Meteor Accident Statistics
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I'll drink to that, BEags! By "real" RAF I do not just mean the atmosphere of a very high class flying club (which was certainly true overseas), but ranks and responsibilities. 208 had a UE of 16 x F8/FR9s + 2 X T7s. There were about 180 NCOs and other ranks and 22 pilots - all officers by my time, but there was only one Sqn Ldr, the boss; three Flt Lts (two flight commanders and the PAI) who were second tourists. The rest were first tour FG Offs. There was a Fg Off Eng O and a Fg Off Adj. Most of the officers had sections of airmen to look after, the Flt Cdrs split the squadron in half for command and disciplinary purposes, and the Eng O had technical control of the rectification team and second line. And it all worked fine. The rectification team used to work their bollocks off for the days and nights leading up to a major exercise and then used to disappear and get pi$$ed. This was an accepted fact of life and no one turned a hair. They were also sheltered (unofficially) from guard duties which everyone else had to do (there was a real terrorist threat). I still meet some of them at the annual all ranks reunion in a Soho pub. Periodically a pair or section of aircraft were detached elsewhere in the ME to do some recce skulduggery. This was an opportunity for a young Fg Off to shine as a Det Cdr in command of a pig-load of blokes and a spares pack-up. No news was good news!
Conversion to the Hunter (after my time) was not done on the squadron as it should have been. A staff officer at Fighter Command was told to pick himself a squadron and work it up at Tangmere. In 1957 he had the pick of all the squadrons disbanding, and inevitably his pick consisted almost entirely of ex-flight commanders and PAIs. They staged through Malta on their way to Nicosia and picked up the standard and the silver and the Meatboxes were disbanded. Predictably, the new squadron, all ex-chiefs and no indians, went pear-shaped and were not a very happy bunch of bunnies, we were told.
And then the V Force started to impact on ranks and responsibilities and inflation went mad. I do not knock the Vs, because they did much to introduce professionalism into the Service (a word I swear we never used in the '50s!). But it was the end of gracious living. No more working MEAF hours (0700 - 1300) on Malta in the winter!.
Conversion to the Hunter (after my time) was not done on the squadron as it should have been. A staff officer at Fighter Command was told to pick himself a squadron and work it up at Tangmere. In 1957 he had the pick of all the squadrons disbanding, and inevitably his pick consisted almost entirely of ex-flight commanders and PAIs. They staged through Malta on their way to Nicosia and picked up the standard and the silver and the Meatboxes were disbanded. Predictably, the new squadron, all ex-chiefs and no indians, went pear-shaped and were not a very happy bunch of bunnies, we were told.
And then the V Force started to impact on ranks and responsibilities and inflation went mad. I do not knock the Vs, because they did much to introduce professionalism into the Service (a word I swear we never used in the '50s!). But it was the end of gracious living. No more working MEAF hours (0700 - 1300) on Malta in the winter!.
I don't own this space under my name. I should have leased it while I still could
Flatus Veteranus,
You had Eng O's on the 50s?
I remember we had the STO - Station Technical Officer, a sqn ldr, responsible for the entire Tech org at Hullavington in '62 before the Binbrook system became all pervasive. Then there was that hybrid animal the Eng Wg Admin Officer, an aircrew sqn ldr.
I remember the face, if not the name, of the superannuated pilot at Waddo.
My first sqn, 12(B) Sqn had one wg cdr and one sqn ldr - OC A Flight. The boss thought the (B) stood for B Flight and had to be corrected. I got an email from him only last week; bet he doesn't remember that though.
You had Eng O's on the 50s?
I remember we had the STO - Station Technical Officer, a sqn ldr, responsible for the entire Tech org at Hullavington in '62 before the Binbrook system became all pervasive. Then there was that hybrid animal the Eng Wg Admin Officer, an aircrew sqn ldr.
I remember the face, if not the name, of the superannuated pilot at Waddo.
My first sqn, 12(B) Sqn had one wg cdr and one sqn ldr - OC A Flight. The boss thought the (B) stood for B Flight and had to be corrected. I got an email from him only last week; bet he doesn't remember that though.
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I do not remember 29 having its own engineering officer, but that might be due to faulty memory.
At Tangmere we did have a permanent RR engineering rep to look after the engine side of things.
Was this common on other stations ?
Wagga Jay by name, and he lived in the mess.
At Tangmere we did have a permanent RR engineering rep to look after the engine side of things.
Was this common on other stations ?
Wagga Jay by name, and he lived in the mess.
The door of one of the Mess Rooms at either Linton or Manby (?) was marked 'Rolls-Royce Representative'. Seem to recall it was available as required, rather than permanently occupied.
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Most of the manufacturer's reps were highly visible and great guys. I think it was Frank Waddington who was Mr Vulcan and guess where.
They were the real experts and not car show room mechs.
They were the real experts and not car show room mechs.
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I agree with that Pontius Navigator, Wagga was a top bloke.
Mind you, he did go ballistic once when he found out the hooligans on 1 squadron had been concealing the fact that they were operating one of their Meteor 8's at 200 rpm over the top limit (14,750) because it was going like ****e off a hot shovel and the autumn exercise was approaching.
Mind you, he did go ballistic once when he found out the hooligans on 1 squadron had been concealing the fact that they were operating one of their Meteor 8's at 200 rpm over the top limit (14,750) because it was going like ****e off a hot shovel and the autumn exercise was approaching.
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Some Meteor VIIIs mixed it with MiG-15s
Extract from "Escape from North Korea" by Ron Guthrie
Silver trails of vapour in the placid morning sky define the passage of eight Meteor jet fighters along a patrol line adjacent to the Yalu River. This infamous segment of North Korean airspace, so frequently the playground of predatory Russian fighters, has earned the title of 'MiG Alley'. In two flights of four, the RAAF fighters, well-spaced in battle formation, cruise at a steady 39,000 feet. Each pilot's head swivels urgently as he seeks to cover his companions against intruders. The peaceful Korean sky endures its torment from the strident banshee wailings of sixteen Derwent jet engines whilst the contrasting quiet of the cockpits is broken only by occasional business-like commands from the leader.
Five thousand feet below, the second flight of eight Meteors executes a parallel path against a background of deceptively peaceful Korean and Manchurian landscape - sweeping endlessly away to the north. Presiding watchfully over this orderly scenario, the sun's fiery orb glows in high elevation. Suddenly this great orange mass, as though conspiring against the Australian pilots, assumes a sinister visage. Disgorging from its massive furnace there slides an avalanche of silver spears in pairs, belching 37mm and 23mm cannon shells with menacing accuracy.
A fateful date emblazoned forever on Ron Guthrie's memory is 29 August 1951!
Suddenly I am startled by white-hot tracers streaming over and under my left wing like glowing pingpong balls. I throw my Meteor into a hard lefthand turn and press the 'mike' button to call a 'break' to the others in my flight. Too late! I have been hit behind the cockpit and my radio is useless. I am only talking to myself as I call “Anzac Item - break left - tracers!"
Now, two Russian MiG-15 jet fighters shoot past my nose and I instinctively turn back sharply to the right hoping to get one of them in my sights. Through the illuminated graticule of the gunsight, I can see a red star on a silver fuselage and the pilot’s head in the cockpit. I quickly adjust the gunsight control to correct for a retreating target as my finger curls over the trigger of my four 20 mm cannons. The guns rattle. I am gratified and excited as pieces fly off the enemy aircraft which now rolls to the inverted position and dives out of sight.
At this very instant I feel as though a load of bricks has fallen on to the rear end of my aircraft, which now shakes convulsively. Explosive shells from another MiG have destroyed my Meteor’s tail.
My aircraft - at this stage merely an uncontrollable mass of 'MiG meat' - begins to snap roll repeatedly. In shock, I prepare to make my first exit in a Martin Baker ejection-seat - at this great height and over enemy territory! I realise my guns are still firing and release the trigger.
The vibrating instrument panel catches my attention and two facts remain in my memory. The clock is reading six minutes past ten and the Mach meter - my gauge of speed registers 0.84. As the speed of the dive increases beyond eighty-four per cent of the speed of sound the aircraft begins to shudder in compressibility It continues to roll.
Ron urgently grasped and pulled the canopy jettison handle. In an instant, a gigantic roar announced that his private cocoon had become part of the frigid swirling air mass into which he was about to plunge. Taking a two-handed grip on the ejection-seat loop handle above his head, he waited for the aircraft to finish its roll and on reaching the upright position pulled firmly on the control in order to fire himself out of the cockpit. Nothing happened! Distressing thoughts added their burden to the alarming cacophony of the 600 miles per hour air blast as he awaited the completion of another rotation. Surely the ejection-seat firing mechanism was not going to malfunction in this moment of desperate need. He repeated the process and was shocked as the mechanism failed once again! Then he discovered that his arms were being obstructed in their downward motion by the pistol holster under his right elbow and a Red Cross pack on his left side. Obviously this had to explain the dilemma. The third time around, with arms spread wide he made a final frantic effort. The altimeter needles were unwinding below 39,000 feet as a startling explosion produced an immense upward thrust out of the cockpit. The experience seemed momentary as he now lost consciousness.
Part 2 tomorrow.
Extract from "Escape from North Korea" by Ron Guthrie
Silver trails of vapour in the placid morning sky define the passage of eight Meteor jet fighters along a patrol line adjacent to the Yalu River. This infamous segment of North Korean airspace, so frequently the playground of predatory Russian fighters, has earned the title of 'MiG Alley'. In two flights of four, the RAAF fighters, well-spaced in battle formation, cruise at a steady 39,000 feet. Each pilot's head swivels urgently as he seeks to cover his companions against intruders. The peaceful Korean sky endures its torment from the strident banshee wailings of sixteen Derwent jet engines whilst the contrasting quiet of the cockpits is broken only by occasional business-like commands from the leader.
Five thousand feet below, the second flight of eight Meteors executes a parallel path against a background of deceptively peaceful Korean and Manchurian landscape - sweeping endlessly away to the north. Presiding watchfully over this orderly scenario, the sun's fiery orb glows in high elevation. Suddenly this great orange mass, as though conspiring against the Australian pilots, assumes a sinister visage. Disgorging from its massive furnace there slides an avalanche of silver spears in pairs, belching 37mm and 23mm cannon shells with menacing accuracy.
A fateful date emblazoned forever on Ron Guthrie's memory is 29 August 1951!
Suddenly I am startled by white-hot tracers streaming over and under my left wing like glowing pingpong balls. I throw my Meteor into a hard lefthand turn and press the 'mike' button to call a 'break' to the others in my flight. Too late! I have been hit behind the cockpit and my radio is useless. I am only talking to myself as I call “Anzac Item - break left - tracers!"
Now, two Russian MiG-15 jet fighters shoot past my nose and I instinctively turn back sharply to the right hoping to get one of them in my sights. Through the illuminated graticule of the gunsight, I can see a red star on a silver fuselage and the pilot’s head in the cockpit. I quickly adjust the gunsight control to correct for a retreating target as my finger curls over the trigger of my four 20 mm cannons. The guns rattle. I am gratified and excited as pieces fly off the enemy aircraft which now rolls to the inverted position and dives out of sight.
At this very instant I feel as though a load of bricks has fallen on to the rear end of my aircraft, which now shakes convulsively. Explosive shells from another MiG have destroyed my Meteor’s tail.
My aircraft - at this stage merely an uncontrollable mass of 'MiG meat' - begins to snap roll repeatedly. In shock, I prepare to make my first exit in a Martin Baker ejection-seat - at this great height and over enemy territory! I realise my guns are still firing and release the trigger.
The vibrating instrument panel catches my attention and two facts remain in my memory. The clock is reading six minutes past ten and the Mach meter - my gauge of speed registers 0.84. As the speed of the dive increases beyond eighty-four per cent of the speed of sound the aircraft begins to shudder in compressibility It continues to roll.
Ron urgently grasped and pulled the canopy jettison handle. In an instant, a gigantic roar announced that his private cocoon had become part of the frigid swirling air mass into which he was about to plunge. Taking a two-handed grip on the ejection-seat loop handle above his head, he waited for the aircraft to finish its roll and on reaching the upright position pulled firmly on the control in order to fire himself out of the cockpit. Nothing happened! Distressing thoughts added their burden to the alarming cacophony of the 600 miles per hour air blast as he awaited the completion of another rotation. Surely the ejection-seat firing mechanism was not going to malfunction in this moment of desperate need. He repeated the process and was shocked as the mechanism failed once again! Then he discovered that his arms were being obstructed in their downward motion by the pistol holster under his right elbow and a Red Cross pack on his left side. Obviously this had to explain the dilemma. The third time around, with arms spread wide he made a final frantic effort. The altimeter needles were unwinding below 39,000 feet as a startling explosion produced an immense upward thrust out of the cockpit. The experience seemed momentary as he now lost consciousness.
Part 2 tomorrow.
"There I was minding my own business, when I heard Dewdrop One and Two calling Mayday, no fuel, engine gone, pulling up, bailing out - just like that - dead nonchalant, hotly followed by Three. Four(Kurt Curtis) just made it into Tangers. Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse I heard the photographic Meteor NF14 followed by a photographic Vamp T11(Pat Swaffer I believe) - doing the same thing!! They'd got caugt out by weather at Odiham after a photo session."
Spoke to Pat Swoffer yesterday at Phil Phillips (ex Staish Kemble) memorial do. He confirmed it was him. Following a number of injury generating attempted bailouts from non Martin Baker Vampire T11, he had worked out his own procedure - trim full forward, roll inverted, jettison canopy, release harness and let go of stick. He said it worked a treat for both sides - 'like a cork from a bottle'.
Spoke to Pat Swoffer yesterday at Phil Phillips (ex Staish Kemble) memorial do. He confirmed it was him. Following a number of injury generating attempted bailouts from non Martin Baker Vampire T11, he had worked out his own procedure - trim full forward, roll inverted, jettison canopy, release harness and let go of stick. He said it worked a treat for both sides - 'like a cork from a bottle'.
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Pontius Nav
We probably had our own Eng O because we were established as a fully independent, mobile squadron. We were not "winged up" because for most of my time we were the only squadron on the station. We also had a complement of clerks, cooks, medical orderlies and batmen/waiters who were detached formally to the Admin Wing of our host station. But they used to parade with us.
Of the two Eng Os in my time, the first was a National Serviceman with a shiny degree from a fancy university. He knew nothing about practical engineering and management. The "old sweats" just ignored him. His replacement was an ex-WO on his first commissioned tour. He had been all through the Western Desert campaign of WW2 and knew what it was all about. Aircraft availability doubled immediately and kept on rising. He was in his forties and we all revered him. "Alf" Button went on to become a Sqn Ldr Eng O on a V station I believe.
Most of the groundcrew were national servicemen and, although they were keen and cheerful enough, their length of service did not allow them to become usefully skilled tradesmen. All they did was to fetch and carry for the few regulars who did most of the work. This needs to be remembered when the latest yobbery outrage leads to demands to "bring back national service". It may have done the conscripts some good, but it pulled down the regular service.
The only disciplinary problems in difficult conditions (people did whole unaccompanied tours in the cage) seemed to be in the local Rockape squadron, with whom we waged a continual war of attrition.
We probably had our own Eng O because we were established as a fully independent, mobile squadron. We were not "winged up" because for most of my time we were the only squadron on the station. We also had a complement of clerks, cooks, medical orderlies and batmen/waiters who were detached formally to the Admin Wing of our host station. But they used to parade with us.
Of the two Eng Os in my time, the first was a National Serviceman with a shiny degree from a fancy university. He knew nothing about practical engineering and management. The "old sweats" just ignored him. His replacement was an ex-WO on his first commissioned tour. He had been all through the Western Desert campaign of WW2 and knew what it was all about. Aircraft availability doubled immediately and kept on rising. He was in his forties and we all revered him. "Alf" Button went on to become a Sqn Ldr Eng O on a V station I believe.
Most of the groundcrew were national servicemen and, although they were keen and cheerful enough, their length of service did not allow them to become usefully skilled tradesmen. All they did was to fetch and carry for the few regulars who did most of the work. This needs to be remembered when the latest yobbery outrage leads to demands to "bring back national service". It may have done the conscripts some good, but it pulled down the regular service.
The only disciplinary problems in difficult conditions (people did whole unaccompanied tours in the cage) seemed to be in the local Rockape squadron, with whom we waged a continual war of attrition.
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FV, I wasn't saying you didn't have an engineer, I was suggesting he may have been a Technical Officer, trained in Tech Training Command as a technical school. I thought engineering wasn't invented till later
Please tell me if I am talking cojohns
Please tell me if I am talking cojohns
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Pontius Nav
You may well be right. My memory is getting a bit dim, but I think we called him the Eng O. I cannot remember what training the graduate NS Eng/Tech officers did - probably not much.
Apart from 208 at Abu Sueir we had the Eng and Admin staffs of HQ MEAF. and all the bean counters, who were mainly civil servants who had been stuffed into uniform because the Canal Zone was on active service. I don't think that HQ 205 Gp at Fayid had much of an Eng Staff. So AO Eng and his staff took an unduly close interest in what was going on in our hangar. Our backlog of mods built up to such an extent that AO Eng eventually ordered that all backlogs would be cleared on the next inspection. Aircraft disappeared on "Minors" for months.
You may well be right. My memory is getting a bit dim, but I think we called him the Eng O. I cannot remember what training the graduate NS Eng/Tech officers did - probably not much.
Apart from 208 at Abu Sueir we had the Eng and Admin staffs of HQ MEAF. and all the bean counters, who were mainly civil servants who had been stuffed into uniform because the Canal Zone was on active service. I don't think that HQ 205 Gp at Fayid had much of an Eng Staff. So AO Eng and his staff took an unduly close interest in what was going on in our hangar. Our backlog of mods built up to such an extent that AO Eng eventually ordered that all backlogs would be cleared on the next inspection. Aircraft disappeared on "Minors" for months.
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Ron Guthrie has just ejected from his Meteor 8.
Part 2
"My awareness returned some seconds later but I had a light-headed feeling that this was not really happening. Perhaps it was lack of oxygen or maybe it was shock, however it all seemed quite unreal, as in a half dream. I tumbled and swayed until eventually the ejection-seat's little drogue parachute in full deployment steadied the descent. I could not breathe! This situation was quickly fixed by repositioning the goggles away from my mouth and lifting the oxygen mask from where it had slipped to my throat. I was relieved to feel the portable oxygen puffing onto my face."
The sensation was odd as he just sat there strapped to the ejection-seat, feeling quite stationary and quite detached, secured to his mechanical throne in space with no apparent means of support and no indications of motion. He was in a New World that was only half-real. The complete lack of noise was quite uncanny in its contrast with the clamour which had so recently conditioned his senses. Gone were the sounds of combat, followed so rapidly by the ejection-seat explosion intermingled with the overwhelming roar of a 600 mph slipstream. Ron's personal segment of Korean sky, so recently a noisy battleground, was now a quiet and peaceful arena bereft of aircraft, friend and foe.
The silent, almost motionless experience seemed to invite the frigid atmosphere to ravage and assault his body and mind. Ron knew the temperature would be approximately -56C but surprisingly he was not unduly disturbed by the cold in spite of being lightly dressed in nothing more than a normal cotton flying suit on top of summer underwear.
Gradually beginning to think and take stock, he was forced to confront the shocking reality of this new situation. He had been suddenly re-born as a pilot without a plane - a man without a home - a human without his friends. The perils of this situation became more obvious with each minute. The only option acceptable to Ron, on first consideration, was the avoidance of capture by the North Koreans. He had learned too much from the intelligence officers - anything but that! From this great height he could possibly drift seawards during the long descent and survive for some time in his dinghy thereby creating the opportunity for a recovery effort by the Air/Sea Rescue aircraft. With this plan in mind he unlocked the ejection _seat harness and kicked. The seat and its small drogue chute fell away. Then a sharp pull on the ripcord handle produced a welcome jerk as the beautiful Irvin parachute, blossoming out above, stabilised Ron in a quiet and peaceful descent.
"It then became apparent that the immensely forceful airflow as I left the cockpit had ripped the chamois gloves from my hands and the knee pockets off my flying suit. Missing contents included spare socks and pistol ammunition. Obviously I had been lucky with regard to the oxygen-mask and goggles, which had merely been displaced. No doubt this was one of the benefits of the ejection-seat head-protection blind which had been drawn down in front of my face during propulsion into that violent airflow.
Looking down between my legs I was surprised to see another parachute. For a moment it seemed I had company -perhaps another unfortunate member of my flight, or hopefully a MiG pilot Then it became apparent this was my own ejection-seat, still under the control of its small drogue 'chute."
Endeavouring to guide himself towards an ocean landing, Ron pulled down on one side of the canopy shrouds in the hope of producing some directional control. This had the unexpected and quite alarming effect of spilling the 'chute into a collapsed and ineffectual condition. Suddenly he was in a sickening descent with the parachute flapping above. Some anxious moments passed before the 'umbrella' restored its shape and its life-preserving function. Vowing he would not try that again, Ron became resigned to abandoning the possibility of a sea voyage in the little inflatable rubber raft, now quite useless in its attachment to his harness. There would be no encounter with 'Dumbo' - the USAF Air/Sea Rescue amphibian aircraft. Perhaps this had been a futile hope anyway, as he had no signalling beacon. The elements would decree the 'where and when' of touchdown on enemy soil.
"Descending through the air seven miles above the countryside, my thoughts now turn to home. How will my mother bear the shocking news? Since her divorce she does not even have the support of a husband and the loss of my only sister Cecile during her honeymoon on the Lane Cove River in Sydney in 1945 will now come back to haunt my poor mother!
I hope my squadron mates are all returning safely to Kimpo. There had been a lot of MiGs spearing through our formation during that sudden attack.
The Korean countryside far below looks more hostile with every minute of the descent. What will be waiting for me down there? I am probably too far north for any chance of a helicopter rescue.
The thought of falling into the hands of North Koreans fills me with anxiety. Our intelligence briefings have been most discouraging in this regard The Geneva Convention will mean nothing. Harsh treatment will be guaranteed The possibility of being shot on sight by their mihtary forces is a big worry."
-------------------------------------
Ron was soon in the hands of a viciously cruel enemy and began over 2 years of incredible privations to the very edges of human survival during which time he was posted as missing in action until September 1953 when he was freed during a prisoner exchange.
Ron became a flying instructor, retired as a Sqn Ldr in 1980 after 37 years of RAAF service.
Part 2
"My awareness returned some seconds later but I had a light-headed feeling that this was not really happening. Perhaps it was lack of oxygen or maybe it was shock, however it all seemed quite unreal, as in a half dream. I tumbled and swayed until eventually the ejection-seat's little drogue parachute in full deployment steadied the descent. I could not breathe! This situation was quickly fixed by repositioning the goggles away from my mouth and lifting the oxygen mask from where it had slipped to my throat. I was relieved to feel the portable oxygen puffing onto my face."
The sensation was odd as he just sat there strapped to the ejection-seat, feeling quite stationary and quite detached, secured to his mechanical throne in space with no apparent means of support and no indications of motion. He was in a New World that was only half-real. The complete lack of noise was quite uncanny in its contrast with the clamour which had so recently conditioned his senses. Gone were the sounds of combat, followed so rapidly by the ejection-seat explosion intermingled with the overwhelming roar of a 600 mph slipstream. Ron's personal segment of Korean sky, so recently a noisy battleground, was now a quiet and peaceful arena bereft of aircraft, friend and foe.
The silent, almost motionless experience seemed to invite the frigid atmosphere to ravage and assault his body and mind. Ron knew the temperature would be approximately -56C but surprisingly he was not unduly disturbed by the cold in spite of being lightly dressed in nothing more than a normal cotton flying suit on top of summer underwear.
Gradually beginning to think and take stock, he was forced to confront the shocking reality of this new situation. He had been suddenly re-born as a pilot without a plane - a man without a home - a human without his friends. The perils of this situation became more obvious with each minute. The only option acceptable to Ron, on first consideration, was the avoidance of capture by the North Koreans. He had learned too much from the intelligence officers - anything but that! From this great height he could possibly drift seawards during the long descent and survive for some time in his dinghy thereby creating the opportunity for a recovery effort by the Air/Sea Rescue aircraft. With this plan in mind he unlocked the ejection _seat harness and kicked. The seat and its small drogue chute fell away. Then a sharp pull on the ripcord handle produced a welcome jerk as the beautiful Irvin parachute, blossoming out above, stabilised Ron in a quiet and peaceful descent.
"It then became apparent that the immensely forceful airflow as I left the cockpit had ripped the chamois gloves from my hands and the knee pockets off my flying suit. Missing contents included spare socks and pistol ammunition. Obviously I had been lucky with regard to the oxygen-mask and goggles, which had merely been displaced. No doubt this was one of the benefits of the ejection-seat head-protection blind which had been drawn down in front of my face during propulsion into that violent airflow.
Looking down between my legs I was surprised to see another parachute. For a moment it seemed I had company -perhaps another unfortunate member of my flight, or hopefully a MiG pilot Then it became apparent this was my own ejection-seat, still under the control of its small drogue 'chute."
Endeavouring to guide himself towards an ocean landing, Ron pulled down on one side of the canopy shrouds in the hope of producing some directional control. This had the unexpected and quite alarming effect of spilling the 'chute into a collapsed and ineffectual condition. Suddenly he was in a sickening descent with the parachute flapping above. Some anxious moments passed before the 'umbrella' restored its shape and its life-preserving function. Vowing he would not try that again, Ron became resigned to abandoning the possibility of a sea voyage in the little inflatable rubber raft, now quite useless in its attachment to his harness. There would be no encounter with 'Dumbo' - the USAF Air/Sea Rescue amphibian aircraft. Perhaps this had been a futile hope anyway, as he had no signalling beacon. The elements would decree the 'where and when' of touchdown on enemy soil.
"Descending through the air seven miles above the countryside, my thoughts now turn to home. How will my mother bear the shocking news? Since her divorce she does not even have the support of a husband and the loss of my only sister Cecile during her honeymoon on the Lane Cove River in Sydney in 1945 will now come back to haunt my poor mother!
I hope my squadron mates are all returning safely to Kimpo. There had been a lot of MiGs spearing through our formation during that sudden attack.
The Korean countryside far below looks more hostile with every minute of the descent. What will be waiting for me down there? I am probably too far north for any chance of a helicopter rescue.
The thought of falling into the hands of North Koreans fills me with anxiety. Our intelligence briefings have been most discouraging in this regard The Geneva Convention will mean nothing. Harsh treatment will be guaranteed The possibility of being shot on sight by their mihtary forces is a big worry."
-------------------------------------
Ron was soon in the hands of a viciously cruel enemy and began over 2 years of incredible privations to the very edges of human survival during which time he was posted as missing in action until September 1953 when he was freed during a prisoner exchange.
Ron became a flying instructor, retired as a Sqn Ldr in 1980 after 37 years of RAAF service.
'Winston' Video Clip
Those who might be wondering what happened to Clementine's companion 'Sir Winston' (Meteor F8 VZ467) will perhaps be pleased to learn that the a/c is still airworthy. Repainted in RAAF markings, it is now based in New South Wales as part of the Temora Aviation Museum fleet.
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Thanks for the link GeeRam, it is a long time since I have heard that original Blue Note.
I can still remember quite vividly the first time I strapped on a mk8 at APS Acklington.
I had about 100 hours on Meteors by then but it was the first time in an ejector seat.
I flew around on my sector recce half afraid the bloody thing would go off uncommanded.
I can still remember quite vividly the first time I strapped on a mk8 at APS Acklington.
I had about 100 hours on Meteors by then but it was the first time in an ejector seat.
I flew around on my sector recce half afraid the bloody thing would go off uncommanded.
half afraid the bloody thing would go off uncommanded
As an ATC cadet I used to spend some weekends helping out at 614 squadron (Aux) refuelling 15 Vampires and a Meteor 7.
They also had one hangar queen, a Meteor 8 which no-one would fly because they were scared of the ejector seat.
Sorry, grobace, I don't know when Puddy slipped the surly bonds. I only heard from someone else (can't remember who it was).
For those who never met him, Puddy was the spitting image of Gert Frobe (the German in 'Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machine'), with a rich British voice and a wonderful fighter pilot sense of humour. One of his favourite dining-in night tricks was to pinch a soda syphon and stuff it inside his voluminous mess kit trousers, wedged under his ample gut, with the end just hidden behind his fly. He would then engage some unsuspecting wheel in conversation, before saying "Excuse me old boy, must have a leak" before squeezing the trigger through his trouser pocket. The resulting sudden jet from his nether regions would usually electrify his victim; being the gent he was though, he never did his party trick in front of a WRAF.
For those who never met him, Puddy was the spitting image of Gert Frobe (the German in 'Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machine'), with a rich British voice and a wonderful fighter pilot sense of humour. One of his favourite dining-in night tricks was to pinch a soda syphon and stuff it inside his voluminous mess kit trousers, wedged under his ample gut, with the end just hidden behind his fly. He would then engage some unsuspecting wheel in conversation, before saying "Excuse me old boy, must have a leak" before squeezing the trigger through his trouser pocket. The resulting sudden jet from his nether regions would usually electrify his victim; being the gent he was though, he never did his party trick in front of a WRAF.
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Very belatedly stumbled on this thread and have thoroughly enjoyed it. As a 16ish year old CCF cadet, I got a ride in the T7 at Farnborough with the late Neil Williams. Must have been about 1962. Jet jaunts were fairly rare for sprogs then, and after all the "stunting and twirling", it was an influence on my later embarking on a stunning military career.
Reading the Korean contribution reminded me of meeting Oelof Bergh at Mountbatten (during a wet and windy survival interlude.) By his and other accounts, he was less than a model prisoner of the North after attack/reattack on their ground pounders and picking up ricochets leading to jumping out. Most of his time was spent in solitary, as apparently each time they let him out, he bashed some more guards. Anyone else remember him? He could sure put them away.
I seem to recall the OIC ground crew was referred to as the Sqn Technical Officer. My old man was just such a one on 234 at Geilers.
Reading the Korean contribution reminded me of meeting Oelof Bergh at Mountbatten (during a wet and windy survival interlude.) By his and other accounts, he was less than a model prisoner of the North after attack/reattack on their ground pounders and picking up ricochets leading to jumping out. Most of his time was spent in solitary, as apparently each time they let him out, he bashed some more guards. Anyone else remember him? He could sure put them away.
I seem to recall the OIC ground crew was referred to as the Sqn Technical Officer. My old man was just such a one on 234 at Geilers.
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Meteor Eject
Managed to get the book via the local library, a very enjoyable read, indicative of a very different attitude to life than we're obliged to live in nowadays. Well done to Nick Carter.
Are there any more books of such good standing (ie appreciated by others who were there) of post WWII flying? Quite enjoyed Bob Prests 'Phantom', and Begs Bendell (forgive me can't remember his name but enjoyed the book something like 'But not in Anger')
Can't wait to see if a book is published based on all the posts in the 'Did You Fly The Vulcan?' thread.
Managed to get the book via the local library, a very enjoyable read, indicative of a very different attitude to life than we're obliged to live in nowadays. Well done to Nick Carter.
Are there any more books of such good standing (ie appreciated by others who were there) of post WWII flying? Quite enjoyed Bob Prests 'Phantom', and Begs Bendell (forgive me can't remember his name but enjoyed the book something like 'But not in Anger')
Can't wait to see if a book is published based on all the posts in the 'Did You Fly The Vulcan?' thread.
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TD&H: You could try Jet Jockeys by Peter Cahill.
It is mostly about the 1950's and what it was like to fly the aircraft of that era by the pilots who flew them.
It covers most marks of Meteor, Vampire, Venom, Sabre, Swift, Hunter, and Javelin.
It is mostly about the 1950's and what it was like to fly the aircraft of that era by the pilots who flew them.
It covers most marks of Meteor, Vampire, Venom, Sabre, Swift, Hunter, and Javelin.