Gaining An R.A.F Pilots Brevet In WW II
Join Date: Mar 2010
Location: Often in Jersey, but mainly in the past.
Age: 79
Posts: 7,803
Received 135 Likes
on
63 Posts
Huzzah for Walter603 
... from the Department of Bated Breath
... from the Department of Bated Breath
Danny 42C
Apologies for the delay. Re: your #7642. It was indeed a 'Bob' that I barely saw a glimpse of! It was in the early '60s. I intended to write to my MP but he wasn't even born then (DOB probably yesterday!!)
Apologies for the delay. Re: your #7642. It was indeed a 'Bob' that I barely saw a glimpse of! It was in the early '60s. I intended to write to my MP but he wasn't even born then (DOB probably yesterday!!)
Walter693,
" I'll post sections on this forum until you plead for mercy! " - With respect sir, I doubt you will ever hear a plea for mercy from the followers of this most glorious of threads, more likely pleas for more. I, like many, await the first instalment.
Smudge
" I'll post sections on this forum until you plead for mercy! " - With respect sir, I doubt you will ever hear a plea for mercy from the followers of this most glorious of threads, more likely pleas for more. I, like many, await the first instalment.
Smudge
Join Date: Sep 2010
Location: Australia
Posts: 100
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
To set the scene I should really start before the war, when I first became interested in aircraft. I'll start with leaving school at 16:
After three years of this "drudgery", I was nearly 16 and busting to get out of school and to a job. In June 1938 I applied for a job as Junior Clerk with the London Armoury Company, 10 Ryder Street, St. James, London. I was interviewed together with one of my classmates, and I remember the interviewer saying suddenly to the other lad, “Twelve cabbages at 20 shillings each. How much?” My rival struggled mentally. After quite a long pause he replied, “Eight pounds”. (There were 20 shillings in one pound sterling. It was a trick question of course, designed to catch out a youngster). The interviewer shot out the same question to me. Just like the other lad, I was temporarily flummoxed. “Twelve what?” I asked him. “Cabbages”, he said, “or apples, or newspapers. Anything!” My small amount of native cunning ( I thought) had given me sufficient time to work out – the long way – 20 shillings multiplied by 12 makes 240 divided by 20 makes 12 pounds! Stupid child. But I got the job.
Not far from Piccadilly, this unusual firm imported sporting arms and ammunition from the USA, notably the Winchester and Colt series, and was a wholesale supplier for most of the sporting arms dealers around the British Isles. My wage was the princely sum of ten shillings ($1.20) for five and a half days work each week, that was from 9a.m. to 5p.m. Monday to Friday, and 9a.m. to 12 noon on Saturday. I had a bus journey of one hour and ten minutes each way, from Chingford to Piccadilly Circus, which cost ten pence return (about 10 cents).
About this time I became very interested in aircraft, and together with my new “mate” Tom Wills, we made model aircraft, both flying and solid models, read avidly all the books we could find on flying and the Air Force, and in November 1938, we joined the Air Defence Cadet Corps. (It is now called the Air Training Corps).
Started by the Air League of the British Empire, the ADCC was formed earlier in 1938 to train lads between 14 and 18 years old, to make them aware of the danger facing Britain from Germany’s great build up of its land, sea and air forces under Hitler, and to get them thoroughly air-minded. I became Cadet No. 28 in 27 (Founder) Squadron, meeting at a hall in Pretoria Road, North Chingford, and I thoroughly enjoyed my first experience in blue-grey uniform.
After three years of this "drudgery", I was nearly 16 and busting to get out of school and to a job. In June 1938 I applied for a job as Junior Clerk with the London Armoury Company, 10 Ryder Street, St. James, London. I was interviewed together with one of my classmates, and I remember the interviewer saying suddenly to the other lad, “Twelve cabbages at 20 shillings each. How much?” My rival struggled mentally. After quite a long pause he replied, “Eight pounds”. (There were 20 shillings in one pound sterling. It was a trick question of course, designed to catch out a youngster). The interviewer shot out the same question to me. Just like the other lad, I was temporarily flummoxed. “Twelve what?” I asked him. “Cabbages”, he said, “or apples, or newspapers. Anything!” My small amount of native cunning ( I thought) had given me sufficient time to work out – the long way – 20 shillings multiplied by 12 makes 240 divided by 20 makes 12 pounds! Stupid child. But I got the job.
Not far from Piccadilly, this unusual firm imported sporting arms and ammunition from the USA, notably the Winchester and Colt series, and was a wholesale supplier for most of the sporting arms dealers around the British Isles. My wage was the princely sum of ten shillings ($1.20) for five and a half days work each week, that was from 9a.m. to 5p.m. Monday to Friday, and 9a.m. to 12 noon on Saturday. I had a bus journey of one hour and ten minutes each way, from Chingford to Piccadilly Circus, which cost ten pence return (about 10 cents).
About this time I became very interested in aircraft, and together with my new “mate” Tom Wills, we made model aircraft, both flying and solid models, read avidly all the books we could find on flying and the Air Force, and in November 1938, we joined the Air Defence Cadet Corps. (It is now called the Air Training Corps).
Started by the Air League of the British Empire, the ADCC was formed earlier in 1938 to train lads between 14 and 18 years old, to make them aware of the danger facing Britain from Germany’s great build up of its land, sea and air forces under Hitler, and to get them thoroughly air-minded. I became Cadet No. 28 in 27 (Founder) Squadron, meeting at a hall in Pretoria Road, North Chingford, and I thoroughly enjoyed my first experience in blue-grey uniform.
Join Date: Sep 2010
Location: Australia
Posts: 100
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
The most memorable part of my training as a Cadet occurred in June 1939, only a few weeks before the start of the War. I was chosen as one of the group sent to a Gliding School at Dunstable Downs, Bedfordshire (west of Luton). For a glorious week, we ran up and down the flying field, just below the Downs, two teams of four boys pulling on catapult-shaped launching ropes made of strong elastic, called "bunji", and causing elementary heavier-than-air machines to hop into the air for varying distances, never more than 100 yards and never higher than about 100 feet.
Each of us had our own turns at "flying" these machines, and we all graduated from the school by being launched off the top of the Downs, probably 600 feet above the field, from where we glided down to a safe landing on the flat. An amazing experience in retrospect, for we 15 and 16-year olds were sitting solo, on the front of a timber and metal keel, surmounted by a single wing of taut, doped fabric, and manipulating the whole with a control column (the "stick") and the rudder. There were no instruments, no fuselage, nothing between us and the ground except the seat. We were instructed to listen for the sound of the wind in the rigging wires, keep the "stick" slightly forward to maintain airspeed, and if the wind's humming stopped, we were stalling!
I saw one lad get into a stall, about 70 feet above the ground, and in a split second the nose plunged down, arms and legs of the boy were waving frantically, and he sped straight into the earth below - fortunately with no damage to himself, which said a lot for the construction of the craft.
For the next few weeks, I could think of little else except flying. I had already applied to join the Royal Air Force as a Boy Entrant, and had been accepted for training. I thought I should probably be an armourer. The Air Force had sent me a letter telling me to expect my enrolment for training in the third week of September 1939, when I would assemble with a batch of 15 and 16 year olds at the Training School (can't remember now where that was - could have been RAF Halton).
Each of us had our own turns at "flying" these machines, and we all graduated from the school by being launched off the top of the Downs, probably 600 feet above the field, from where we glided down to a safe landing on the flat. An amazing experience in retrospect, for we 15 and 16-year olds were sitting solo, on the front of a timber and metal keel, surmounted by a single wing of taut, doped fabric, and manipulating the whole with a control column (the "stick") and the rudder. There were no instruments, no fuselage, nothing between us and the ground except the seat. We were instructed to listen for the sound of the wind in the rigging wires, keep the "stick" slightly forward to maintain airspeed, and if the wind's humming stopped, we were stalling!
I saw one lad get into a stall, about 70 feet above the ground, and in a split second the nose plunged down, arms and legs of the boy were waving frantically, and he sped straight into the earth below - fortunately with no damage to himself, which said a lot for the construction of the craft.
For the next few weeks, I could think of little else except flying. I had already applied to join the Royal Air Force as a Boy Entrant, and had been accepted for training. I thought I should probably be an armourer. The Air Force had sent me a letter telling me to expect my enrolment for training in the third week of September 1939, when I would assemble with a batch of 15 and 16 year olds at the Training School (can't remember now where that was - could have been RAF Halton).
Guest
Posts: n/a
Walter603 (#7662)
We all gladly accept your decision without argument. You are now our resident Beaufighter Guru, and we'll readily defer to you on all matters concerning that noble aircraft. In the same way, I am, faute de mieux, our Vultee Vengeance man (but only on Mks. I-III, as I have never even seen a Mk.IV). The VV is a much rarer bird than yours: only one museum example of the type now exists in the world, and that is in the Camden Museum at Narellan, NSW.
Wih that inborn streak of cussedness characteristic of the Antipodes, that Museum, after luckily acquiring a beat-up Mk.I carcase, carefully dressed it up as a Mk.IV with a 0.50 Browning and matching perspex (the hall-mark of a IV) in the back, and a "bitsa" pilot's instrument panel (which was like nothing on earth, but certainly not a Mk.I panel) in front. Complete with a Mk.I airframe number, a couple of years ago this chimera led Chugalug, others and me on a merry dance, trying to identify the thing for what it was.
You (and others) must surely have noticed the extraordinary points of resemblence between FantomZorbin's "Bob"'s (#7665) story and your own ?
Almost a carbon copy of my own beginnings here - except that I'd got 108,000 words on floppy disks (remember them ?) for the same purpose. But I can't print them (as my word processor printer is u/s, I've never got round to sending it for repair, and the thing has no USB socket anyway, tho' it's on a MS DOS).
So I cut it up into bite-sized chunks and fed it in here (starting p.114). You'll never get a whimper out of us if you do the same (I promise you).
Cheers, Danny.
The Burma Beaufighter story as described in your original post is clearly quite impossible, Danny. A second person of any sort would find it so. No way into the pilot's position or around him to operate the controls. I stand firmly by my assessment.
Wih that inborn streak of cussedness characteristic of the Antipodes, that Museum, after luckily acquiring a beat-up Mk.I carcase, carefully dressed it up as a Mk.IV with a 0.50 Browning and matching perspex (the hall-mark of a IV) in the back, and a "bitsa" pilot's instrument panel (which was like nothing on earth, but certainly not a Mk.I panel) in front. Complete with a Mk.I airframe number, a couple of years ago this chimera led Chugalug, others and me on a merry dance, trying to identify the thing for what it was.
You (and others) must surely have noticed the extraordinary points of resemblence between FantomZorbin's "Bob"'s (#7665) story and your own ?
OK then Danny, to business it is. I have a 52-page memoir of my final days in 603 Squadron, after a year of flying in the N.African desert, and going on to PoW existence in Stalag 4B in Germany. Prepared for my children, grandchildren & co, it has gone the rounds of friends. So I'll post sections on this forum until you plead for mercy!
Almost a carbon copy of my own beginnings here - except that I'd got 108,000 words on floppy disks (remember them ?) for the same purpose. But I can't print them (as my word processor printer is u/s, I've never got round to sending it for repair, and the thing has no USB socket anyway, tho' it's on a MS DOS).
So I cut it up into bite-sized chunks and fed it in here (starting p.114). You'll never get a whimper out of us if you do the same (I promise you).
Cheers, Danny.
Guest
Posts: n/a
Walter,
Whoa, there ! Give us time to breathe, not to say to read, learn and inwardly digest. Each line of your wonderful story will be avidly scanned by an average of 1,000 people a day plus me. They will badger you for explanations, make comments, maybe criticize and add plaudits.
Give us time to keep up with up with you, please. You're in this for a long haul, remember. Hope you'll take this advice from your "older brother" as gently as it is kindly given.
Now, Revenons a nos moutons:
Blimey ! I thougth I was hard done by on thirty bob a week, but only eight miles to work, and could bike it most days anyway. But how I would have loved your job ! As a boy I had a morbid interest in rifles, and at the age of 12 or so could tell you that, in WW1, the UK had the SMLE, the Americans the Springfield, the French the Lebel, the Italians the Mannlicher-Carcano, the Germans the Mauser, and the Russians the 3-line Nagant. Not many 12 yr olds could tell you that (and there was no Wiki).
Wot, no 'Elf 'n Pastry ? Exactly I was taught to fly the Stearman (ASI removed) in Florida in '41 ! (Nice pic, too).
Danny.
Whoa, there ! Give us time to breathe, not to say to read, learn and inwardly digest. Each line of your wonderful story will be avidly scanned by an average of 1,000 people a day plus me. They will badger you for explanations, make comments, maybe criticize and add plaudits.
Give us time to keep up with up with you, please. You're in this for a long haul, remember. Hope you'll take this advice from your "older brother" as gently as it is kindly given.
Now, Revenons a nos moutons:
My wage was the princely sum of ten shillings ($1.20) for five and a half days work each week, that was from 9a.m. to 5p.m. Monday to Friday, and 9a.m. to 12 noon on Saturday. I had a bus journey of one hour and ten minutes each way, from Chingford to Piccadilly Circus, which cost ten pence return (about 10 cents).
There were no instruments, no fuselage, nothing between us and the ground except the seat. We were instructed to listen for the sound of the wind in the rigging wires, keep the "stick" slightly forward to maintain airspeed, and if the wind's humming stopped, we were stalling!
Danny.
Walter,
I'm sure the hundreds of people who have already been hooked by your story will thank you for your enthralling tale. Your remarkable recollection after so many decades can be matched only by our revered friend Danny and we eagerly await your flying training, the gliders already terrify our Elf 'n' Safety hofficer!
For younger UK readers, back in 1971 Walter's ten shillings was transformed into 50 pence 
I'm sure the hundreds of people who have already been hooked by your story will thank you for your enthralling tale. Your remarkable recollection after so many decades can be matched only by our revered friend Danny and we eagerly await your flying training, the gliders already terrify our Elf 'n' Safety hofficer!
My wage was the princely sum of ten shillings ($1.20) for five and a half days work each week,
Jack meets the Tiger Moth
Post no. 3 from the memoirs of Tempest pilot Flt Lt Jack Stafford, DFC, RNZAF
Post no. 3 from the memoirs of Tempest pilot Flt Lt Jack Stafford, DFC, RNZAF
At last our Air Force induction was complete, we were examined and the marks were pinned upon the wall for all to see. Those who failed were posted to other positions within the Air Force. In a matter of weeks those who were successful began flying training, and I was posted to Bell Block in Taranaki.
We travelled first down to Wellington and then back up to New Plymouth. The trucks awaited us and took us to the Bell Block airfield. Now I felt I really was in the Air Force, this was it. All around the field stood Tiger Moth aircraft, while overhead they buzzed and droned.
In my imagination these pretty little biplanes became Sopwith Camels or SE5s from World War I, resting from or going in and out to battle. Perhaps the Red Baron awaited them with Spandaus loaded and his Triplane trembling with eagerness. We stood fascinated until a sergeant showed us to our comfortable billets, two beds to a room and each hut close to an ablution block. It was heaven, and after a few days' settling in we were all in the air.
My instructor was a tall, pleasant, fair-haired guy maybe a year or two older than myself. He gave me confidence and seemed pleased with my progress. I had flown dual for seven hours when he taxied back to the takeoff point, climbed out with the removed stick in his hand and said: “Off you go, Staff, you don't need me”. With joy in my heart I turned into wind and looked around for other aircraft; it was all clear, so I gave her the gun and I was in the air, oh happy day. I completed the circuit and landed, taxied back to my instructor who shook my hand and said “Good show, Staff”. I could have kissed him.
Most of my course had, or soon would, go solo. Some were grounded, some chucked it in, one or two were killed. The wing fabric from one of those crashes still covers my logbook.
My instructor seemed very successful, but they gave me some new instructors and he was given some difficult pupils. One of the new guys was a disaster. He was mean-faced, tall and gawky and had all the personality of a gumboot. He grunted, bleated and moaned about everything. His dislike of me was obvious and heartily reciprocated. My flying fell off and he seemed determined to get rid of me.
I was set down for a Chief Flying Instructor (CFI) test which would normally be the end of the course for a pilot, and I would be remustered as an air gunner or posted to ground duties, which to me would be a death sentence. As I left the room all the trainees called “Good luck, Staff” and I was buoyed by their support.
We travelled first down to Wellington and then back up to New Plymouth. The trucks awaited us and took us to the Bell Block airfield. Now I felt I really was in the Air Force, this was it. All around the field stood Tiger Moth aircraft, while overhead they buzzed and droned.
In my imagination these pretty little biplanes became Sopwith Camels or SE5s from World War I, resting from or going in and out to battle. Perhaps the Red Baron awaited them with Spandaus loaded and his Triplane trembling with eagerness. We stood fascinated until a sergeant showed us to our comfortable billets, two beds to a room and each hut close to an ablution block. It was heaven, and after a few days' settling in we were all in the air.
My instructor was a tall, pleasant, fair-haired guy maybe a year or two older than myself. He gave me confidence and seemed pleased with my progress. I had flown dual for seven hours when he taxied back to the takeoff point, climbed out with the removed stick in his hand and said: “Off you go, Staff, you don't need me”. With joy in my heart I turned into wind and looked around for other aircraft; it was all clear, so I gave her the gun and I was in the air, oh happy day. I completed the circuit and landed, taxied back to my instructor who shook my hand and said “Good show, Staff”. I could have kissed him.
Most of my course had, or soon would, go solo. Some were grounded, some chucked it in, one or two were killed. The wing fabric from one of those crashes still covers my logbook.
My instructor seemed very successful, but they gave me some new instructors and he was given some difficult pupils. One of the new guys was a disaster. He was mean-faced, tall and gawky and had all the personality of a gumboot. He grunted, bleated and moaned about everything. His dislike of me was obvious and heartily reciprocated. My flying fell off and he seemed determined to get rid of me.
I was set down for a Chief Flying Instructor (CFI) test which would normally be the end of the course for a pilot, and I would be remustered as an air gunner or posted to ground duties, which to me would be a death sentence. As I left the room all the trainees called “Good luck, Staff” and I was buoyed by their support.
Walter603,
Two great posts there Sir, and already bringing back some memories of my own. The glider you describe flying sounds very like the Primary glider I once had the pleasure to force around a circuit of an airfield, towed by a Land Rover. As you describe, driving using your ears was, and probably still is essential for good glider pilots. Second memory triggered was my own first job as a farmhand as I awaited entry to the RAF in 1968. I too was paid 10 bob a week, I was required to be calling the cows in around 0500 for milking and finishing around 1700 after the afternoon milking, every second weekend I got Saturday afternoon and the Sunday off, I was 15 years old. Finally, your entry to Halton, if you can remember what you were paid back then it would be interesting. I arrived at Halton as a "Trenchard brat" in January 1969, we were paid 28/- a week, and I though I was in heaven, 0800-1700 with a parade and drill on Saturday morning.
Take your posting rate from Danny would be my advice, not a delay long enough to do more than tease, great start as I said. I'm looking forward to this
In the run up to the Chritmas season, it looks like we are to be treated to even more history. Keep it going Geriaviator, bloomin marvellous.
Smudge
Two great posts there Sir, and already bringing back some memories of my own. The glider you describe flying sounds very like the Primary glider I once had the pleasure to force around a circuit of an airfield, towed by a Land Rover. As you describe, driving using your ears was, and probably still is essential for good glider pilots. Second memory triggered was my own first job as a farmhand as I awaited entry to the RAF in 1968. I too was paid 10 bob a week, I was required to be calling the cows in around 0500 for milking and finishing around 1700 after the afternoon milking, every second weekend I got Saturday afternoon and the Sunday off, I was 15 years old. Finally, your entry to Halton, if you can remember what you were paid back then it would be interesting. I arrived at Halton as a "Trenchard brat" in January 1969, we were paid 28/- a week, and I though I was in heaven, 0800-1700 with a parade and drill on Saturday morning.
Take your posting rate from Danny would be my advice, not a delay long enough to do more than tease, great start as I said. I'm looking forward to this
In the run up to the Chritmas season, it looks like we are to be treated to even more history. Keep it going Geriaviator, bloomin marvellous.
Smudge
"Primary" Glider
Walter603
I was a member of the RAF Thornhill (Rhodesia) gliding club back in 1952-53. We had a “Primary,” probably the most elementary form of flying machine then still flying; I’m sure the Wright Brothers would feel very much at home with it.
We did training “the hard way” the first stage being the “Primary” to start with on the ground with the speed kept too low for it to become airborne, the glider just “slid” across the airfield and one kept the wings level and followed the tow truck using the rudder, but as one became familiar with the controls speed was increased and soon one was flying across the airfield, in full control, first at only a few feet, then at greater heights as one gained experience, and learnt to control the glider in turns. If all went well promotion to Thornhill’s “Tutor” followed.
The Thornhill Gliding club had a joining fee of £1, a monthly subscription of 10/- (50p), and a further charge of 1/- (5p) for each launch.
This is me in my first keeping the wings level flight, 6ft above the ground.
I was a member of the RAF Thornhill (Rhodesia) gliding club back in 1952-53. We had a “Primary,” probably the most elementary form of flying machine then still flying; I’m sure the Wright Brothers would feel very much at home with it.
We did training “the hard way” the first stage being the “Primary” to start with on the ground with the speed kept too low for it to become airborne, the glider just “slid” across the airfield and one kept the wings level and followed the tow truck using the rudder, but as one became familiar with the controls speed was increased and soon one was flying across the airfield, in full control, first at only a few feet, then at greater heights as one gained experience, and learnt to control the glider in turns. If all went well promotion to Thornhill’s “Tutor” followed.
The Thornhill Gliding club had a joining fee of £1, a monthly subscription of 10/- (50p), and a further charge of 1/- (5p) for each launch.
This is me in my first keeping the wings level flight, 6ft above the ground.
Guest
Posts: n/a
"Bloomin' marvellous".
(From) Geriaviator,
Which inflation in the intervening years had reduced to a purchasing value of 2/2 ('38) or 11 pence ('71). So I was a plutocrat and didn't know it ! Ah, well.
Jack meets the Tiger Moth
As I've mentioned awhile ago, I had exactly that same fantasy as I floated in an open-cockpit Stearman among the clouds over the Everglades. Perhaps all Primary/EFTS boys shared versions of this pipedream ?
And so do we (although we know [or hope we know] the result !)
(On the PM front to Geriaviator: At last ! Thank you ! D.)
Smudge to Walter (#7674) and Geriaviator:
But it was a good life !
As I in turn had modelled myself on the giants on whose shoulders I stood: Cliff, Reg, Padhist * et al. About 1,000 - 1,500 words per post, wait 2-3 days to let another Poster to come in, then give us another slice of the story. You can reckon on keeping on for 3 years at that rate !
Note * : Can anyone who has read it forget: "The night London Airport was mine ?" (he got an AFC for it, and quite right too).
Cheers to you all, Danny.
....For younger UK readers, back in 1971 Walter's ten shillings was transformed into 50 pence....
Jack meets the Tiger Moth
....In my imagination these pretty little biplanes became Sopwith Camels or SE5s from World War I, resting from or going in and out to battle. Perhaps the Red Baron awaited them with Spandaus loaded and his Triplane trembling with eagerness....
....all the trainees called “Good luck, Staff”....
(On the PM front to Geriaviator: At last !
Thank you ! D.)Smudge to Walter (#7674) and Geriaviator:
....first job as a farmhand as I awaited entry to the RAF in 1968. I too was paid 10 bob a week, I was required to be calling the cows in around 0500 for milking and finishing around 1700 after the afternoon milking, every second weekend I got Saturday afternoon and the Sunday off, I was 15 years old....
....Take your posting rate from Danny would be my advice, not a delay long enough to do more than tease....
Note * : Can anyone who has read it forget: "The night London Airport was mine ?" (he got an AFC for it, and quite right too).
Cheers to you all, Danny.
Guest
Posts: n/a
Eheu ! fugaces........
Warmtoast to Walter603,
Lovely pic of lovely old days !
I thought the Grunau Baby was quite enough exposed to the elements for my liking, but this is really for the birds. Reminds me of those kits consisting of pieces of ¼in balsa, tissue paper, banana oil, a prop and a laggy band, with which we taught ourselves the principles of flight in our tender years.
Oh, those long, halcyon summers just before the war ! (The BBC [for once] got it right with a programme title about them: "The Long Afternoon").
Danny.
Lovely pic of lovely old days !
I thought the Grunau Baby was quite enough exposed to the elements for my liking, but this is really for the birds. Reminds me of those kits consisting of pieces of ¼in balsa, tissue paper, banana oil, a prop and a laggy band, with which we taught ourselves the principles of flight in our tender years.
Oh, those long, halcyon summers just before the war ! (The BBC [for once] got it right with a programme title about them: "The Long Afternoon").
Danny.
The Primary Prank
Unable to find image origin
Regarding the Primary Glider, I believe all who have flown it would be well aware of its "flying brick" reputation. I heard a story, many moons ago of a challenge put out at the RAFGSA Centre, Bicester where they had a Primary Glider that was flyable. The challenge ? It was a very cold December day, sub zero at ground level and the Primary was dragged out. Fly, on tow behind a Chipmunk out and around Bicester town, returning to the overhead for release and landing, naked
Not many were up for it, but the target of the jape bit, and was allocated launch two. The first went exactly as planned the glider landing with a very cold pilot. Our man is next, and duly abandons clothing, straps on (not in) and off they go. The tug pilot released the tow from his end at the far side of Bicester town, with no chance of a return to the airfield, but with some good fields in range. The poor bloke, his land away attracted several car loads of motorists, believing he was a crashed aircraft, imagine his embarrasment. Lucky for him the recovery team with his clothes turned up fairly quickly.
I'm not 100% sure of this stories veracity, but I believe that if it happened, the Primary would certainly perform as recounted.
Smudge
Unable to find image origin
Regarding the Primary Glider, I believe all who have flown it would be well aware of its "flying brick" reputation. I heard a story, many moons ago of a challenge put out at the RAFGSA Centre, Bicester where they had a Primary Glider that was flyable. The challenge ? It was a very cold December day, sub zero at ground level and the Primary was dragged out. Fly, on tow behind a Chipmunk out and around Bicester town, returning to the overhead for release and landing, naked
Not many were up for it, but the target of the jape bit, and was allocated launch two. The first went exactly as planned the glider landing with a very cold pilot. Our man is next, and duly abandons clothing, straps on (not in) and off they go. The tug pilot released the tow from his end at the far side of Bicester town, with no chance of a return to the airfield, but with some good fields in range. The poor bloke, his land away attracted several car loads of motorists, believing he was a crashed aircraft, imagine his embarrasment. Lucky for him the recovery team with his clothes turned up fairly quickly. I'm not 100% sure of this stories veracity, but I believe that if it happened, the Primary would certainly perform as recounted.
Smudge
Last edited by smujsmith; 24th Nov 2015 at 16:51.
The Luftwaffe was largely launched on the Primary just like Smudge's brilliant picture, as nobody objected to hundreds of youth gliding clubs across Germany as they would have done to powered instruction. I think gliding gives a superb introduction to flying basics and I'm sad to see the virtual disappearance of ATC gliding recorded in another thread.
Join Date: Mar 2010
Location: Often in Jersey, but mainly in the past.
Age: 79
Posts: 7,803
Received 135 Likes
on
63 Posts
Glad I started in a proper Glider [?] ... nervously!
Guest
Posts: n/a
Smudge,
Nice pic, but it strikes me that "you're very close to the accident", stuck out in front there ! Words fail me on reading about your exhibitionist lunatic who went up au naturel on a freezing day.
Reminds me of those masochists who delight in going in to the North Sea on Boxing Day morning - no accounting for taste, I suppose.
Danny.
Nice pic, but it strikes me that "you're very close to the accident", stuck out in front there ! Words fail me on reading about your exhibitionist lunatic who went up au naturel on a freezing day.
Reminds me of those masochists who delight in going in to the North Sea on Boxing Day morning - no accounting for taste, I suppose.
Danny.
Guest
Posts: n/a
Geriaviator,
Yes, we missed a trick then; you would have thought our Intelligence could have seen what was coming. But then, "None so blind as those who will not see".
MPN11,
Now that's more like a glider in my opinion. But didn't the blindfolds make it a bit tricky ?
Danny.
Yes, we missed a trick then; you would have thought our Intelligence could have seen what was coming. But then, "None so blind as those who will not see".
MPN11,
Now that's more like a glider in my opinion. But didn't the blindfolds make it a bit tricky ?
Danny.
