Some time ago, when I was telling tales of old wartime Calcutta, I put in a Post about a pretended (scrotal) case of the disease being used as a ploy to cover the theft of a lathe chuck (for scrap value) from the Dum-Dum arms factory.
As for the time-honoured practice of the Officers and NCOs serving Christmas Dinner to the troops, it was certainly in operation in my day. Concerning '42 in Worli (Bombay), I'm sure I wrote a Post here about having to do my duty, which involved crossing 50 yds of open ground (between cookhouse and dining "basha") with the dinners, under relentless ground-attack by every s####hawk in Bombay.
Curiously, I can't find the Post again now. But long may the tradition continue !...D.
camlobe,
Rugs, too ! Where will it all end ?
Your: "Our thoughts this Christmas go out to those now serving and away from their homes". Amen to that ! ...D.
Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to you all, Danny.
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Skodas Ancient and Modern.
clicker, BEagle and camlobe,
Re: Skodas. I've been digging a bit more since fingering the "Octavia" as the model which the Luftwaffe (supposedly) forbade their young "Prunes" to drive. It seems that the pre- and early wartime "Superb" is by far the mostly likely suspect, and Wiki will tell you all about it.
It appears that it had a performance which would not shame today's supercars, and those who can still remember the steering, braking and roadholding characteristics of the things we then drove can only shudder at the possibilities.
Danny.
Re: Skodas. I've been digging a bit more since fingering the "Octavia" as the model which the Luftwaffe (supposedly) forbade their young "Prunes" to drive. It seems that the pre- and early wartime "Superb" is by far the mostly likely suspect, and Wiki will tell you all about it.
It appears that it had a performance which would not shame today's supercars, and those who can still remember the steering, braking and roadholding characteristics of the things we then drove can only shudder at the possibilities.
Danny.
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There used to be a Skoda garage near me that used to put Skodas outside on the forecourt on wheel clamps to prevent people stealing the clamps.
I still have a ~1987 600 cc twin cyl. 2-stroke Trabant.
Beautifully tractable & smooth engine.
Originally owned in East Germany, after the wall came down it was purchased & driven to England. Mrs H. & I used it as a fun/regular car and for microcar rallys.
Now a 'queen' in my garage as I wouldn't sell it except to a car collector - too many yobbos used to phone up thinking it only suitable to drive into the ground for a seasons 'fun'. Well engineered and a non-ferrous body give it a charm.
mike hallam.
Beautifully tractable & smooth engine.
Originally owned in East Germany, after the wall came down it was purchased & driven to England. Mrs H. & I used it as a fun/regular car and for microcar rallys.
Now a 'queen' in my garage as I wouldn't sell it except to a car collector - too many yobbos used to phone up thinking it only suitable to drive into the ground for a seasons 'fun'. Well engineered and a non-ferrous body give it a charm.
mike hallam.
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PEUGEOT 403
Danny,
The 403 I had in 1958 was a bog standard one bought from a dealer, Herr Portner of Bielefeld, who used to come to RAF Gutersloh to do business very successfully. In fact I believe I first met him at Ahlhorn before the wing's move to Gutersloh. A very pleasant car which had done 100,000 miles when I traded it in five years later. At that time a Sikh gentleman was regularly winning the East African Safari Rally in one and probably accounted for its attraction to sundry young aviators.
Danny,
The 403 I had in 1958 was a bog standard one bought from a dealer, Herr Portner of Bielefeld, who used to come to RAF Gutersloh to do business very successfully. In fact I believe I first met him at Ahlhorn before the wing's move to Gutersloh. A very pleasant car which had done 100,000 miles when I traded it in five years later. At that time a Sikh gentleman was regularly winning the East African Safari Rally in one and probably accounted for its attraction to sundry young aviators.
Luftwaffe (supposedly) forbade their young "Prunes" to drive.
Rommel had a cabriolet as his staff car in Africa. I have only ever seen one; in Rhodesia in the fifties.
Google Image Result for http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/a/a1/Tatra_T_77a.jpg
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Danny, Linguist par excellence (???)
When we settled at GK for the last two years of the tour, I was fresh from my studies at Butzweilerhof, and heartened by my "O" Level in German. So I decided to keep up the good work without interruption. Two possibilities opened to me. That excellent periodical, "Exchange & Mart" (available from NAAFI), threw up a Linguaphone German, the property of a Bank Manager, no less. He was offering it, mint condition, for £10 or so plus P&P.
I took a chance on it. It arrived with the B/M's hope that I would find it very useful in my posting (for of course it was addressed to a BFPO in Germany). It is about two feet from me as I write: it is one of those possessions that I'll never lose (also the 6-inch ruler from my school Geometry Set - and that's going back some). It was as described; the books had never been opened, the discs (78s, shellac) unscratched, perfect. Off we went: ("Hier sind wir in DeutchLand - in DeutchLand spricht man Deutche....usw"). I got my moneysworth out of it.
This was useful, but there was a far better idea coming. The RAF couldn't afford to provide us with a RC Chaplain (although GK had a CE one on site). But they'd found an excellent substitute. Pater Gregor Eyles hailed originally from Ulm (Bavaria). He was a Franciscan friar (or to be exact, a "Cappuchiner") - so called on account of the big cowl atop the brown habits they wore - (the Capuchin monkey and your "cappuchino" from Starbucks are so named as the colour is supposed to be the same [Wiki]).
His monastery was just over the Dutch border at Waterschleyde. Originally they had been in Germany, but it seems that in the late nineteenth century they'd got up Bismarck's nose and he'd thrown the Order out of Prussia (as it then was). They'd set up over the border in Holland temporarily, with the intention of moving back when things got better. But: "Rein ne dure que le provisoire" (Nothing lasts like the temporary) - they were there yet.
Pater Gregor must have been on some sort of retainer from the RAF for his services to us (doing this sort of thing was right up a Franciscan's street: it was not an "enclosed" Order). A very friendly, white haired old monk, 60+ at a guess, he spoke faultless English (why, oh why, didn't we ever ask how he learned it ?) He filled the Chaplain gap perfectly. I think the RAF sent over a car every Sunday morning to pick him up. He often had lunch with us on Sundays, and hearing of my ambition to improve my German conversational skills, made a proposal.
How would it be if I were to go over to Waterschleyde one evening a week, and spend a couple of hours with the friars ? We might both learn a lot from it. Naturally, they'd want no money for this. If I liked the idea, he'd see if he could clear it with his Abt. I did and he could (I suspect the Abt , a wise old bird, shrewdly reckoned that his friars would learn far more English than I ever would German). We closed on the deal, choosing Mondays (or another day if my watches conflicted).
Pater Gregor was one jump ahead of his Abbot. He always picked as my interlocutor one who knew no word of English, so that it would be "sink or swim" for me. Usually it was Pater Rolf, a huge jovial bear of a man who genuinely didn't have a scrap of English. He was the very embodiment of Friar Tuck (he seems to be a historical character, by the way, who started as a Cistercian [white habit] at Fountains Abbey (Ripon), got kicked out for insubordination, [Wiki] and is always depicted in literature (with Robin Hood), in the brown of a Franciscan, although I don't think there is any evidence that he joined the Order).
Of course, I always took a dictionary with me for when I got stuck. But there was a quicker, easier way. Why not use the seven years' hard labour I'd had at school, learning Latin ? (e.g., once I was lost for "law", gave Rolf "lex, legis", he came straight back with "gesetz") Simple, and much easier than hunting around in my old dictionary, which was still in "black-letter" Gothic script. It worked like a charm.
My masterpiece came near the end of these instructional visits (I can't remember how long I kept it up). Fr Rolf told me that the legend of St.Swithun and the 40 days of rain is not generally known in Germany (at least he'd not heard it) : I had to explain the whole story as best I could: how the saintly monk Swithun died in his monastery, having humbly renounced his privilege of burial under the flags of the church, but insisting on a simple grave just outside the walls (where the "sweet rain of heaven" could fall on him from the eaves).
A devotion sprang up to Swithun, miracles were attributed to him, and after a hundred years or so, he was put up for canonisation. Rome put it on the back burner and thought about it for another century or two, then gave the nod. So now his Order (whoever they were) had a Saint on their hands: it was most unseemly that he should lie outside in the cold and the rain instead of behind the High Altar (as is Cuthbert in Durham). They decided to dig him up and bring him in where he belonged.
Doch der Heilige wollte nicht. He was quite comfortable where he was, thank you all the same. So he arranged matters, so that when they got down a foot, a torrent of rain fell and the spoil fell back in. Back at Square One, they waited till it stopped raining, then had another go. Same thing. It does not seem to have occurred to the monks to shore up the hole properly, but they cannot have been very bright anyway, for Swithun had to keep "raining them off" for 40 consecutive days until they got the message and left him alone.
So much for the sacred, now a profane small triumph. Mrs D. took it into her head to bake her own bread. Her mother had always done so, and had passed on the skill to her daughter. All the ingredients could be got from the NAAFI except the yeast (héfe). I was despatched to find some by "local-purchase".
Reckoning that it would be the best bet, I found a "Tante-Emma laden", stated my business and paid for the yeast (only a few pfennige for a few grammes). But this Tante-Emma was curious. "Entschuldigen Sie. mein Herr", she said, "but what nationality are you ?" She knew from my accent that I wasn't German, of course, but did not identify me as British. Some sort of Dutch - Flemish perhaps ?
I chalked one up (and the bread was delicious !)
Goodnight, all.
Danny42C,
Say not the Struggle naught Availeth.
I took a chance on it. It arrived with the B/M's hope that I would find it very useful in my posting (for of course it was addressed to a BFPO in Germany). It is about two feet from me as I write: it is one of those possessions that I'll never lose (also the 6-inch ruler from my school Geometry Set - and that's going back some). It was as described; the books had never been opened, the discs (78s, shellac) unscratched, perfect. Off we went: ("Hier sind wir in DeutchLand - in DeutchLand spricht man Deutche....usw"). I got my moneysworth out of it.
This was useful, but there was a far better idea coming. The RAF couldn't afford to provide us with a RC Chaplain (although GK had a CE one on site). But they'd found an excellent substitute. Pater Gregor Eyles hailed originally from Ulm (Bavaria). He was a Franciscan friar (or to be exact, a "Cappuchiner") - so called on account of the big cowl atop the brown habits they wore - (the Capuchin monkey and your "cappuchino" from Starbucks are so named as the colour is supposed to be the same [Wiki]).
His monastery was just over the Dutch border at Waterschleyde. Originally they had been in Germany, but it seems that in the late nineteenth century they'd got up Bismarck's nose and he'd thrown the Order out of Prussia (as it then was). They'd set up over the border in Holland temporarily, with the intention of moving back when things got better. But: "Rein ne dure que le provisoire" (Nothing lasts like the temporary) - they were there yet.
Pater Gregor must have been on some sort of retainer from the RAF for his services to us (doing this sort of thing was right up a Franciscan's street: it was not an "enclosed" Order). A very friendly, white haired old monk, 60+ at a guess, he spoke faultless English (why, oh why, didn't we ever ask how he learned it ?) He filled the Chaplain gap perfectly. I think the RAF sent over a car every Sunday morning to pick him up. He often had lunch with us on Sundays, and hearing of my ambition to improve my German conversational skills, made a proposal.
How would it be if I were to go over to Waterschleyde one evening a week, and spend a couple of hours with the friars ? We might both learn a lot from it. Naturally, they'd want no money for this. If I liked the idea, he'd see if he could clear it with his Abt. I did and he could (I suspect the Abt , a wise old bird, shrewdly reckoned that his friars would learn far more English than I ever would German). We closed on the deal, choosing Mondays (or another day if my watches conflicted).
Pater Gregor was one jump ahead of his Abbot. He always picked as my interlocutor one who knew no word of English, so that it would be "sink or swim" for me. Usually it was Pater Rolf, a huge jovial bear of a man who genuinely didn't have a scrap of English. He was the very embodiment of Friar Tuck (he seems to be a historical character, by the way, who started as a Cistercian [white habit] at Fountains Abbey (Ripon), got kicked out for insubordination, [Wiki] and is always depicted in literature (with Robin Hood), in the brown of a Franciscan, although I don't think there is any evidence that he joined the Order).
Of course, I always took a dictionary with me for when I got stuck. But there was a quicker, easier way. Why not use the seven years' hard labour I'd had at school, learning Latin ? (e.g., once I was lost for "law", gave Rolf "lex, legis", he came straight back with "gesetz") Simple, and much easier than hunting around in my old dictionary, which was still in "black-letter" Gothic script. It worked like a charm.
My masterpiece came near the end of these instructional visits (I can't remember how long I kept it up). Fr Rolf told me that the legend of St.Swithun and the 40 days of rain is not generally known in Germany (at least he'd not heard it) : I had to explain the whole story as best I could: how the saintly monk Swithun died in his monastery, having humbly renounced his privilege of burial under the flags of the church, but insisting on a simple grave just outside the walls (where the "sweet rain of heaven" could fall on him from the eaves).
A devotion sprang up to Swithun, miracles were attributed to him, and after a hundred years or so, he was put up for canonisation. Rome put it on the back burner and thought about it for another century or two, then gave the nod. So now his Order (whoever they were) had a Saint on their hands: it was most unseemly that he should lie outside in the cold and the rain instead of behind the High Altar (as is Cuthbert in Durham). They decided to dig him up and bring him in where he belonged.
Doch der Heilige wollte nicht. He was quite comfortable where he was, thank you all the same. So he arranged matters, so that when they got down a foot, a torrent of rain fell and the spoil fell back in. Back at Square One, they waited till it stopped raining, then had another go. Same thing. It does not seem to have occurred to the monks to shore up the hole properly, but they cannot have been very bright anyway, for Swithun had to keep "raining them off" for 40 consecutive days until they got the message and left him alone.
So much for the sacred, now a profane small triumph. Mrs D. took it into her head to bake her own bread. Her mother had always done so, and had passed on the skill to her daughter. All the ingredients could be got from the NAAFI except the yeast (héfe). I was despatched to find some by "local-purchase".
Reckoning that it would be the best bet, I found a "Tante-Emma laden", stated my business and paid for the yeast (only a few pfennige for a few grammes). But this Tante-Emma was curious. "Entschuldigen Sie. mein Herr", she said, "but what nationality are you ?" She knew from my accent that I wasn't German, of course, but did not identify me as British. Some sort of Dutch - Flemish perhaps ?
I chalked one up (and the bread was delicious !)
Goodnight, all.
Danny42C,
Say not the Struggle naught Availeth.
Coastal Command Memories
Together for eternity, the crew of Sunderland ML743 rest in Irvinestown churchyard, a few miles from their wartime base at Castle Archdale. They were among the scores of airmen who lost their lives in the Donegal mountains.
COASTAL COMMAND fought countless bitter battles in the Bay of Biscay, and the bravery of the strike crews ranging across the North Sea from bases such as North Coates, Banff and Dallachy has become legendary. But the airmen patrolling farther north in the Western Approaches, and their German adversaries, shared a deadly opponent in the Atlantic weather. Heinkels and Sunderlands, Catalinas and Kuriers alike met fiery ends on the mist-shrouded mountains of Ireland.
Aircraft from Castle Archdale and other bases in Northern Ireland flew far out to sea for day after day, month after month, many airmen seeing little more than the grey Atlantic wastes glimpsed through a scudding cloudbase. As very few if any of the Coastal crews are left, and as this 70th anniversary of the Battle of the Atlantic draws to its close, over the next few weeks I shall humbly try to tell some of their stories as they were told to me.
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Life on the Open Wave,
Geriaviator,
Welcome back ! The first pic is truly humbling - tells us what War is really about, long after the guns fall silent. On my two transatlantic voyages, I remember how comforting we found the sight of our lone Sunderland or Catalina, dawn to dusk patrolling the seas round the convoy like an alert sheepdog guarding his flock, Aldis flickering as he exchanged signals with the Naval escort.
And how desolate we felt on the third (?) day, when we'd got out of range and our only protection was a destroyer (or two), spending most of its time trying to stand on its nose in the swell (or buried in it !).
And the joy on the fifth day, when we'd crossed the gap and the RCAF (and USAAC on the way back ?) came within range and took over, staying with us till Halifax.
We're standing by all agog for your stories in the New Year.... Cheers, Danny
Welcome back ! The first pic is truly humbling - tells us what War is really about, long after the guns fall silent. On my two transatlantic voyages, I remember how comforting we found the sight of our lone Sunderland or Catalina, dawn to dusk patrolling the seas round the convoy like an alert sheepdog guarding his flock, Aldis flickering as he exchanged signals with the Naval escort.
And how desolate we felt on the third (?) day, when we'd got out of range and our only protection was a destroyer (or two), spending most of its time trying to stand on its nose in the swell (or buried in it !).
And the joy on the fifth day, when we'd crossed the gap and the RCAF (and USAAC on the way back ?) came within range and took over, staying with us till Halifax.
We're standing by all agog for your stories in the New Year.... Cheers, Danny
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In those days, Danny42C, I suspect a trans-Atlantic crossing was a cure for constipation.
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Theory, wheels, and Darts
Hoping that all my fellow crew room companions had an enjoyable festive Christmas. Have to be two five pence pieces this time, run out of 10p pieces. Still works out to be two bob in real money.
Dave Wilson,
I have also been told that the Trabby's bodywork was non-conventional, a hardboard or paper mâché type material. Is it true I wonder?
Danny,
Impressed with your multilingual skills. I get found out whenever I try my hand at language murder, the recipient knowing I am UK based (the eyes invariably saying 'englaise' or maybe something less repeatable).
Geriaviator,
I look forward to reading these gentlemen's reminiscences with great interest.
Halton (contd)
Following the successful completion of our "hack 'n' bash", we moved on to the serious business of jet engines, the theory. For those of you who may not be conversant with jet engine theory, it is actually very simple. The four 'cycles' are the same as a Diesel engine with "suck, squeeze, bang, blow" and differs from a petrol engines cycles only in that there is no requirement for sparks to continuously ignite the fuel/air mix. In a Diesel engine, and in a jet engine, the fuel is continuously ignited by the heat of the incoming air being heavily compressed. The "suck" and "squeeze" is accomplished by the compressor section. This may be of a centrifugal or axial configuration, or a combination of both. The earliest British Whittle engines were equipped with centrifugal compressors. The earliest German BMW engines in Me 262's were equipped with axial flow compressors. As the air is drawn in and forced through the compressor section, it is accelerated and compressed. This fast, pressurised hot air is then introduced into the combustion chamber or multiple external chambers where the fuel is mixed with the air and combusts. This produces very hot, very fast, high pressure exhaust gasses which are directed through the turbine section, rotating the turbine. This is the "bang". If the engine is a turboprop, then an additional separate turbine will connect to a propeller. If the engine is a turboshaft for a helicopter, then an additional separate turbine will connect to a shaft driving a gearbox for rotors. The hot gases are then exhausted out of a jet pipe. This is the "blow". The main turbine section is solidly connected to the compressor section (imagine a bobbin), this being known as a spool, and the exhaust gas energy rotates the main turbine section, and in turn, the compressor. Add more fuel, spool turns faster. Like a Diesel engine, to turn it off, shut off the fuel supply. To start the engine, first it must be rotated to a speed sufficient to allow continuous combustion of the fuel. This is accomplished with cartridges, external air start, or electric motor. Once that speed is attained, fuel is added and a spark torch ignition (old school) or a high energy ignition spark (modern) is supplied for starting only, similar in principle to heater plugs on Diesel engines. Once the fuel/air mix has ignited, the combustion of the fuel/air mix is a continuous, self-sustaining action until the fuel supply is cut off or runs out.
There. Now we are all RAF jet engine genius's. Well, not quite, but hopefully now, everyone has a basic understanding of the operation of a gas turbine jet engine.
The theory continues into ever increasing depth and detail. The initial part is methods of construction and materials (sorry, having to do everything here through memory as the original training notes are somewhere "safe"???). We are taught about some of the exotic alloys used in these engines, and are awestruck to find out that all modern civil and military engines have their 'hot' sections of turbines and nozzle guide vanes operating within an environment so hostile that the gasses passing through them are hundreds of degrees hotter than the melting points of the metals used. So how come they don't melt, we ask? That will come later we are told. I don't remember being told about some of the less desirable aspects of some light alloys. The main cases of the Viper engine contained radioactive Thorium.
Although I had passed my driving test at the first attempt at the age of 17, I was now almost 20 and still without my own transport. In the late '70's, I have no recollection of the easy finance the youngsters of today access without difficulty. Unless you were fortunate enough to have wealthy parents, or had been a recipient of some favourite Aunt's bequeathed gift, you generally had to wait until you had worked hard enough to earn the money to buy a car or motorbike. And even then, it would be very second hand. I consider myself to have been fortunate as I had built up a reasonable little kitty in my Bank Account over the previous five years. Now seemed a good time to put it to use. Choice was wide and varied from the smallest Mini through very rough MG's, and any other car in my price bracket. I had over 600 Pounds saved, but didn't want to 'blow the lot' on a car only. There was still road tax and insurance, which as a 19 year old was a bit steep. I was offered a number of cars which were excellent candidates, from Austin 1800 Land Crabs and Vauxhall Viva HA's to a very tempting Ford Capri 1600 GT for just under my total savings. In the end, I decided to be sensible, for the sake of my sanity, licence and pocket, and settled on a delightful ten year old, one previous owner (lady teacher) Wolesley Hornet Mk III in two-tone grey. This was the model with 'hidden' door hinges, 1000 cc 'A' series engine, and vertical 'remote' gear change. The interior smelt like a proper car with leather seats and walnut dash. The Hornet was based on the Austin 7, later known worldwide as the Mini, and shared the extended body shell with the Riley Elf. The extension was at the rear, and incorporated longer rear wings, extended boot floor, and a proper boot lid. And, of course, being a Wolesley, it had an illuminated grill badge, "Wolesley, the only car with its name in lights" I think the advert went.
During the 1960's, motor racing was widespread and popular in the UK. There were various classes, covering everything from saloon racing (the fore-runner of today's British Touring Car racing) to formula 1. Mini's were extremely popular in many aspects of Motorsport, from Rallying to saloon racing. As can be imagined, there was very little difference technically between the racing Mini's. However, on the longer straights, the racing Hornets and Elfs always managed to pull away from the Mini's, and no one could understand why. Until the early 1980's. Ford were developing a new hatchback, and after considerable wind tunnel testing, someone 'tried something'. This 'something' made a massive difference in drag reduction. Bear in mind, for many decades, manufacturers have continually looked to reduce drag in order to make their car more economic than any rivals. The differences are usually measured in tenths of a mile per gallon. Well, this 'something' made a difference measured in whole units. Hence, the new front wheel drive ford Escort did not come as a hatch, but as a 'booted hatch'. The boot extension worked by drawing the airflow down smoothly over the rear windscreen, thereby creating a much smaller region of disrupted airflow behind the car. The Hornet and Elf benefited from this design idea, but of course, it was designed that way for looks only.
Following our introduction to basic jet engine theory, we are given an engine type to relate our newfound knowledge to, the Rolls Royce Dart. We would get to know this engine more fully than anything else in our lives up to that point.
And this satisfies one of my lifetime wishes, but I'll explain later.
Camlobe
Suck, squeeze, bang, bang, bang...got a surge, Chiefy.
Dave Wilson,
I have also been told that the Trabby's bodywork was non-conventional, a hardboard or paper mâché type material. Is it true I wonder?
Danny,
Impressed with your multilingual skills. I get found out whenever I try my hand at language murder, the recipient knowing I am UK based (the eyes invariably saying 'englaise' or maybe something less repeatable).
Geriaviator,
I look forward to reading these gentlemen's reminiscences with great interest.
Halton (contd)
Following the successful completion of our "hack 'n' bash", we moved on to the serious business of jet engines, the theory. For those of you who may not be conversant with jet engine theory, it is actually very simple. The four 'cycles' are the same as a Diesel engine with "suck, squeeze, bang, blow" and differs from a petrol engines cycles only in that there is no requirement for sparks to continuously ignite the fuel/air mix. In a Diesel engine, and in a jet engine, the fuel is continuously ignited by the heat of the incoming air being heavily compressed. The "suck" and "squeeze" is accomplished by the compressor section. This may be of a centrifugal or axial configuration, or a combination of both. The earliest British Whittle engines were equipped with centrifugal compressors. The earliest German BMW engines in Me 262's were equipped with axial flow compressors. As the air is drawn in and forced through the compressor section, it is accelerated and compressed. This fast, pressurised hot air is then introduced into the combustion chamber or multiple external chambers where the fuel is mixed with the air and combusts. This produces very hot, very fast, high pressure exhaust gasses which are directed through the turbine section, rotating the turbine. This is the "bang". If the engine is a turboprop, then an additional separate turbine will connect to a propeller. If the engine is a turboshaft for a helicopter, then an additional separate turbine will connect to a shaft driving a gearbox for rotors. The hot gases are then exhausted out of a jet pipe. This is the "blow". The main turbine section is solidly connected to the compressor section (imagine a bobbin), this being known as a spool, and the exhaust gas energy rotates the main turbine section, and in turn, the compressor. Add more fuel, spool turns faster. Like a Diesel engine, to turn it off, shut off the fuel supply. To start the engine, first it must be rotated to a speed sufficient to allow continuous combustion of the fuel. This is accomplished with cartridges, external air start, or electric motor. Once that speed is attained, fuel is added and a spark torch ignition (old school) or a high energy ignition spark (modern) is supplied for starting only, similar in principle to heater plugs on Diesel engines. Once the fuel/air mix has ignited, the combustion of the fuel/air mix is a continuous, self-sustaining action until the fuel supply is cut off or runs out.
There. Now we are all RAF jet engine genius's. Well, not quite, but hopefully now, everyone has a basic understanding of the operation of a gas turbine jet engine.
The theory continues into ever increasing depth and detail. The initial part is methods of construction and materials (sorry, having to do everything here through memory as the original training notes are somewhere "safe"???). We are taught about some of the exotic alloys used in these engines, and are awestruck to find out that all modern civil and military engines have their 'hot' sections of turbines and nozzle guide vanes operating within an environment so hostile that the gasses passing through them are hundreds of degrees hotter than the melting points of the metals used. So how come they don't melt, we ask? That will come later we are told. I don't remember being told about some of the less desirable aspects of some light alloys. The main cases of the Viper engine contained radioactive Thorium.
Although I had passed my driving test at the first attempt at the age of 17, I was now almost 20 and still without my own transport. In the late '70's, I have no recollection of the easy finance the youngsters of today access without difficulty. Unless you were fortunate enough to have wealthy parents, or had been a recipient of some favourite Aunt's bequeathed gift, you generally had to wait until you had worked hard enough to earn the money to buy a car or motorbike. And even then, it would be very second hand. I consider myself to have been fortunate as I had built up a reasonable little kitty in my Bank Account over the previous five years. Now seemed a good time to put it to use. Choice was wide and varied from the smallest Mini through very rough MG's, and any other car in my price bracket. I had over 600 Pounds saved, but didn't want to 'blow the lot' on a car only. There was still road tax and insurance, which as a 19 year old was a bit steep. I was offered a number of cars which were excellent candidates, from Austin 1800 Land Crabs and Vauxhall Viva HA's to a very tempting Ford Capri 1600 GT for just under my total savings. In the end, I decided to be sensible, for the sake of my sanity, licence and pocket, and settled on a delightful ten year old, one previous owner (lady teacher) Wolesley Hornet Mk III in two-tone grey. This was the model with 'hidden' door hinges, 1000 cc 'A' series engine, and vertical 'remote' gear change. The interior smelt like a proper car with leather seats and walnut dash. The Hornet was based on the Austin 7, later known worldwide as the Mini, and shared the extended body shell with the Riley Elf. The extension was at the rear, and incorporated longer rear wings, extended boot floor, and a proper boot lid. And, of course, being a Wolesley, it had an illuminated grill badge, "Wolesley, the only car with its name in lights" I think the advert went.
During the 1960's, motor racing was widespread and popular in the UK. There were various classes, covering everything from saloon racing (the fore-runner of today's British Touring Car racing) to formula 1. Mini's were extremely popular in many aspects of Motorsport, from Rallying to saloon racing. As can be imagined, there was very little difference technically between the racing Mini's. However, on the longer straights, the racing Hornets and Elfs always managed to pull away from the Mini's, and no one could understand why. Until the early 1980's. Ford were developing a new hatchback, and after considerable wind tunnel testing, someone 'tried something'. This 'something' made a massive difference in drag reduction. Bear in mind, for many decades, manufacturers have continually looked to reduce drag in order to make their car more economic than any rivals. The differences are usually measured in tenths of a mile per gallon. Well, this 'something' made a difference measured in whole units. Hence, the new front wheel drive ford Escort did not come as a hatch, but as a 'booted hatch'. The boot extension worked by drawing the airflow down smoothly over the rear windscreen, thereby creating a much smaller region of disrupted airflow behind the car. The Hornet and Elf benefited from this design idea, but of course, it was designed that way for looks only.
Following our introduction to basic jet engine theory, we are given an engine type to relate our newfound knowledge to, the Rolls Royce Dart. We would get to know this engine more fully than anything else in our lives up to that point.
And this satisfies one of my lifetime wishes, but I'll explain later.
Camlobe
Suck, squeeze, bang, bang, bang...got a surge, Chiefy.
Thanks for the welcome back ...
Thank you Danny, I had hoped to post earlier but this year proved quite eventful. I'm sure Camlobe and ancient grease-monkeys like myself will know not to fix it if it isn't broke, and that old hydraulic systems are best left alone. The Geriaviator Mk. 1 has an inherent design fault which was bound to restrict the flow. It is many years out of warranty and parts are very hard to come by. Thankfully an expert plumber was on hand, so to speak, even though the unit will be subject to regular inspections 
Back shortly!
Back shortly!