Wg Cdr Arthur Gill, OBE, DFC
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Them were the Days !
NigG (#139),
True "up to a point, Lord Copper". But the RAF of (say) '58 was not all that different from that of '55. The threat then was still the Warsaw Pact bomber. Wiki tells us:
The answer as ever (ignoring MAD) was still the fighter, and the Hunter was no more than an updated Meteor/Vampire. Agreed, its 'fighting effectiveness' was superior- but one chap can still only be at one place at one time. Numbers still count ! Dumping one-third of your fighting strength does not seem a good idea. Admittedly, in '57 the core of their ex-war people would be in their mid-thirties, but experienced, fully trained, and in full flying practice. And by then there would have been a growing proportion of NS pilots (608 got its first ones in '54) and in the event or likelihood of war, the ones who'd finished their NS would have been pulled back in one way or another.
No, I see "the dead hand of the Treasury" at work here. Nothing changes
We're in another world, aren't we ? I could almost smell the cows. It's in that last, warm summer of '38. What would today's farmer's reaction be ? Reach for his solicitor and sue the MOD for (think of a number) still-born calves !
They drummed into me in the States: "you cain't use a field you've left behind !"
Nice pics - thanks !
Danny.
...Though much smaller, the fighting effectiveness of the modern RAF must significantly exceed that of the 1950s' one...
...The first strategic-missile unit became operational on 9 February 1959 at Plesetsk in north-west Russia...
No, I see "the dead hand of the Treasury" at work here. Nothing changes
...So I chose a field and landed, avoiding some high trees and a power-line that ran to a farmhouse. At the far end was a herd of cows. I taxied over to some barns and asked a farm labourer where I was. 'You be at Tring, Sir', said he. I thanked him and said I hoped the cows wouldn't be producing curdled milk. 'They be alright, Sir', with a broad grin. I took off and found my way back to Hanworth...
...the pilot tried to turn-back to the airfield to land...
Nice pics - thanks !
Danny.
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Danny and MPN11
That must be a classic pilot's nightmare: catastrophically losing flying speed on take-off. One's first, incorrect, instinct must be to keep the nose up, and the second one to head back to the airfield and thus to 'safety'. A friend of mine is a glider pilot. One of his instructor colleagues was giving a paying visitor a joyride. On taking-off, the towline, drawing them up into the air, broke. This pilot then forgot standard procedure ('stick your nose down and land ahead of you') and turned back for the landing ground. They stalled and a wing hit the ground, thus cartwheeling them and causing considerable damage to the aircraft. I think everyone rushed to reassure the poor passenger and made light of it: 'Haha!... bit of a bumpy landing!'. There was some expectation that the pilot would lose his instructor qualification, but apparently, he got away with it.
Another recent example comes to mind, where 'impulse' over-rode 'knowledge and training'. This was the Air France Airbus, Flight 447, that came down in 2009, crashing into the Atlantic on its way back to Paris from Rio de Janeiro. There's been a couple of TV programmes about it. As I recall, they had zero visibility, at night, in poor weather conditions. The auto-pilot had handed control back to the aircrew, as the sensors gauging airspeed etc, had frozen-up. The Junior Pilot had control of the aircraft and kept the nose up despite the aircraft continuing to lose height. The stall alarm went off, but the Captain, having just returned from the bunk-bed, didn't realise the nose was being held high by the Junior pilot. By the time he worked out what on earth was going on, they were too low to put the nose down and thus accelerate and regain flying speed. It seems that the Junior Pilot's intuition was that they were losing height, so the aircraft had to be pointed upwards. All the while, the aircraft was in a stall attitude, falling, nose high, out of the sky. One of the conclusions of the experts was that airline pilots were being trained to fly sophisticated computerised aircraft, but fundamental, hands-on, piloting skills were being neglected.
This is also an example of where advances in automation have the effect of de-skilling humans. Likewise, the modern-age mountain walker who finds himself lost and utterly in a pickle when the batteries of his GPS run flat.
That must be a classic pilot's nightmare: catastrophically losing flying speed on take-off. One's first, incorrect, instinct must be to keep the nose up, and the second one to head back to the airfield and thus to 'safety'. A friend of mine is a glider pilot. One of his instructor colleagues was giving a paying visitor a joyride. On taking-off, the towline, drawing them up into the air, broke. This pilot then forgot standard procedure ('stick your nose down and land ahead of you') and turned back for the landing ground. They stalled and a wing hit the ground, thus cartwheeling them and causing considerable damage to the aircraft. I think everyone rushed to reassure the poor passenger and made light of it: 'Haha!... bit of a bumpy landing!'. There was some expectation that the pilot would lose his instructor qualification, but apparently, he got away with it.
Another recent example comes to mind, where 'impulse' over-rode 'knowledge and training'. This was the Air France Airbus, Flight 447, that came down in 2009, crashing into the Atlantic on its way back to Paris from Rio de Janeiro. There's been a couple of TV programmes about it. As I recall, they had zero visibility, at night, in poor weather conditions. The auto-pilot had handed control back to the aircrew, as the sensors gauging airspeed etc, had frozen-up. The Junior Pilot had control of the aircraft and kept the nose up despite the aircraft continuing to lose height. The stall alarm went off, but the Captain, having just returned from the bunk-bed, didn't realise the nose was being held high by the Junior pilot. By the time he worked out what on earth was going on, they were too low to put the nose down and thus accelerate and regain flying speed. It seems that the Junior Pilot's intuition was that they were losing height, so the aircraft had to be pointed upwards. All the while, the aircraft was in a stall attitude, falling, nose high, out of the sky. One of the conclusions of the experts was that airline pilots were being trained to fly sophisticated computerised aircraft, but fundamental, hands-on, piloting skills were being neglected.
This is also an example of where advances in automation have the effect of de-skilling humans. Likewise, the modern-age mountain walker who finds himself lost and utterly in a pickle when the batteries of his GPS run flat.
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I think that's why "Stalling" is/was about the first exercise after "Effects of Controls" ... or at least recognising when it was about to happen.
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Post Mortem.
NigG (#142),
Worse than "losing" flying speed by misfortune" is losing it by your own stupid fault. If you like, I will send you a copy of "My Crash" file by the PPRuNe e-mail method. You do not need to reply in that way, for that will involve disclosing your email address to me, and I do not need a reply, anyway. I do this because my PM inbox keeps hitting the 100% stop, and there is already a group of three Parts of the story on the "Pilot's Brevet" Thread.
Now the take I shall give you on this is no more than that to be expected from any well-informed layman. I never flew on the civil side, and for the greater part of my 10 years as an Air Force pilot, I was a simple Stick-Rudder-Throttle man, never had anything to do with automatics, and I flew from A to B by means of watch, map and compass until almost the end of my time. So with that caveat, here goes:
This case (AF447) has become a classic of the dangers of the excessive reliance on automation and computerisation of all the control and navigation systems of an airliner which is a feature of air traffic today. The sad fact is that (to take the simplest example) automatic pilots (which have been known since the thirties) can fly a plane, and hold height and heading, as well as (if not better than) the best of human pilots. But the human gets tired, the autopilots do not. And the more accurately (and smoothly !) an aircraft is flown to its plotted route, the less fuel it will need to reach its destination. Fuel is the major item in operating costs, the accountants rule supreme. Captains may be disciplined by their Companies for "manually" flying their aircraft (or permitting their First Officers to do so).
Once Navigators had an honoured place on the Flight Deck. Not any more - they are long gone, more money saved. Instead, all the "way-points" of the planned route are stored in on-board computers. These are constantly fed with aircraft position (now by GPIs, before that the Inertial Navigation System (don't ask), both independent of anything outside the aircraft. Also input are running details of airspeed, groundspeed, height and much else. The computers determine the correct heading to fly, and when to turn, and instruct the autopilot to do so. They can follow an ILS approach to a landing (ILS came in before the War, it has been the standard world-wide bad-weather approach system ever since). Now Autoland can (at all major airports) finish the job.
The Pilots are relieved of all need to practise their basic flying skills (and actively discouraged from doing so): they have become Systems Managers instead. And, so long as the (very reliable) systems are up and running, that is fine. But......
The "Black Boxes" were recovered (by a miracle of deep-sea salvage), and the whole sorry story came to light. There are many blow-by-blow accounts on Google/Wiki.
I will only add my two cent's worth. IMHO, 300+ people died in an (at first) perfectly flyable aircraft. Apart from the "De Mortuis..." angle, don't blame the pilots. They acted in the way they had been conditioned to act. Any one of the three could have gone back to first principles and flown the aircraft out of trouble. It simply did not occur to them to do so.
So the Companies have had a Damascene conversion and reversed their policies ? Dream on - money talks - we all want cheap fares, don't we - it could happen again at any moment, anywhere.
Now I bow my grey hairs in anticipation of the storm which will descend on me. Put it all down to Senile Decay, I throw myself on the mercy of the Court. What do I know, anyway ?
Danny.
...That must be a classic pilot's nightmare: catastrophically losing flying speed on take-off. One's first, incorrect, instinct must be to keep the nose up, and the second one to head back to the airfield and thus to 'safety'...
...Another recent example comes to mind, where 'impulse' over-rode 'knowledge and training'. This was the Air France Airbus, Flight 447, that came down in 2009, crashing into the Atlantic on its way back to Paris from Rio de Janeiro....
This case (AF447) has become a classic of the dangers of the excessive reliance on automation and computerisation of all the control and navigation systems of an airliner which is a feature of air traffic today. The sad fact is that (to take the simplest example) automatic pilots (which have been known since the thirties) can fly a plane, and hold height and heading, as well as (if not better than) the best of human pilots. But the human gets tired, the autopilots do not. And the more accurately (and smoothly !) an aircraft is flown to its plotted route, the less fuel it will need to reach its destination. Fuel is the major item in operating costs, the accountants rule supreme. Captains may be disciplined by their Companies for "manually" flying their aircraft (or permitting their First Officers to do so).
Once Navigators had an honoured place on the Flight Deck. Not any more - they are long gone, more money saved. Instead, all the "way-points" of the planned route are stored in on-board computers. These are constantly fed with aircraft position (now by GPIs, before that the Inertial Navigation System (don't ask), both independent of anything outside the aircraft. Also input are running details of airspeed, groundspeed, height and much else. The computers determine the correct heading to fly, and when to turn, and instruct the autopilot to do so. They can follow an ILS approach to a landing (ILS came in before the War, it has been the standard world-wide bad-weather approach system ever since). Now Autoland can (at all major airports) finish the job.
The Pilots are relieved of all need to practise their basic flying skills (and actively discouraged from doing so): they have become Systems Managers instead. And, so long as the (very reliable) systems are up and running, that is fine. But......
The "Black Boxes" were recovered (by a miracle of deep-sea salvage), and the whole sorry story came to light. There are many blow-by-blow accounts on Google/Wiki.
I will only add my two cent's worth. IMHO, 300+ people died in an (at first) perfectly flyable aircraft. Apart from the "De Mortuis..." angle, don't blame the pilots. They acted in the way they had been conditioned to act. Any one of the three could have gone back to first principles and flown the aircraft out of trouble. It simply did not occur to them to do so.
So the Companies have had a Damascene conversion and reversed their policies ? Dream on - money talks - we all want cheap fares, don't we - it could happen again at any moment, anywhere.
Now I bow my grey hairs in anticipation of the storm which will descend on me. Put it all down to Senile Decay, I throw myself on the mercy of the Court. What do I know, anyway ?
Danny.
Last edited by Danny42C; 15th Jun 2016 at 16:04. Reason: Spacing.
Thread Starter
Hello Danny42C,
Writing as a retired airline pilot who flew fly-by-wire a/c for the last 14 of a 35-year career (having started on Daks), FWIW I wouldn't disagree with any of that.
(Never imagined this thread would take off quite like it has. Some great stuff on here.)
Chris
Writing as a retired airline pilot who flew fly-by-wire a/c for the last 14 of a 35-year career (having started on Daks), FWIW I wouldn't disagree with any of that.
(Never imagined this thread would take off quite like it has. Some great stuff on here.)
Chris
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Chris,
Am greatly heartened by your support - thought a load of brickbats would be coming my way ! (might yet). Thanks !
Yes, you never know how a seemingly limited Thread can blossom out, do you ? Thanks are due to the wise Moderators, who let us ramble on a bit at the fringes of the Thread.
This is particularly true of the Prince of PPRune Threads - "Gaining a RAF Pilot's Brevet in WWII".
Danny.
Am greatly heartened by your support - thought a load of brickbats would be coming my way ! (might yet). Thanks !
Yes, you never know how a seemingly limited Thread can blossom out, do you ? Thanks are due to the wise Moderators, who let us ramble on a bit at the fringes of the Thread.
This is particularly true of the Prince of PPRune Threads - "Gaining a RAF Pilot's Brevet in WWII".
Danny.
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Nice post as usual Danny42C ... the AF tragedy was {IMHO] caused not by failing to go back to basics, but not even knowing/recognising what the basics were.
And "hello" Chris Scott
And "hello" Chris Scott
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MPN11,
From the standpoint of this Very Old Hairy, it touches a nerve. The initial fault was a failed ASI, caused by ice in the pitot tubes. You don't need an ASI. I flew my first 60 hrs without one, and felt no pain (I knew no better, and thought all aircraft could be flown like that). AFAIK, the gyro instruments were working normally - so P3 (and P2 and P1) had an (artificial) horizon.
You put the nose on the horizon, and your wings level, and if the engines keep running, the bird will keep flying. Never mind anything else. We used to say "Never mind the Altitude - Fly Attitude !".
P3 vainly tried to chase the misreading altimeter with the results we know. Then (and this fills me with horror), it seems that the two Airbus sidesticks are not mechanically coupled. It was dark. So P2 in the other seat could neither see nor feel what P3 was doing. By the time P1 came in, confusion was total (and possibly the aircraft was already stalled past recovery).
Your:
I would say rather that they still knew the basics - but they had been "brainwashed" into putting them out of mind.
Hindsight is a wonderful thing, isn't it. Pity it only works backwards. (We must both settle back into our armchairs now, harrumph, having explained everything to our own complete satisfaction).
Danny.
From the standpoint of this Very Old Hairy, it touches a nerve. The initial fault was a failed ASI, caused by ice in the pitot tubes. You don't need an ASI. I flew my first 60 hrs without one, and felt no pain (I knew no better, and thought all aircraft could be flown like that). AFAIK, the gyro instruments were working normally - so P3 (and P2 and P1) had an (artificial) horizon.
You put the nose on the horizon, and your wings level, and if the engines keep running, the bird will keep flying. Never mind anything else. We used to say "Never mind the Altitude - Fly Attitude !".
P3 vainly tried to chase the misreading altimeter with the results we know. Then (and this fills me with horror), it seems that the two Airbus sidesticks are not mechanically coupled. It was dark. So P2 in the other seat could neither see nor feel what P3 was doing. By the time P1 came in, confusion was total (and possibly the aircraft was already stalled past recovery).
Your:
...[IMHO] caused not by failing to go back to basics, but not even knowing/recognising what the basics were...
Hindsight is a wonderful thing, isn't it. Pity it only works backwards. (We must both settle back into our armchairs now, harrumph, having explained everything to our own complete satisfaction).
Danny.
Last edited by Danny42C; 16th Jun 2016 at 14:54. Reason: Spacing
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I, like you, started flying whilst being able to listen to 'the wind in the wires' ... and I still drive with the same audible cues, despite having an all-electric car. I can 'hear' when I'm doing 30 mph without needing to look at the digital speed readout 
But I accept that the complex and automated Airbus [and other] systems these days must tend to take you down a dark path.
But I accept that the complex and automated Airbus [and other] systems these days must tend to take you down a dark path.
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The initial fault was a failed ASI, caused by ice in the pitot tubes. You don't need an ASI. I flew my first 60 hrs without one, and felt no pain (I knew no better, and thought all aircraft could be flown like that).... You put the nose on the horizon, and your wings level, and if the engines keep running, the bird will keep flying. Never mind anything else. We used to say "Never mind the Altitude - Fly Attitude !".
Your post, and MPN11's, reminded me of Arthur's unpleasant experience of a frozen pitot tube sensor, in January 1955. He was CO of RAF Old Sarum at the time. The trip was a solo flight from Abingdon to Benson and back, in an Airspeed 'Oxford', in order to collect a sofa that had been re-upholstered. [Not sure how easy it is to do that in the modern RAF!] It was a beautiful sunny day and he set-off without checking the weather. All went well until, on the return flight, he ran into dense cloud and snowfall. He couldn't see a thing. This is his entry in his log book:
On returning from Benson, I ran into a blizzard when nearing base. I tried to land at Boscombe Down by G.C.A. but their radar became unserviceable. I made an emergency 'PAN' call and was diverted to Lyneham. My Air Speed Indicator then became iced-up [He recalled he was having to judge whether the aircraft was climbing, descending, or flying level by the sound of the engines] Lyneham then couldn't accept me when the weather 'clamped down' there. I was then re-diverted to Abingdon, where I landed [guided down by radar] a few minutes before this airfield, too, was 'blotted out'.
I sense a few cold beads of sweat on his forehead!
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NigG ... 'unpleasant is an understatement! At least ATC finally provided a 'safe and expeditious service'
Of course, it's a different scenario at 36,000 ft in an Airbus in CuNims.
Of course, it's a different scenario at 36,000 ft in an Airbus in CuNims.
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NigG,
Yes, the wandering winter snowstorm was one of our greatest flying horrors, because they can build up very quickly and unpredictably, and when they cover an airfield, heavy falling snow quickly reduces visibilty to zero and landing is impossible. You have to stand off until it moves off (if you have the fuel) or divert, with no certainty that your diversion will not "go out" with its own storm before you get there. This seems to have happened to your father, and I well imagine that he was mightily relieved to get down in the end.
Before I retired, our excellent AR-1 radars were able to see these things coming down the wind fifty miles out, and if your airfield was in their path, ATC would keep everyone informed of their ETAs.
One of the final tasks of the RAF Oxfords was to act as the 'lead-ins' for the Meteor T7s of the AFSs. It was an enormous jump: the Anson had a top speed of 192mph and a wing loading of 21.5lb/sq ft. The Meteor (figures for F8), 600mph and 49lb/sq ft. (all Wiki). Even the wartime people like myself (who'd handled what passed for fast machinery in our day) had our hands full with the Meteor in the early '50s. The new boys (and the later NS entrants) died like flies. The accident statistics of the Meteor at that time are horrifying (there is/was a Thread on this Forum about it).
It was still in use for this purpose in '54, when 608 got its first NS pilot. I thought it almost criminal. By all means use it at SFTS, but then put them on (say) Mosquitos for a few hrs before the Meteor.
Danny.
Yes, the wandering winter snowstorm was one of our greatest flying horrors, because they can build up very quickly and unpredictably, and when they cover an airfield, heavy falling snow quickly reduces visibilty to zero and landing is impossible. You have to stand off until it moves off (if you have the fuel) or divert, with no certainty that your diversion will not "go out" with its own storm before you get there. This seems to have happened to your father, and I well imagine that he was mightily relieved to get down in the end.
Before I retired, our excellent AR-1 radars were able to see these things coming down the wind fifty miles out, and if your airfield was in their path, ATC would keep everyone informed of their ETAs.
One of the final tasks of the RAF Oxfords was to act as the 'lead-ins' for the Meteor T7s of the AFSs. It was an enormous jump: the Anson had a top speed of 192mph and a wing loading of 21.5lb/sq ft. The Meteor (figures for F8), 600mph and 49lb/sq ft. (all Wiki). Even the wartime people like myself (who'd handled what passed for fast machinery in our day) had our hands full with the Meteor in the early '50s. The new boys (and the later NS entrants) died like flies. The accident statistics of the Meteor at that time are horrifying (there is/was a Thread on this Forum about it).
It was still in use for this purpose in '54, when 608 got its first NS pilot. I thought it almost criminal. By all means use it at SFTS, but then put them on (say) Mosquitos for a few hrs before the Meteor.
Danny.
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Danny
I've just made the catastrophic error of writing a wadge of text, then popping back to previous page, only to find the text has disappeared on my return. Humph!
Anyway... thanks for your many observations above. Always interesting, sometimes fascinating, frequently laugh-out-loud amusing!
Re your 144 above, can you not re-post your 'My accident'? I can't believe it won't bear another airing. You mentioned privately emailing it. Surely better for all to savour! Incidently, anonymity isn't an issue for me... I'm a 'nobody'. But I appreciate that you have to be cautious in that respect. Were your contact details ever to get out, you'd be deluged by authors, writers, journalists, editors, historians. Could be very nasty!
But I'm wondering if you recorded a taped interview with the Imperial War Museum? Years ago, I gave them my father's details and, recently retired, he trekked up to London at their request. His answers on the recording are somewhat terse, so I rather doubt that they got quite what they were hoping for. However, with your 'gift of the gab', you could be a God-send for them! Also, may I observe (as if you didn't know) you ain't gonna be around for ever, sir. I recall you mentioned, somewhere in the 'Brevet' Thread, that you'd written your memoirs. Possibly you're satisfied that these are sufficient and you need leave no further legacy. Anyway... I thought I might be bold and mention it.
Re your post immediately above, I knew the Vampire was risky to fly... indeed I mentioned my father having to belly-land one (on page 3). But I didn't know the Meteor (photo) was dodgy. (Looks so solid!) Arthur, having converted from piston engine aircraft, thought the jets remarkable for their speed... blasting up to height on take-off. He though they were easier to fly than multi-piston-engine aircraft... less monitoring and tweaking of engines, etc.
Oh, a small observation! You and your Air Force colleagues are much given to jargon and acronyms. I should point out that we haven't all been favoured with a period of service in the Air Force. I follow some of it in your post ... 'ATC' is Air Traffic Control (not Air Training Corps). 'AFS' is Advanced Flying School? 'NS' is definitely National Service. 'SFTS' is Service Flying Training School? Some of the jargon in 'Brevet' is very tricky, elsewhere it's mind-warping! Then again, I concede, recourse to jargon must be both automatic and rather pleasurable. What is the point in learning a foreign language if you never use it?!
I've just made the catastrophic error of writing a wadge of text, then popping back to previous page, only to find the text has disappeared on my return. Humph!
Anyway... thanks for your many observations above. Always interesting, sometimes fascinating, frequently laugh-out-loud amusing!
Re your 144 above, can you not re-post your 'My accident'? I can't believe it won't bear another airing. You mentioned privately emailing it. Surely better for all to savour! Incidently, anonymity isn't an issue for me... I'm a 'nobody'. But I appreciate that you have to be cautious in that respect. Were your contact details ever to get out, you'd be deluged by authors, writers, journalists, editors, historians. Could be very nasty!
But I'm wondering if you recorded a taped interview with the Imperial War Museum? Years ago, I gave them my father's details and, recently retired, he trekked up to London at their request. His answers on the recording are somewhat terse, so I rather doubt that they got quite what they were hoping for. However, with your 'gift of the gab', you could be a God-send for them! Also, may I observe (as if you didn't know) you ain't gonna be around for ever, sir. I recall you mentioned, somewhere in the 'Brevet' Thread, that you'd written your memoirs. Possibly you're satisfied that these are sufficient and you need leave no further legacy. Anyway... I thought I might be bold and mention it.
Re your post immediately above, I knew the Vampire was risky to fly... indeed I mentioned my father having to belly-land one (on page 3). But I didn't know the Meteor (photo) was dodgy. (Looks so solid!) Arthur, having converted from piston engine aircraft, thought the jets remarkable for their speed... blasting up to height on take-off. He though they were easier to fly than multi-piston-engine aircraft... less monitoring and tweaking of engines, etc.
Oh, a small observation! You and your Air Force colleagues are much given to jargon and acronyms. I should point out that we haven't all been favoured with a period of service in the Air Force. I follow some of it in your post ... 'ATC' is Air Traffic Control (not Air Training Corps). 'AFS' is Advanced Flying School? 'NS' is definitely National Service. 'SFTS' is Service Flying Training School? Some of the jargon in 'Brevet' is very tricky, elsewhere it's mind-warping! Then again, I concede, recourse to jargon must be both automatic and rather pleasurable. What is the point in learning a foreign language if you never use it?!
Last edited by NigG; 18th Jun 2016 at 21:02.
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Danny's Last Operation (it come t' pieces in me 'and, Mum) !
NigG,
I (and many others) have been caught by this malign gremlin which infests PPRuNePad. Clearly an evil intelligence is at work, for he always waits till you have almost finished before doing the dirty on you. Solution: always draft somewhere else (I use NotePad) where it should be safe, and then copy/paste onto PPRuNePad.
But beware: foiled in this way, he has found his way even into NotePad. Therefore, as soon as I've finished a draft on NotePad, I save it to Desktop at once. He hasn't sussed that one out (yet). But no doubt he's working on it !
Well, seeing that it has not previously been Posted on this Thread, and I'm a nice obliging sort of chap, and anyway I never tire of hearing my own voice, will stick it on the end of this.
They'd be on a hiding to nothing with me ! I retired 44 years ago, and can just about get to my own front door.
The Vampire was very nice and reliable (your father was unlucky). And the Meteor was all right too. It was just too much for the poor young men who'd (IMHO) been inadequately prepared for it.
You're not alone in finding our alphabet soup a bit difficult at times. I, too, have sometimes to ask at on Thread for an explanation. Do not hesitate to do so. Someone will always chip in with the answer.
Danny.
Febuary 24th is a date I'll not forget in a hurry ! - for on this day 72 years ago I came within a whisker of the Pearly Gates. I told my tale here in three separate Posts some 3½ years ago, but as many of our newer readers may not have read the originals, I've now edited and combined them into one story (and added an Epilogue). Even so, it's still much too long for a single Post, so I've split it into three parts. Here's Part I:
On 24th February '44, in the Arakan in Burma. "Stew" Mobsby and I took off on our 53rd sortie, flying No. 3 (wingman on the left of) the leader, Bill Boyd Berry. We were going some way down south (Donbaik ?), and the formation was climbing more slowly than usual, as we had plenty of time to get up to our bombing height. I think we took off from Ramu II, but cannot be sure - there were so many places, we were moving all the time and they all looked the same.
So quite soon after taking off we passed over the battle area (the Second Arakan campaign was reaching its climax) fairly low. Johnny Jap would take a pot at us, of course, but then he had a go every time we came back from a sortie and did no serious damage, although it was not unusual for aircraft to land back with small arms hits. On this occasion, I felt and heard nothing out of the ordinary, and neither did "Stew". Twenty minutes into the climb, I had a look round the instruments. Oil pressure was zero.
Engines don't run long without oil, and I didn't fancy life as a Japanese prisoner. I signalled BBB (drew my hand across my throat, and pointed to the engine - we kept R/T silence), and started back. I warned "Stew" to be ready to bale out; we were at 3,000 ft and could easily manage it. The next few minutes were nail-biting, but then we were back over friendly territory again.
I was thankful, but starting to have doubts. The engine was still running smoothly. What was more, neither oil nor cylinder head temperatures were rising. I began to think that all I had was a dud oil gauge. With every mile my suspicion grew. By the time base was in sight (there was nowhere closer to land), I'd convinced myself. My screen was clear of oil, so the prop can't be throwing it out. "Stew" said we weren't making smoke, so we can't be burning it through the engine. The two temperature needles hadn't shifted. It had to be the oil pressure gauge, and I felt a bit of a fool.
Even so, I might have put it down off a straight-in approach, but these were awkward and difficult in a Vengeance because of the very poor forward view at low speeds. So we normally flew circuits. As there seemed to be no hurry, I did so now. Bad mistake! Downwind, I dropped the wheels and started my checks. The engine seized.
It had shown no sign of distress. Now there was just dead silence and a stationary propeller blade staring at me. The Vengeance was a poor flying machine and no glider at all. It went down like a brick. It was doing just that from a thousand feet - too low to bale out and no time even to think of dumping bombs. I took a last look at the strip, but it would have been suicide to try to get in from where we were with no power.
Nothing for it but crash-land straight ahead. I yelled "Brace" at "Stew", lifted the wheels and cut the main switch, to stop the fuel pumps and isolate the battery to avoid sparks. I can only remember thinking "I must keep 150 on the clock to have any hope of rounding-out at the bottom"... Then my mind goes blank.
A mile or so away was an RAF Repair and Salvage Unit. I would think that most of its trade was in salvage. They did not have to go far to collect mine. As far as they could see, I was making for their clearing, but sank into trees before I got there. I must have rounded-out all right, for the aircraft survived touchdown to go skidding through the open jungle. They told me that the tail unit came off first, then trees removed both wings. So far things may have been fairly tolerable inside, if a bit bumpy, for we were having a ride in a sort of high-speed bulldozer. Then the engine broke out.
Deprived of its battering-ram, the relatively light remaining structure hit something hard, broke apart just aft of the gunner's cockpit, and stopped abruptly in the shape of an inverted "V". The front fuselage and cockpits remained intact, the bombs stayed good as gold and the fuel did not go up. Thank God for the brick-built Vengeance! (anything else would have disintegrated and killed us!)
We'd had a lifetime's entitlement of luck in the last few seconds, but were in no position to appreciate it, both knocked out in the crash. My luck had stretched even further. I'd been wearing my "Ray-Bans" under my helmet, with my goggles pushed up on my head. When we hit the final obstacle, the cable retaining my shoulder harness snapped and I jack-knifed face first into the instrument panel. (The P-40 recently found in the Saraha has the "Needle & Ball" glass smashed. It's dead centre of the panel: it's the only broken instrument glass - (cf 682al's pic on #2709 p. 136) - every picture tells a story).
By rights, the glass lenses should have shattered into my eyes and blinded me. But, as far as we could make out, the goggles had taken the first impact, in the next millisecond the lenses must have jerked out of the frame and away from my eyes. The frame buckled, scooped the bridge off my nose and ploughed into my forehead and left cheek. And that was the total extent of my injuries !
"Stew" had been facing forward, braced head down on his navigation table. He broke a bone in his left wrist and got a bang on the nose, leaving him with an odd disability - he couldn't smell. This was no great loss out there and he got scant sympathy on that account, but it earned him a nice lttle lump sum from the War Pensions people later.
The RSU people ran over to pull us out; watchers at the base had seen us go down and sent the camp ambulance. I came to briefly as they were loading me on a stretcher, and remember the hot sun on my face. I couldn't see as my eyes were full of drying blood. "How's Stew?" - "He's all right". I looked a lot worse than I actually was, and that had an amusing sequel.
I came to fully in a Mobile Field Hospital at Cox's Bazar. They'd had mostly malaria and dysentery cases, and were quite chuffed at getting two proper "battle" casualties. "Stew" got a big cast on his arm and his nose shrank to normal size over the next few weeks. The enthusiastic medics sewed up my face and a surgeon made up a new bridge for my nose out of a patch from my thigh. Kept in place by a "saddle" of dental plastic, this wasn't perfect, but has done very well.
We were looked after quite efficiently by a staff of RAF nursing orderlies, fiercely dragooned by a P.M. RAF Nursing Service Matron for the three (I think) RAF wards. (The Army, of course, had the lion's share of the Field Hospital: it was an Army surgeon who did my job). We must have spent about a month there, then "threw away our crutches" ("Stew's" cast and my nose 'saddle'), and prepared to go off to Calcutta on convalescent leave.
(Part II in a day or so)
Danny42C.
First task would be to secure our belongings. The ambulance crew had reported back to the Squadron what they'd seen when they'd picked us up, but of course it had taken them some time to reach us and I'd been bleeding like a stuck pig all over everything in the meanwhile. So the tale they told was pretty gruesome; the general opinion was that they'd seen the last of me.
No use my kit going to waste. My DIY bed was a prize legacy, they had a draw for that. The rest was shared out among the others; there was no use trying to send stuff after me, it wasn't worth it and the chances were that it wouldn't reach me if they did. (This was standard procedure - anything personal or of value would, of course, be secured for safe keeping by the Adjutant or Intelligence Officer - we are talking about clothing, bedding and towels etc., which you could quickly and cheaply replace).
Six weeks later the bad penny turned up. A shamefaced procession turned up with various items of my kit: "Sorry about this, old man - didn't think you'd be needing it any more!" And of course I recovered my bed - not that I would need it for long, for all six Vultee Vengeance Squadrons were ordered to cease operations in June '44, and we would shortly be moving out from the Arakan (as it happened, never to return). "Worse things happen at sea !"
That done, we went off to Calcutta for our leave (transport no problem, you could always cadge a ride on one of the many 'Daks' which were continually shuttling Cal-Chittagong-all points- east and back. I will not describe our leave now, as I plan to make a separate Post out of Calcutta; it is worth a Post on its own
Back on the squadron, the engineers debated. The engine troubles which had plagued the first Vengeance the year before had mostly been cured, and the most likely explanation for the failure was a lucky shot hitting an oil tank, cooler or line. But in the condition I left the aircraft, it might have been hit by a 3.7 AA shell and look no worse ! They returned an open verdict.
In an earlier Post I have worked out that the Sqdn finally moved to Samungli (Quetta) on 6.8.44, so it stayed on in the Arakan doing nothing much for three monsoon months. Early In that time it must have left whatever 'kutcha' strip it was on and fallen back on a paved strip (I think Chittagong or Dohazari) or they would never have got the aircraft out of the mud to fly away. And both these places were rail points, from which the ground party could move. I have only vague memories of that time, but I flew a couple of times (non-op) in July, and I think I was loaned to 244 Group in Chittagong to do some paperwork, so I wasn't altogether idle.
Once the decision had been taken to stop VV operations, there was absolutely no reason to leave us in the Arakan a day longer. For although there were dozens of 'kutcha' strips, there were relatively few with a paved runway and drainage: these should have been left for the Hurricanes, Beaufighters and Mohawks who could still do useful work even in monsoon conditions. We were just cluttering up the place.
We became entitled to a "Wound Stripe" apiece. This daft and short-lived thing may have been peculiar to India. I never heard of it after I came back. The idea was similar to the American "Purple Heart", at which we poked much fun (it was said that you could get it for being nicked by the camp barber!) But it was entered on our records, and I seem to remember that I had an inch-long gold lace stripe to sew on my khaki tunic sleeve. As we never wore tunics (only bush jackets or shirts), it didn't seem worth bothering with.
"Stew" and I had been amazingly lucky: we both knew we'd live the rest of our lives on borrowed time. It's a pity that no photographs were AFAIK, taken of the wreck - it would have been quite a memento in my logbook. But then, after all, down the years I've had a reminder every time I've looked in a mirror!
(He and I parted soon after this, as I was posted away from Samungli, but were reunited the following year, when he rejoined me as my "Adjutant" in Cannanore. Having come out to India much earlier, he went home earlier. I looked him up once (in Southend) after the war, but then, I'm sorry to say, we lost contact).
Many years later I watched a TV documentary about an oil sheikh's new racecourse complex somewhere in the Gulf. The architect was mentioned. There couldn't be two of that name! He appeared. Incredulous, I looked at this little, bald, fat chap - a far cry from the wiry young man with the Byronic looks I remembered. (Ah, the ravages of time !)
There is a present-day slant on the tale of my crash. In any forced landing a pilot has to make the best of a bad job. He can do no other. In two cases which have hit the headlines in the last year or so (the 777 which just managed to flop over the fence into Heathrow and the Airbus ditched in the Hudson river), the pilots concerned have been surprised to find themselves publicy fêted as "heroes".
My case was the same as theirs (in kind, though much smaller in degree). Naked self-preservation was the name of the game. Three questions arise: Did I do a good job? - Yes! Was I "incredibly" (in the true sense of that now much abused word) lucky? - Yes! Was I a "hero", in any sense? - Sorry folks, but No! I did what had to be done, and so did they, and we all got away with it, and there's no more to be said.
That's all for the moment, Goodnight, all, Danny42C.
Since that February morning in Burma, long, long ago, I've often looked back on it and it's become obvious where I went wrong. I should never have decided, in the absence of other symptons, that the oil pressure gauge was at fault. I should have "played safe", assumed the worst and acted accordingly. I should have hung on to my 3,000 feet to the end, dumped my bombs "safe" (there was no provision for dumping fuel), and perhaps lowered 20°-30° flap (which would have given me a lttle more gliding distance if the engine failed).
The coast was not far away, I could have followed the shoreline North until I was close to base. There were miles of sandy beaches. Apart from a few inshore net fishermen, these would be mostly empty, if necessary a wheels-up landing should be easy.
Then I should never have come down into the circuit, but kept my height until overhead the strip (as it happened, the engine would have kept going till then), and used the "90° Left" or "270° Left" procedure taught me in the U.S. for forced landings. (How many times had I practiced this at Carlstrom Field in Florida !) From 3,000 ft, wheels down and 120-130 mph, it should have been child's play to dead-stick it down at one end of the strip or other (there wasn't much wind anyway, just a light sea breeze across the runway in any case).
Instead, you know what happened ! It was amazing luck that I wasn't killed (but if I had been it would have been my own fault). But poor "Stew" (who survived with me) wouldn't have deserved to die on that account.
But then, isn't hindsight a wonderful thing ?
Danny.
* * *
...only to find the text has disappeared on my return. Humph!...
But beware: foiled in this way, he has found his way even into NotePad. Therefore, as soon as I've finished a draft on NotePad, I save it to Desktop at once. He hasn't sussed that one out (yet). But no doubt he's working on it !
... can you not re-post your 'My accident'? I can't believe it won't bear another airing...
... recently retired, he trekked up to London at their request...
... I knew the Vampire was risky to fly... indeed I mentioned my father having to belly-land one (on page 3). But I didn't know the Meteor was dodgy...
... What on earth is the point in learning a foreign language if you never use it?!...
Danny.
ANNEX 1.
Febuary 24th is a date I'll not forget in a hurry ! - for on this day 72 years ago I came within a whisker of the Pearly Gates. I told my tale here in three separate Posts some 3½ years ago, but as many of our newer readers may not have read the originals, I've now edited and combined them into one story (and added an Epilogue). Even so, it's still much too long for a single Post, so I've split it into three parts. Here's Part I:
On 24th February '44, in the Arakan in Burma. "Stew" Mobsby and I took off on our 53rd sortie, flying No. 3 (wingman on the left of) the leader, Bill Boyd Berry. We were going some way down south (Donbaik ?), and the formation was climbing more slowly than usual, as we had plenty of time to get up to our bombing height. I think we took off from Ramu II, but cannot be sure - there were so many places, we were moving all the time and they all looked the same.
So quite soon after taking off we passed over the battle area (the Second Arakan campaign was reaching its climax) fairly low. Johnny Jap would take a pot at us, of course, but then he had a go every time we came back from a sortie and did no serious damage, although it was not unusual for aircraft to land back with small arms hits. On this occasion, I felt and heard nothing out of the ordinary, and neither did "Stew". Twenty minutes into the climb, I had a look round the instruments. Oil pressure was zero.
Engines don't run long without oil, and I didn't fancy life as a Japanese prisoner. I signalled BBB (drew my hand across my throat, and pointed to the engine - we kept R/T silence), and started back. I warned "Stew" to be ready to bale out; we were at 3,000 ft and could easily manage it. The next few minutes were nail-biting, but then we were back over friendly territory again.
I was thankful, but starting to have doubts. The engine was still running smoothly. What was more, neither oil nor cylinder head temperatures were rising. I began to think that all I had was a dud oil gauge. With every mile my suspicion grew. By the time base was in sight (there was nowhere closer to land), I'd convinced myself. My screen was clear of oil, so the prop can't be throwing it out. "Stew" said we weren't making smoke, so we can't be burning it through the engine. The two temperature needles hadn't shifted. It had to be the oil pressure gauge, and I felt a bit of a fool.
Even so, I might have put it down off a straight-in approach, but these were awkward and difficult in a Vengeance because of the very poor forward view at low speeds. So we normally flew circuits. As there seemed to be no hurry, I did so now. Bad mistake! Downwind, I dropped the wheels and started my checks. The engine seized.
It had shown no sign of distress. Now there was just dead silence and a stationary propeller blade staring at me. The Vengeance was a poor flying machine and no glider at all. It went down like a brick. It was doing just that from a thousand feet - too low to bale out and no time even to think of dumping bombs. I took a last look at the strip, but it would have been suicide to try to get in from where we were with no power.
Nothing for it but crash-land straight ahead. I yelled "Brace" at "Stew", lifted the wheels and cut the main switch, to stop the fuel pumps and isolate the battery to avoid sparks. I can only remember thinking "I must keep 150 on the clock to have any hope of rounding-out at the bottom"... Then my mind goes blank.
A mile or so away was an RAF Repair and Salvage Unit. I would think that most of its trade was in salvage. They did not have to go far to collect mine. As far as they could see, I was making for their clearing, but sank into trees before I got there. I must have rounded-out all right, for the aircraft survived touchdown to go skidding through the open jungle. They told me that the tail unit came off first, then trees removed both wings. So far things may have been fairly tolerable inside, if a bit bumpy, for we were having a ride in a sort of high-speed bulldozer. Then the engine broke out.
Deprived of its battering-ram, the relatively light remaining structure hit something hard, broke apart just aft of the gunner's cockpit, and stopped abruptly in the shape of an inverted "V". The front fuselage and cockpits remained intact, the bombs stayed good as gold and the fuel did not go up. Thank God for the brick-built Vengeance! (anything else would have disintegrated and killed us!)
We'd had a lifetime's entitlement of luck in the last few seconds, but were in no position to appreciate it, both knocked out in the crash. My luck had stretched even further. I'd been wearing my "Ray-Bans" under my helmet, with my goggles pushed up on my head. When we hit the final obstacle, the cable retaining my shoulder harness snapped and I jack-knifed face first into the instrument panel. (The P-40 recently found in the Saraha has the "Needle & Ball" glass smashed. It's dead centre of the panel: it's the only broken instrument glass - (cf 682al's pic on #2709 p. 136) - every picture tells a story).
By rights, the glass lenses should have shattered into my eyes and blinded me. But, as far as we could make out, the goggles had taken the first impact, in the next millisecond the lenses must have jerked out of the frame and away from my eyes. The frame buckled, scooped the bridge off my nose and ploughed into my forehead and left cheek. And that was the total extent of my injuries !
"Stew" had been facing forward, braced head down on his navigation table. He broke a bone in his left wrist and got a bang on the nose, leaving him with an odd disability - he couldn't smell. This was no great loss out there and he got scant sympathy on that account, but it earned him a nice lttle lump sum from the War Pensions people later.
The RSU people ran over to pull us out; watchers at the base had seen us go down and sent the camp ambulance. I came to briefly as they were loading me on a stretcher, and remember the hot sun on my face. I couldn't see as my eyes were full of drying blood. "How's Stew?" - "He's all right". I looked a lot worse than I actually was, and that had an amusing sequel.
I came to fully in a Mobile Field Hospital at Cox's Bazar. They'd had mostly malaria and dysentery cases, and were quite chuffed at getting two proper "battle" casualties. "Stew" got a big cast on his arm and his nose shrank to normal size over the next few weeks. The enthusiastic medics sewed up my face and a surgeon made up a new bridge for my nose out of a patch from my thigh. Kept in place by a "saddle" of dental plastic, this wasn't perfect, but has done very well.
We were looked after quite efficiently by a staff of RAF nursing orderlies, fiercely dragooned by a P.M. RAF Nursing Service Matron for the three (I think) RAF wards. (The Army, of course, had the lion's share of the Field Hospital: it was an Army surgeon who did my job). We must have spent about a month there, then "threw away our crutches" ("Stew's" cast and my nose 'saddle'), and prepared to go off to Calcutta on convalescent leave.
(Part II in a day or so)
Danny42C.
----------------------------------------------------
(Part II)
(Part II)
First task would be to secure our belongings. The ambulance crew had reported back to the Squadron what they'd seen when they'd picked us up, but of course it had taken them some time to reach us and I'd been bleeding like a stuck pig all over everything in the meanwhile. So the tale they told was pretty gruesome; the general opinion was that they'd seen the last of me.
No use my kit going to waste. My DIY bed was a prize legacy, they had a draw for that. The rest was shared out among the others; there was no use trying to send stuff after me, it wasn't worth it and the chances were that it wouldn't reach me if they did. (This was standard procedure - anything personal or of value would, of course, be secured for safe keeping by the Adjutant or Intelligence Officer - we are talking about clothing, bedding and towels etc., which you could quickly and cheaply replace).
Six weeks later the bad penny turned up. A shamefaced procession turned up with various items of my kit: "Sorry about this, old man - didn't think you'd be needing it any more!" And of course I recovered my bed - not that I would need it for long, for all six Vultee Vengeance Squadrons were ordered to cease operations in June '44, and we would shortly be moving out from the Arakan (as it happened, never to return). "Worse things happen at sea !"
That done, we went off to Calcutta for our leave (transport no problem, you could always cadge a ride on one of the many 'Daks' which were continually shuttling Cal-Chittagong-all points- east and back. I will not describe our leave now, as I plan to make a separate Post out of Calcutta; it is worth a Post on its own
-------------------------------------------------------
(Part III)
(Part III)
Back on the squadron, the engineers debated. The engine troubles which had plagued the first Vengeance the year before had mostly been cured, and the most likely explanation for the failure was a lucky shot hitting an oil tank, cooler or line. But in the condition I left the aircraft, it might have been hit by a 3.7 AA shell and look no worse ! They returned an open verdict.
In an earlier Post I have worked out that the Sqdn finally moved to Samungli (Quetta) on 6.8.44, so it stayed on in the Arakan doing nothing much for three monsoon months. Early In that time it must have left whatever 'kutcha' strip it was on and fallen back on a paved strip (I think Chittagong or Dohazari) or they would never have got the aircraft out of the mud to fly away. And both these places were rail points, from which the ground party could move. I have only vague memories of that time, but I flew a couple of times (non-op) in July, and I think I was loaned to 244 Group in Chittagong to do some paperwork, so I wasn't altogether idle.
Once the decision had been taken to stop VV operations, there was absolutely no reason to leave us in the Arakan a day longer. For although there were dozens of 'kutcha' strips, there were relatively few with a paved runway and drainage: these should have been left for the Hurricanes, Beaufighters and Mohawks who could still do useful work even in monsoon conditions. We were just cluttering up the place.
We became entitled to a "Wound Stripe" apiece. This daft and short-lived thing may have been peculiar to India. I never heard of it after I came back. The idea was similar to the American "Purple Heart", at which we poked much fun (it was said that you could get it for being nicked by the camp barber!) But it was entered on our records, and I seem to remember that I had an inch-long gold lace stripe to sew on my khaki tunic sleeve. As we never wore tunics (only bush jackets or shirts), it didn't seem worth bothering with.
"Stew" and I had been amazingly lucky: we both knew we'd live the rest of our lives on borrowed time. It's a pity that no photographs were AFAIK, taken of the wreck - it would have been quite a memento in my logbook. But then, after all, down the years I've had a reminder every time I've looked in a mirror!
(He and I parted soon after this, as I was posted away from Samungli, but were reunited the following year, when he rejoined me as my "Adjutant" in Cannanore. Having come out to India much earlier, he went home earlier. I looked him up once (in Southend) after the war, but then, I'm sorry to say, we lost contact).
Many years later I watched a TV documentary about an oil sheikh's new racecourse complex somewhere in the Gulf. The architect was mentioned. There couldn't be two of that name! He appeared. Incredulous, I looked at this little, bald, fat chap - a far cry from the wiry young man with the Byronic looks I remembered. (Ah, the ravages of time !)
There is a present-day slant on the tale of my crash. In any forced landing a pilot has to make the best of a bad job. He can do no other. In two cases which have hit the headlines in the last year or so (the 777 which just managed to flop over the fence into Heathrow and the Airbus ditched in the Hudson river), the pilots concerned have been surprised to find themselves publicy fêted as "heroes".
My case was the same as theirs (in kind, though much smaller in degree). Naked self-preservation was the name of the game. Three questions arise: Did I do a good job? - Yes! Was I "incredibly" (in the true sense of that now much abused word) lucky? - Yes! Was I a "hero", in any sense? - Sorry folks, but No! I did what had to be done, and so did they, and we all got away with it, and there's no more to be said.
That's all for the moment, Goodnight, all, Danny42C.
---------------------
EPILOGUE
________
EPILOGUE
________
Since that February morning in Burma, long, long ago, I've often looked back on it and it's become obvious where I went wrong. I should never have decided, in the absence of other symptons, that the oil pressure gauge was at fault. I should have "played safe", assumed the worst and acted accordingly. I should have hung on to my 3,000 feet to the end, dumped my bombs "safe" (there was no provision for dumping fuel), and perhaps lowered 20°-30° flap (which would have given me a lttle more gliding distance if the engine failed).
The coast was not far away, I could have followed the shoreline North until I was close to base. There were miles of sandy beaches. Apart from a few inshore net fishermen, these would be mostly empty, if necessary a wheels-up landing should be easy.
Then I should never have come down into the circuit, but kept my height until overhead the strip (as it happened, the engine would have kept going till then), and used the "90° Left" or "270° Left" procedure taught me in the U.S. for forced landings. (How many times had I practiced this at Carlstrom Field in Florida !) From 3,000 ft, wheels down and 120-130 mph, it should have been child's play to dead-stick it down at one end of the strip or other (there wasn't much wind anyway, just a light sea breeze across the runway in any case).
Instead, you know what happened ! It was amazing luck that I wasn't killed (but if I had been it would have been my own fault). But poor "Stew" (who survived with me) wouldn't have deserved to die on that account.
But then, isn't hindsight a wonderful thing ?
Danny.
* * *
Last edited by Danny42C; 19th Jun 2016 at 13:38. Reason: Tidy up Spacing,
Danny42C -
now there's a little quip or bon mot from way way back.
it goes hand in hand with her ladyship pointing out to a maid
how dusty the piano was - "Emily . . . I could write my name
right here. ." . . . . "Oh ma'am . . . ain't it wunnerful to be
so edic-ated!"
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
. . . can't tell you what this has to do with the price of fish .. . but . . .
Old mate Ted Sly ('The Luck of the Draw') with a stream of RAAF
war stories to rival our Danny used to say to any visitor leaving his home in
Byron Bay . . . .. "Remember . . . . fly high. . . and you'll live a long time"
. . . . and of course, as mentioned here before. . . Harry Purvis (also
in the air force for the war years) . .. . after every landing just about he'd turn round and say…
or just murmur to himself . . .. "got away with it again "
Somewhere there's a 1942 photo of Harry standing in front of a Beaufort with the
undercart torn off after a tricky landing at Bachelor in the Northern Territory.
Harry has his arms outstretched wide with a bemused look on his good-looking prize fighter's dial ..
supposedly declaiming
ALONE I DID IT!
(it come t' pieces in me 'and, Mum) !
now there's a little quip or bon mot from way way back.
it goes hand in hand with her ladyship pointing out to a maid
how dusty the piano was - "Emily . . . I could write my name
right here. ." . . . . "Oh ma'am . . . ain't it wunnerful to be
so edic-ated!"
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
. . . can't tell you what this has to do with the price of fish .. . but . . .
Old mate Ted Sly ('The Luck of the Draw') with a stream of RAAF
war stories to rival our Danny used to say to any visitor leaving his home in
Byron Bay . . . .. "Remember . . . . fly high. . . and you'll live a long time"
. . . . and of course, as mentioned here before. . . Harry Purvis (also
in the air force for the war years) . .. . after every landing just about he'd turn round and say…
or just murmur to himself . . .. "got away with it again "
Somewhere there's a 1942 photo of Harry standing in front of a Beaufort with the
undercart torn off after a tricky landing at Bachelor in the Northern Territory.
Harry has his arms outstretched wide with a bemused look on his good-looking prize fighter's dial ..
supposedly declaiming
ALONE I DID IT!
Last edited by Fantome; 19th Jun 2016 at 00:12.
Guest
Posts: n/a
Fantome,
How about:
"Fly low and slow, and plenty of top rudder on the corners"
or
"Slip your Wing
Into the Deck
That's the Thing
Saves your Neck"
or
"I've just done a wonderful Loop"........"Horizontal or Vertical ?"
or
"Stalling between Two Fools"......(Churchill?)
or
"I thought you had control ?"
Danny.
How about:
"Fly low and slow, and plenty of top rudder on the corners"
or
"Slip your Wing
Into the Deck
That's the Thing
Saves your Neck"
or
"I've just done a wonderful Loop"........"Horizontal or Vertical ?"
or
"Stalling between Two Fools"......(Churchill?)
or
"I thought you had control ?"
Danny.
Last edited by Danny42C; 19th Jun 2016 at 15:32. Reason: Space
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Danny
What an incredible story. I read it twice, and will read it again. How it was the bombs didn't detonate, or the fuel go up, is beyond comprehension. Perhaps the designers at Vultee had a hand in it. You're incredibly modest too. In your Epilogue, you criticise your decision-making, effectively making-out that the whole thing would have run without incident had you only done this and that. Seems to me that your decision-making was entirely reasonable, given the paucity of accurate information: it was perfectly 'obvious' that the fuel gauge was faulty; and you had no clear reason to suspect a genuine oil supply failure. It is a miracle, of course, that you didn't join the ranks of other excellent young men, whose names (largely forgotten) are engraved on stone memorials.
When I was about eleven, in the 1960s, I was attending a Prep School in the south of England. Quite a few of the staff were ex-wartime servicemen. Two of these I remember well. Major Duffy and Brigadier MacKenzie. Both were very kind, unlike some of the stricter members of staff. Yet we were in respectful awe of them. Major Duffy had a deep red, jagged scar beneath his eye. As a Royal Marine, he had been hit by shrapnel as he prepared to descend the side of a ship and into a landing craft. Brigadier MacKenzie had lost his arm. His tank had been knocked-out in the Western Desert, when his unit was over-run. Later, lying in a hospital bed, a senior Afrika Korps officer stopped to talk to him and express regret that he had had to lose a limb. It was Field Marshall Rommel.
I think, Danny, with your battle scar, you stand among heroes.
What an incredible story. I read it twice, and will read it again. How it was the bombs didn't detonate, or the fuel go up, is beyond comprehension. Perhaps the designers at Vultee had a hand in it. You're incredibly modest too. In your Epilogue, you criticise your decision-making, effectively making-out that the whole thing would have run without incident had you only done this and that. Seems to me that your decision-making was entirely reasonable, given the paucity of accurate information: it was perfectly 'obvious' that the fuel gauge was faulty; and you had no clear reason to suspect a genuine oil supply failure. It is a miracle, of course, that you didn't join the ranks of other excellent young men, whose names (largely forgotten) are engraved on stone memorials.
When I was about eleven, in the 1960s, I was attending a Prep School in the south of England. Quite a few of the staff were ex-wartime servicemen. Two of these I remember well. Major Duffy and Brigadier MacKenzie. Both were very kind, unlike some of the stricter members of staff. Yet we were in respectful awe of them. Major Duffy had a deep red, jagged scar beneath his eye. As a Royal Marine, he had been hit by shrapnel as he prepared to descend the side of a ship and into a landing craft. Brigadier MacKenzie had lost his arm. His tank had been knocked-out in the Western Desert, when his unit was over-run. Later, lying in a hospital bed, a senior Afrika Korps officer stopped to talk to him and express regret that he had had to lose a limb. It was Field Marshall Rommel.
I think, Danny, with your battle scar, you stand among heroes.
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Is there a Hero in the house ?
NigG,
This was a result of my coming in fast. I knew that with a full bomb load and almost full fuel load, I had to put it down smoothly, and appear to have done so, although I have no recollection of the event (a common effect of concussion, I'm told).
Once on the ground, medium sized HE Bombs, "safe" with protective caps locked onto the fuzes by the fuzing links, can comfortably survive most frontal impacts. They can be be "dumped" from enormous heights, tens of thousands of feet and, streamlined as they are, probably attain a terminal velocity of 6-700 mph and still not explode, but bury themselves deep in the ground. "Duds" from WWII are still being found far down.
Fuel was a different matter. Nearly all of it was in the wings, and they were knocked off by trees early on. "Jungle" in the Arakan was not Amazonian rainforest, but more like open English woodland. They told me that the wings remained more or less intact, the tanks were self sealing, and of course the pumps were off. The 20 gallon "trap tank" underneath me contained quite enough to cremate us, but as the tank was in the forward part of the fuselage and as that (with the cockpits) didn't break up, we were all right. And of course, we were very lucky indeed. And the VV was "built like the Forth Bridge" - and that helped !
No, I can't exculpate myself as easily as that. I should have assumed the worst scenario from the outset and acted accordingly (shows the danger of jumping to concusions !)
(From Wiki): [his] "consistent decency in the treatment of allied prisoners earned him the respect of many opponents, including Claude Auchinleck, Archibald Wavell, George S. Patton, and Bernard Montgomery".[440]
There were other great gentlemen in those days. This excerpt from my #4277 on p.214 of "Pilot's Brevet" relates to the late, well loved ACM Sir "Gus" Walker. (You may find that whole page amusing ["CAS" is Chief of the Air Staff, btw, by the way], a 4-star Air Chief Marshal).
We'll agree to differ. As I said before: "I did what had to be done, and got away with it, and there's no more to be said"....
Danny.
...How it was the bombs didn't detonate, or the fuel go up, is beyond comprehension. Perhaps the designers at Vultee had a hand in it...
Once on the ground, medium sized HE Bombs, "safe" with protective caps locked onto the fuzes by the fuzing links, can comfortably survive most frontal impacts. They can be be "dumped" from enormous heights, tens of thousands of feet and, streamlined as they are, probably attain a terminal velocity of 6-700 mph and still not explode, but bury themselves deep in the ground. "Duds" from WWII are still being found far down.
Fuel was a different matter. Nearly all of it was in the wings, and they were knocked off by trees early on. "Jungle" in the Arakan was not Amazonian rainforest, but more like open English woodland. They told me that the wings remained more or less intact, the tanks were self sealing, and of course the pumps were off. The 20 gallon "trap tank" underneath me contained quite enough to cremate us, but as the tank was in the forward part of the fuselage and as that (with the cockpits) didn't break up, we were all right. And of course, we were very lucky indeed. And the VV was "built like the Forth Bridge" - and that helped !
...Seems to me that your decision-making was entirely reasonable, given the paucity of accurate information: it was perfectly 'obvious' that the fuel gauge was faulty; and you had no clear reason to suspect a genuine oil supply failure...
...It was Field Marshal Rommel...
There were other great gentlemen in those days. This excerpt from my #4277 on p.214 of "Pilot's Brevet" relates to the late, well loved ACM Sir "Gus" Walker. (You may find that whole page amusing ["CAS" is Chief of the Air Staff, btw, by the way], a 4-star Air Chief Marshal).
...There was a heartwarming story, dating from before I got to Strubby, that a little lad of 9 or 10 had lost his right forearm in a tractor accident on some Lincolnshire farm. "Gus" made a point of visiting him in hospital as soon as he came round from surgery, ("Gus" wearing full kit and regalia), to have a chat and show the little chap that all was not lost - as he himself had suffered exactly that same injury...D.
...I think, Danny, with your battle scar, you stand among heroes...
Danny.
never met a war vet yet who was not uncomfortable with any mention
even hinting at 'heroic'. And then again it has often been said that those who deserved a gong and were left out far far exceeded those who could put up
their ribbons.
but I did not come in here to pass on these thoughts . .. . I was thinking
along far more of the light hearted than the deadly serious.
(Peter O'Toole said when asked how it was on location with Guinness making Lawrence that he never looked forward to the day's start when more often than not AG would slip into the tent with a face like a plate of condemned veal.)
No . .. talk of loops vertical or horizontal immediately calls to mind the late Chris Braund. . .he of the pronounced stammer. As recounted elsewhere here Chris had bought a disposals Mustang from Tocumwal and after legitimising all the paper work required to have your own private WW11 fighter was often invited to perform at air shows.
Picture Chris early one Sunday morning transiting Sydney for the Naval air base at Nowra down the south coast to attend an airshow. .. As it was so quiet on the tower frequency and as the morning was so glorious he requested an orbit of the Harbour Bridge. Report on conclusion says the tower. So what does the perpetual boy do .. . he goes down under the bridge . .you can almost hear the Merlin's reverberating throb coming back off the walls of Kirribilli House . . then up up and over in a graceful arc. Well next day no surprise he was on the mat at DCA headquarters at Waverton in Sydney. His defence? . . " I requested an or. .or. .orbit. Permission was g.g.g.granted . Orbit can b.b.be d.d.ddefined as 'to d.d.d.describe a c.c.circle about." N.n.n.n nothing about wh.wh.whether it is h.h.h.h.horizontal or v.v.v.vertical." The regional director (an old warbird himself as Chris was) laughed himself hoarse and decided it never happened.
even hinting at 'heroic'. And then again it has often been said that those who deserved a gong and were left out far far exceeded those who could put up
their ribbons.
but I did not come in here to pass on these thoughts . .. . I was thinking
along far more of the light hearted than the deadly serious.
(Peter O'Toole said when asked how it was on location with Guinness making Lawrence that he never looked forward to the day's start when more often than not AG would slip into the tent with a face like a plate of condemned veal.)
No . .. talk of loops vertical or horizontal immediately calls to mind the late Chris Braund. . .he of the pronounced stammer. As recounted elsewhere here Chris had bought a disposals Mustang from Tocumwal and after legitimising all the paper work required to have your own private WW11 fighter was often invited to perform at air shows.
Picture Chris early one Sunday morning transiting Sydney for the Naval air base at Nowra down the south coast to attend an airshow. .. As it was so quiet on the tower frequency and as the morning was so glorious he requested an orbit of the Harbour Bridge. Report on conclusion says the tower. So what does the perpetual boy do .. . he goes down under the bridge . .you can almost hear the Merlin's reverberating throb coming back off the walls of Kirribilli House . . then up up and over in a graceful arc. Well next day no surprise he was on the mat at DCA headquarters at Waverton in Sydney. His defence? . . " I requested an or. .or. .orbit. Permission was g.g.g.granted . Orbit can b.b.be d.d.ddefined as 'to d.d.d.describe a c.c.circle about." N.n.n.n nothing about wh.wh.whether it is h.h.h.h.horizontal or v.v.v.vertical." The regional director (an old warbird himself as Chris was) laughed himself hoarse and decided it never happened.
Last edited by Fantome; 20th Jun 2016 at 11:54.