Back in the days when you flew a 'real' plane
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So, I ask the question: What was your favorite 'real' plane and why?
DHC-1, DH-82, J5 Auster, DHC-2 (Floats), Champion Mooney 20C, PA18A, PA22, PA28, PA34
Cessna 150/170/172/180/182/185/206
DH-114, Beechcraft B-18
Grumman G21 Goose amphibian
DC-3, DHC-6
F27100/200/500, Fairchild 227, HS-748
L-188 Electra, Airbus A-300(B4)
Boeing 727-100, Boeing 737-100/200,
Boeing 747-100/200/300
They were all real airplanes and I enjoyed flying every one of them, but if I had to choose one which smelled of avgas, leather, oil and sweat and was a real aircraft to fly, well it would be a toss up between the DH-114 and the DC-3. Both as basic as you could get, lots of knobs and levers, with little or no attention to ergonomics, but both fun and challenging to fly well.
The Heron would probably end up my first choice because it was flown Single Pilot IFR and had no auto-pilot.
How could you not luv that
Flew the Hawker Sea Fury at Nowra over 50 years ago. Was 21 at the time. The Fury was one type that sorted the men from the boys. Did a shocking first landing which meant I stayed one of the boys. A real aeroplane for sure; but not a favourite of mine.
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Centaurus
"Hawker Sea Fury - A real aeroplane for sure" "but not a favourite of mine."
Can you tell us why it was able to sort men from lads, and why not a favourite?
Not many able to give apilot review of such an aircraft to we who will never be fortunate enough or probably good enough to fly one.
John
"Hawker Sea Fury - A real aeroplane for sure" "but not a favourite of mine."
Can you tell us why it was able to sort men from lads, and why not a favourite?
Not many able to give apilot review of such an aircraft to we who will never be fortunate enough or probably good enough to fly one.
John
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Centaurus, in 1961 the only Sea Fury's flying at Nowra were the navy's aerobatic team, so you could not have stayed just "One of the boys" for long. A touch of modesty I do believe.
Nothing quite like the sound of that 18 Cylinder Centaurus engine passing overhead at low level.
Nothing quite like the sound of that 18 Cylinder Centaurus engine passing overhead at low level.
Centaurus, in 1961 the only Sea Fury's flying at Nowra were the navy's aerobatic team, so you could not have stayed just "One of the boys" for long
Silly Old Git
Was able to get up close to Guido's Fury in the 80's
Now that were a scary bugger just standing near it with the engine running ....(clunkety-pop-rattle -wheeze -clunk)
Now that were a scary bugger just standing near it with the engine running ....(clunkety-pop-rattle -wheeze -clunk)
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Back in the day.........
Short tail AT-301.
0700 anywhere. Temp 4deg C, Wind L&V, Hum 90%.
Visual check of aircraft whilst walking up and adjusting 7 layers of clothes. Check oil, walk-around ensuring nothing has fallen off overnight,check oil, check fuel level ( been known to disappear overnight, they must have been disappointed when they only got super, not Avgas!), check oil, add 20 lts. W100, open cockpit, empty ashtray (old tobacco tin), check oil, pull through complete cycle to check for hydraulic lock,check oil.
Insert Dashing Ag-Pilot, scarf adjusted, durry rolled and lit, steely glint in eye.
Master on, listen for click. Pump, pump, pump, pump, prime, repeated about 4 times. Think about oil, check prop clear, ( cockies motorbikes make ding in prop), Pitch coarse, wind engine. Once firing on at least three, attempt to stabilise as others come on line. Most of the outside world has now disappeared in blue smoke. Maintain low rpm until engine runs smooth below 100 psi oil pressure. Pumping and priming may be still required. Once stabilised below 100 psi, pitch to fine, RPM 900 and put on kettle. Back to machine pull throttle back to maintain below 900, then make coffee. Roll next smoke, adjust throttle, brief mixer, adjust throttle, confer with client, think about oil, check spray gear, Oil temp 30 deg C, reinsert pilot. Oil temp 40deg C, engine run up in normal fashion. Dont check carby heat, its glued shut to exclude the large rocks and mallee roots that can get through the gaps in the system. Time 0730, load hopper. Off a good paddock, 300 gals and full fuel no worries. Flap 10 deg, primer locked jaunty wave to clients daughter and away you go. If paddock long, work power, ( 28",2000 rpm for takeoff OK, but first load of day always full power, 36", 2250 rpm ( ya wanna know its there when ya need it,)
2500 hours behind an R1340, and I still smile at the memories of that machine, not much slower than a Turbine, but with more presence and a real aeroplane feel and noise. You could set the mixture on a ferry home in the dark by the flame from the exhaust. Tiger Moth begat Pawnee, Pawnee begat AT301, AT301 begat AT402/502, all good machines, but you cant beat a radial for the romance.
PS; I never worked the Tiger Moth thank Christ.
OzAggie.
0700 anywhere. Temp 4deg C, Wind L&V, Hum 90%.
Visual check of aircraft whilst walking up and adjusting 7 layers of clothes. Check oil, walk-around ensuring nothing has fallen off overnight,check oil, check fuel level ( been known to disappear overnight, they must have been disappointed when they only got super, not Avgas!), check oil, add 20 lts. W100, open cockpit, empty ashtray (old tobacco tin), check oil, pull through complete cycle to check for hydraulic lock,check oil.
Insert Dashing Ag-Pilot, scarf adjusted, durry rolled and lit, steely glint in eye.
Master on, listen for click. Pump, pump, pump, pump, prime, repeated about 4 times. Think about oil, check prop clear, ( cockies motorbikes make ding in prop), Pitch coarse, wind engine. Once firing on at least three, attempt to stabilise as others come on line. Most of the outside world has now disappeared in blue smoke. Maintain low rpm until engine runs smooth below 100 psi oil pressure. Pumping and priming may be still required. Once stabilised below 100 psi, pitch to fine, RPM 900 and put on kettle. Back to machine pull throttle back to maintain below 900, then make coffee. Roll next smoke, adjust throttle, brief mixer, adjust throttle, confer with client, think about oil, check spray gear, Oil temp 30 deg C, reinsert pilot. Oil temp 40deg C, engine run up in normal fashion. Dont check carby heat, its glued shut to exclude the large rocks and mallee roots that can get through the gaps in the system. Time 0730, load hopper. Off a good paddock, 300 gals and full fuel no worries. Flap 10 deg, primer locked jaunty wave to clients daughter and away you go. If paddock long, work power, ( 28",2000 rpm for takeoff OK, but first load of day always full power, 36", 2250 rpm ( ya wanna know its there when ya need it,)
2500 hours behind an R1340, and I still smile at the memories of that machine, not much slower than a Turbine, but with more presence and a real aeroplane feel and noise. You could set the mixture on a ferry home in the dark by the flame from the exhaust. Tiger Moth begat Pawnee, Pawnee begat AT301, AT301 begat AT402/502, all good machines, but you cant beat a radial for the romance.
PS; I never worked the Tiger Moth thank Christ.
OzAggie.
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Yikes! that's 58 years ago.
Last edited by Exaviator; 26th Jul 2011 at 00:41.
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Wot begat wot
Hey Tinny, your right. And if I recall right, the Snow had absolutely RS brakes. The second photo is an AT 301A. Tall tail and 350 usg hopper. Didnt turn quite as well as the 301 short tail. Flew a turbine Thrush for a bit, slug off the ground but super stable over the crop and in tne turn. All designed by the late Leland Snow. RIP
I must say I have thoroughly enjoyed reading this thread because everyone here is an enthusiast. I know there are many more stories about those `real` aeroplanes. I hope the Moderators let the following story through their censorship even though it is rather long. After all it is a change from the bitching about the aviation world in general that seems to pervade some of the Pprune forums.
Some of my friends on Pprune will have read this story in other publications but that was a long time ago and there has been many new Pprune readers since then. I hope they enjoy the story which is true. Here goes, then:
AN ADVENTUROUS FLIGHT
By Centaurus
Midnight in the Boeing 737 flight simulator is called the graveyard shift, and there I was teaching two cadet pilots from China the finer points of flying jet transports. They had learnt to fly in New Zealand and just out of flying school with only 230 hours in their log books, were destined to fly the Boeing 737 as second in command.
Both were landing the simulator quite safely, so I put up my feet and watched them fly without further help. The cockpit was warm, I was tired and soon my eyelids grew heavy. As the years pass, some get nostalgic for their youth and I was no exception, finding myself daydreaming of the good old days as a pilot in the RAAF and the airlines. While dozing, my thoughts drifted back in years to the time I first flew a Sea Fury. My eyes had hardly closed when I was jolted awake by the sound of a massive crunch from the simulator, accompanied by a string of Chinese oaths. These signified that one of my students had failed to round-out at Guang Zhou International. The poor old simulator had then done a major dummy spit, and accompanied by dreadful groaning and crashing noises, the landing gear had collapsed. It was time for a coffee break and a crash reset. By some strange quirk of the sub-conscious, the impact of the simulator crashing coincided with the Sea Fury landing in my dream. Funny thing was, that I once nearly wrote off a real Sea Fury and only its sturdy Doughty undercarriage saved the day. Let me tell you the story.
After graduation in December 1952 I was posted to the RAAF fighter base at Williamtown to fly Mustangs and Vampires. While I enjoyed the hack, flick and zoom thing, I was a lousy shot and sadly lacked the skills needed to be a true fighter pilot. I could bracket a tank with my rockets, but never hit it. Despite spraying bullets all over the firing range, I rarely hit the target. I blamed this on poor harmonization of the Mustang machine guns, which I suspected were set to 250 miles instead of 250 yards. My commanding officer, a thoughtful ex-Spitfire pilot, wisely decided that Australia would be safer with me as a bomber pilot, where I was unlikely to hurt anyone with stray bullets. And so I was posted to fly Lincolns at Townsville. To my delight there was a Mustang on strength, but its guns had been removed and I was unable to practice my new found firing skills. Swamp crocodiles could rest in peace and the bombing range on Rattlesnake Island would remain a safe haven for wildlife. The Mustang was modified for target towing, and besides flying Lincolns, I spent many hours towing a drogue at which air gunners fired cannon shells. With relief, tempered by moments of fear, I realised I wasn’t the only lousy shot in the Air Force.
Our task was to chase foreign submarines. The tame ones were based at Sydney and we would fly to the RAN base at Nowra to practice the art of submarine hunting. Each year we were allowed to drop one Mk 34 homing torpedo aimed at an acoustic buoy that made submarine noises. Torpedoes were expensive, the defence budget tight, so we saw the annual torpedo drop, (all of five minutes), as a joyous occasion.
The torpedo, launched from the Lincoln at 200 feet, would hit the sea, then go feral, circling the unfortunate buoy before arrowing in with the ferocity of a White Pointer. On hitting the buoy, it would broach the surface, then continue to circle until lining up for another go. After five minutes, it would run out of puff and float lazily on the surface until retrieved by a waiting rescue launch. Overhead, the Lincoln would steep turn to allow the crew to see the results of a year of waiting for this precious moment in time. Intelligence reports later revealed that most Russian submarines could out-run our torpedoes, hence the exercise was somewhat academic.
On 12th October 1953, I flew to Nowra in Lincoln A73-57, to undergo training on No 7 Joint Anti-Submarine Course. Our crew (we were sergeants) stayed at the Petty Officer’s Mess where we received free food and lodgings for the month. The RAAF officers were less fortunate. They stayed at the Officers Mess – in Navy parlance the Ward Room, and were charged for extra eggs at breakfast. They watched in envy as Navy officers knocked down pink gin at lunch-time, while our chaps were on the wagon till off duty. Lincoln crews spent a few days in the class room learning about Sugar Sugars and Huff Duffs (submerged submarines and high frequency direction finding). War games were played in a large hall with the floor representing the sea. Model ships and submarines were moved around under orders from Wing Commanders and Captains situated in adjacent small cubicles, while naval ratings would act as messenger boys between opposing fleets. An exploding thunder-flash would signify the end of some unfortunate ship, and umpires would toss firecrackers into the cubicles of those deemed responsible for yet another maritime disaster.
A truce was called for 20th October, and I wandered down to the hangars to look at aeroplanes. On the tarmac I saw lines of Sea Furies and Fireflies. In the hangars were Venoms and Wirraways plus a Dakota, Auster, and some helicopters. A few months earlier in Darwin, I had neatly stood a Wirraway on its nose when the brakes jammed. Notwithstanding, I decided to ask permission to borrow a Navy Wirraway for some general flying practice. One could do that sort of thing in those days- in fact it was encouraged, in order to give young Service pilots as wide experience as possible. Nowadays, - no way. Modern aircraft cost big money and the spectre of media headlines has made squadron commanders more cautious than those of the early post war days.
The flight commander was a delightful chap called Lieutenant Colin Wheatley. I asked him if I could fly a Wirraway, mentioning that I had flown Mustangs and was now second dickey on Long Nose Lincolns. He was very enthusiastic and said “ Oh! – So you have flown ‘Stangs, eh? Well forget the Wirraway, how about a Fury instead?” I could hardly believe my ears and quickly accepted his offer, little realising what I had let myself in for. From a bookshelf he handed me Pilot’s Notes Sea Fury Mk 11, and said “Read this Sergeant, and after lunch we’ll fix you up” .
I spent the next two hours avidly swotting. Page 40, paragraph 63 gave advice on spinning. “Intentional spinning is prohibited. Should an accidental spin occur, normal recovery action should be applied immediately and a speed of 175 knots should be attained before recovery from the resulting dive is attempted.” Must remember that one I thought, in case I get a bit careless with aerobatics - for which paragraph 65 tabled the various speeds. Loop were flown at 320-360 knots, upward roll 350-400 knots. Heady speeds indeed after the 165 knots cruise speed of the stately Lincoln, although you could get 300 knots in a dive while pretending not to notice the flexing of the wings. Like most British engines, power was indicated as pounds of boost per square inch - rather than in manifold pressure in inches of mercury as with American aircraft. Zero boost equating to 30 inches of mercury.
Then, having enjoyed the condemned’s last meal in the Petty Officers Mess, I straightened my tie and marched down the hill to the tarmac at 1300. My allotted aircraft, Sea Fury RAN 920 with its wings smartly folded in salute, was among several others on line. A Sub-Lieutenant of my own age briefed me on emergencies, general flying, take-off technique and go around procedure. Time dims the finer details of that briefing, but I still remember a few vital points.
“First thing to remember on take-off is that it swings right” said the Sub-Lieutenant. “For that reason avoid opening the throttle too fast and don’t push the tail up too early. Use +9 ½ boost and the rich mixture cuts in at +4. That’s when the swing will occur. Take-off with the canopy in the open position in case of engine failure after take-off. And very important - when you wind the canopy shut don’t let your hand slip off the handle, because if it does, the airflow will slam the canopy forward and hit the back of your head. We lost a pilot last year because of that. Finally, no spins please, and 90 knots over the fence”.
Sounded like good advice, except that I felt that 90 knots over the fence was a bit slow for such a big fighter - especially after the 105 knots I had used in Mustangs. Still, I assumed that the Sub-Lieutenant knew what he was talking about and asked no more questions. Throwing my parachute nonchalantly over one shoulder I accompanied my mentor to the flight line. Approaching the aircraft, I got that nervous flutter in the pit of my stomach and wondered did I really want to fly this brute with its 2500HP Centaurus engine and massive five bladed propeller? Close up, I was surprised how high from the ground was the cockpit and how small in comparison with the size of the aircraft. I needed more time to familiarize myself with the cockpit layout and too late began to think that perhaps I should have stuck with the Wirraway.
The walk-around complete, I climbed into the cockpit assisted by the Sub-Lieutenant and a Naval rating known as a “Pilot’s Mate”. After a further discussion on start up procedures, I was ready to go.
First carry out a left to right check (in Boeings this is called the scan). Confirm ignition switch off, main fuel cock on, throttle ½ inch open, supercharger control in low gear, and park brake on. Now prime the cylinders, ignition on, select the cartridge starter, and get the all clear to start. That done, press the combined starter and booster coil push-button.
There was a muffled explosion, a cloud of black smoke and a few revolutions of the propeller. Then the engine simply stopped. The Sub-Lieutenant, who was standing on the port wing leaning into the cockpit, muttered something about a jammed starter solenoid. He called this news down to the Pilot’s Mate, who had been standing at ease by the starboard wing with his hands behind his back. The Mate leapt Tarzan-like on to the starboard wheel and from there on to the wing. Astonished, I saw him produce a rubber mallet and give a resounding whack to the engine cowl in front of the windscreen. This presumably freed the offending solenoid and after springing back to the ground, the Mate gave me the thumbs up for another start.
After a second cartridge was placed in the firing chamber, I checked all clear and pressed the starter button. There was another big bang with accompanying smoke and the propeller made more desultory turns and stopped. Soot from the cartridge exhaust drifted over the white uniform of the Sub-Lieutenant who was still standing on the wing, and scowling at this latest turn of events. Turned out that I had forgotten to turn on the ignition switch. Guilty as charged, Your Honour!
A third cartridge was selected, ignition switch on, throttle set, and I pressed the starter button. A big bang as the cartridge fired and magnifique! -the prop spun and the engine caught on all 18 cylinders. Adjusting the throttle to idle, I turned to the Sub-Lieutenant only to see him hopping around on the ground having been blown off the wing by the slipstream. I nearly wept with laughter! Selecting the wing-locking lever, I watched fascinated as the wings slowly lowered into place. On my signal, the Pilot’s Mate withdrew the wheel chocks and gave me a salute from the safety of the starboard wing tip. The Sub-Lieutenant had already exited stage left, shaking his head in disbelief.
Having received taxi instructions from the tower controller, I released the tail-wheel lock and swung out of the lines. The long nose of the Sea Fury meant that I had to continuously weave to check ahead, meanwhile keeping an eye on the brake air pressure gauge. Each squeeze of the brake lever depleted the air reservoir and at idle rpm the air compressor was inefficient. I discovered that exhaust smoke from the engine was being drawn into the cockpit by the slipstream, and it was necessary to wear the oxygen mask while taxying. After being cleared for take-off, I did a final check of the trims, ensured the canopy was locked open, adjusted the seat, noted the position of the airspeed indicator and muttered a small incantation to the patron saint of pilots.
As I gingerly opened the throttle, I noticed two red fire tenders on either side of the runway, their occupants dressed in asbestos suits (or whatever they wore in those days), helmets on and ready for battle. These chaps were serious about their job, and as I began the take-off roll, both tenders initially kept up till about 40 knots, and then rapidly fell behind. With full left rudder trim, it was easy to keep straight with coarse rudder, while the acceleration was similar to that experienced in a Mustang. I had just raised the tail when I momentarily lost sight of the airspeed indicator. Engrossed in keeping straight and with the shattering noise of 2500HP belting my ears, I was beyond the normal 100 knot take-off speed when I found it again. After lifting off I realised that the beast was airborne at less than half throttle. If you think that improbable, then page three of the Pilots Notes states:- “ Full throttle should always be used for take-off, even though the aircraft may become airborne before a full throttle position is reached”.
Now off the deck, I hurriedly pushed the throttle to full take-off power. As it went through the rich mixture cut-in point of +4 boost, the extra torque caused a rapid roll. I picked the wing up smartly and tried to raise the gear. This was no mean feat, as being rather short and with a locked shoulder harness, I could barely reach the undercarriage lever. The lever could only be raised after a safety catch was unlatched and this was a tricky one-fingered effort. The Fury porpoised a few times as I groped for the safety catch and gear combination with my right hand, while I transferred my left hand from the throttle to the stick. This ridiculous switching of hands at a critical moment of take-off was a feature of several British fighters, including the Spitfire. Finally I got the gear up and pulled the propeller pitch control back into what would normally be full coarse pitch on most aircraft – but which was called “Auto” in the Sea Fury. Henceforth the propeller pitch was controlled automatically by the throttle. Climbing at 165 knots and passing 1500 feet, I swapped hands to close the canopy.
What happened then, beggars belief. I was wearing a standard issue cloth helmet to which my goggles were attached by an elastic band. While winding the canopy handle forward my gloved hand slipped and the handle ran free under aerodynamic load. I ducked instinctively, remembering in a flash the warning from the Sub-Lieutenant of the lethality of an unlocked free-sliding canopy. The canopy slammed shut missing my head, but catching the top of my goggles. I was jerked up by the elastic band and by the force of the slipstream tugging against the goggles, which were whipping around outside the canopy. I lost sight of the instrument panel, seeing nothing but blue sky while by now the Fury was accelerating and getting badly out of trim. I was up the proverbial creek, not game to let go of the stick in order to use both hands to force the canopy open. It was sheer farce, but by now I had lost my sense of humour.
In between straining with my neck to break clear of the goggles, and groping for the elevator trim to relieve the stick pressures, my head was twanged back hard several times against the top of the canopy. Meanwhile the Sea Fury was rocketing skyward at 3000 feet per minute. Fortunately, after one more savage neck pull, the elastic band snapped and my goggles disappeared below, leaving me with a sore neck and high pulse rate. I was miffed some weeks later, when explaining to a disbelieving RAAF stores officer that I had indeed lost my goggles from a Sea Fury. He was unconvinced that my story was true, adding that if I was so stupid as to beg for rides in Navy aircraft, I deserved to pay for the lost goggles.
Having regained my lost dignity, I now enjoyed myself doing steep turns, stalls in the landing configuration (I was a bit worried about spinning if I stuffed the recovery), and a few aerobatics. Apart from the high noise level inside the cockpit, the Sea Fury proved a beautiful aircraft to fly. I was surprised at how short the wings looked from the cockpit and the feather lightness of the controls even at 400 knots. The rate of roll was impressive and in retrospect, I preferred the Sea Fury to the Mustang. I felt, however, that the Mustang would be more forgiving in belly landing. Trying combinations of power settings I found that at maximum range configuration the aircraft steadied at 195 knots with only 1400 rpm. With climb power for aerobatics the speed quickly reached 400 knots, with an acceleration in a dive near that of a Vampire. I was tempted to do a vertical climbing roll, but again the thought of an inadvertent spin made me cautious, so I satisfied myself instead with numerous barrel rolls.
Just before one slow roll, I aimed the Fury at a cloud for nose reference and was startled to see another aircraft coming at me head on. I broke violently then straightened up long enough to look over the port wing. Nothing seen in that direction. Glancing ahead through the bullet-proof windscreen, I again saw the same aircraft. Relieved and slightly foolish, I realized that it was only a squashed insect on the windscreen.
It was time to go home. I had trouble opening the canopy, but finally got it locked turning final. The long nose began to block my view of the runway as I caught a glimpse of the fire tenders beginning to move. Then came the second unforgettable moment of my flight. Passing the threshold, I closed the throttle and rounded out.
To this day I swear it looked nice to me, with my speed was right on 90 knots, a calm day and really, I couldn’t miss… But to my horror the Sea Fury ran out of elevator, bounced heavily into the air and left me with no choice but to go around. Visions of a full power torque roll made me change my mind and I was fortunate to recover with a burst of power and frantic juggling of the stick. After that, all went well, although the aircraft seemed to slow up quickly once the tail was down. Meanwhile the fire tenders on the grass verge had shot past me and must have misjudged my stopping speed, judging from the clods of earth torn up by their skidding wheels as they changed down through a thousand gears.
The penny dropped when I realized that after the first bounce I had inadvertently squeezed the brake lever on the control column, landing with the brakes partially on. No wonder the aircraft pulled up faster than anticipated by the fire tenders. So, that is the end of the story. Well, almost..
A few years later, on November 4th, 1958, I was back at Nowra, this time in Dakota A65-65. I was now a Flight Lieutenant, which is one stripe more than a Sub-Lieutenant. There was a Sea Fury on the tarmac and we weren’t leaving till later that evening. So I walked down the hill to the tarmac and said hello to the Senior Pilot.
“ Oh, so you have flown the Fury before?” said the Senior Pilot – a Navy Commander.
“Did you enjoy it, old man?”
Yes, I loved it I said (lying in my teeth). Any chance of doing a couple of circuits, I added? No problem, said the Man. This time I was offered Sea Fury RAN 893, issued with a bone-dome and briefed by the duty Sub-Lieutenant to use “ Around 105 knots over the fence, seeing it’s your first trip in a Fury for a few years”.
105 knots suited me fine and I told him that my previous mentor had told me to go for 90 knots. This Sub-Lieutenant was shocked and said that it was fortunate that I did not bend the aircraft, because 90 knots was just above the stall and used strictly for carrier landings. Tell me about it, I said. Back then, I must have missed page 42, paragraph 6b(d) of my trusty Pilot’s Notes Sea Fury which read “The recommended speed for deck landing is 90-92 knots. It is necessary to pull the control column well back to effect a three-point touch-down.” I am still looking for the first Sub-Lieutenant…
The trip in RAN 893 went off without drama and I enjoyed every minute, greasing the Fury with a tail-high wheel landing. I have flown many different types of aircraft since those days and at the time I first wrote this article was happily poling the delightful Boeing 737 around South Pacific skies. Now, long since retired to the safe job as a flight simulator instructor, I would give the world to be able to renew my acquaintance with a Sea Fury – minus the earlier frights, of course..
Some of my friends on Pprune will have read this story in other publications but that was a long time ago and there has been many new Pprune readers since then. I hope they enjoy the story which is true. Here goes, then:
AN ADVENTUROUS FLIGHT
By Centaurus
Midnight in the Boeing 737 flight simulator is called the graveyard shift, and there I was teaching two cadet pilots from China the finer points of flying jet transports. They had learnt to fly in New Zealand and just out of flying school with only 230 hours in their log books, were destined to fly the Boeing 737 as second in command.
Both were landing the simulator quite safely, so I put up my feet and watched them fly without further help. The cockpit was warm, I was tired and soon my eyelids grew heavy. As the years pass, some get nostalgic for their youth and I was no exception, finding myself daydreaming of the good old days as a pilot in the RAAF and the airlines. While dozing, my thoughts drifted back in years to the time I first flew a Sea Fury. My eyes had hardly closed when I was jolted awake by the sound of a massive crunch from the simulator, accompanied by a string of Chinese oaths. These signified that one of my students had failed to round-out at Guang Zhou International. The poor old simulator had then done a major dummy spit, and accompanied by dreadful groaning and crashing noises, the landing gear had collapsed. It was time for a coffee break and a crash reset. By some strange quirk of the sub-conscious, the impact of the simulator crashing coincided with the Sea Fury landing in my dream. Funny thing was, that I once nearly wrote off a real Sea Fury and only its sturdy Doughty undercarriage saved the day. Let me tell you the story.
After graduation in December 1952 I was posted to the RAAF fighter base at Williamtown to fly Mustangs and Vampires. While I enjoyed the hack, flick and zoom thing, I was a lousy shot and sadly lacked the skills needed to be a true fighter pilot. I could bracket a tank with my rockets, but never hit it. Despite spraying bullets all over the firing range, I rarely hit the target. I blamed this on poor harmonization of the Mustang machine guns, which I suspected were set to 250 miles instead of 250 yards. My commanding officer, a thoughtful ex-Spitfire pilot, wisely decided that Australia would be safer with me as a bomber pilot, where I was unlikely to hurt anyone with stray bullets. And so I was posted to fly Lincolns at Townsville. To my delight there was a Mustang on strength, but its guns had been removed and I was unable to practice my new found firing skills. Swamp crocodiles could rest in peace and the bombing range on Rattlesnake Island would remain a safe haven for wildlife. The Mustang was modified for target towing, and besides flying Lincolns, I spent many hours towing a drogue at which air gunners fired cannon shells. With relief, tempered by moments of fear, I realised I wasn’t the only lousy shot in the Air Force.
Our task was to chase foreign submarines. The tame ones were based at Sydney and we would fly to the RAN base at Nowra to practice the art of submarine hunting. Each year we were allowed to drop one Mk 34 homing torpedo aimed at an acoustic buoy that made submarine noises. Torpedoes were expensive, the defence budget tight, so we saw the annual torpedo drop, (all of five minutes), as a joyous occasion.
The torpedo, launched from the Lincoln at 200 feet, would hit the sea, then go feral, circling the unfortunate buoy before arrowing in with the ferocity of a White Pointer. On hitting the buoy, it would broach the surface, then continue to circle until lining up for another go. After five minutes, it would run out of puff and float lazily on the surface until retrieved by a waiting rescue launch. Overhead, the Lincoln would steep turn to allow the crew to see the results of a year of waiting for this precious moment in time. Intelligence reports later revealed that most Russian submarines could out-run our torpedoes, hence the exercise was somewhat academic.
On 12th October 1953, I flew to Nowra in Lincoln A73-57, to undergo training on No 7 Joint Anti-Submarine Course. Our crew (we were sergeants) stayed at the Petty Officer’s Mess where we received free food and lodgings for the month. The RAAF officers were less fortunate. They stayed at the Officers Mess – in Navy parlance the Ward Room, and were charged for extra eggs at breakfast. They watched in envy as Navy officers knocked down pink gin at lunch-time, while our chaps were on the wagon till off duty. Lincoln crews spent a few days in the class room learning about Sugar Sugars and Huff Duffs (submerged submarines and high frequency direction finding). War games were played in a large hall with the floor representing the sea. Model ships and submarines were moved around under orders from Wing Commanders and Captains situated in adjacent small cubicles, while naval ratings would act as messenger boys between opposing fleets. An exploding thunder-flash would signify the end of some unfortunate ship, and umpires would toss firecrackers into the cubicles of those deemed responsible for yet another maritime disaster.
A truce was called for 20th October, and I wandered down to the hangars to look at aeroplanes. On the tarmac I saw lines of Sea Furies and Fireflies. In the hangars were Venoms and Wirraways plus a Dakota, Auster, and some helicopters. A few months earlier in Darwin, I had neatly stood a Wirraway on its nose when the brakes jammed. Notwithstanding, I decided to ask permission to borrow a Navy Wirraway for some general flying practice. One could do that sort of thing in those days- in fact it was encouraged, in order to give young Service pilots as wide experience as possible. Nowadays, - no way. Modern aircraft cost big money and the spectre of media headlines has made squadron commanders more cautious than those of the early post war days.
The flight commander was a delightful chap called Lieutenant Colin Wheatley. I asked him if I could fly a Wirraway, mentioning that I had flown Mustangs and was now second dickey on Long Nose Lincolns. He was very enthusiastic and said “ Oh! – So you have flown ‘Stangs, eh? Well forget the Wirraway, how about a Fury instead?” I could hardly believe my ears and quickly accepted his offer, little realising what I had let myself in for. From a bookshelf he handed me Pilot’s Notes Sea Fury Mk 11, and said “Read this Sergeant, and after lunch we’ll fix you up” .
I spent the next two hours avidly swotting. Page 40, paragraph 63 gave advice on spinning. “Intentional spinning is prohibited. Should an accidental spin occur, normal recovery action should be applied immediately and a speed of 175 knots should be attained before recovery from the resulting dive is attempted.” Must remember that one I thought, in case I get a bit careless with aerobatics - for which paragraph 65 tabled the various speeds. Loop were flown at 320-360 knots, upward roll 350-400 knots. Heady speeds indeed after the 165 knots cruise speed of the stately Lincoln, although you could get 300 knots in a dive while pretending not to notice the flexing of the wings. Like most British engines, power was indicated as pounds of boost per square inch - rather than in manifold pressure in inches of mercury as with American aircraft. Zero boost equating to 30 inches of mercury.
Then, having enjoyed the condemned’s last meal in the Petty Officers Mess, I straightened my tie and marched down the hill to the tarmac at 1300. My allotted aircraft, Sea Fury RAN 920 with its wings smartly folded in salute, was among several others on line. A Sub-Lieutenant of my own age briefed me on emergencies, general flying, take-off technique and go around procedure. Time dims the finer details of that briefing, but I still remember a few vital points.
“First thing to remember on take-off is that it swings right” said the Sub-Lieutenant. “For that reason avoid opening the throttle too fast and don’t push the tail up too early. Use +9 ½ boost and the rich mixture cuts in at +4. That’s when the swing will occur. Take-off with the canopy in the open position in case of engine failure after take-off. And very important - when you wind the canopy shut don’t let your hand slip off the handle, because if it does, the airflow will slam the canopy forward and hit the back of your head. We lost a pilot last year because of that. Finally, no spins please, and 90 knots over the fence”.
Sounded like good advice, except that I felt that 90 knots over the fence was a bit slow for such a big fighter - especially after the 105 knots I had used in Mustangs. Still, I assumed that the Sub-Lieutenant knew what he was talking about and asked no more questions. Throwing my parachute nonchalantly over one shoulder I accompanied my mentor to the flight line. Approaching the aircraft, I got that nervous flutter in the pit of my stomach and wondered did I really want to fly this brute with its 2500HP Centaurus engine and massive five bladed propeller? Close up, I was surprised how high from the ground was the cockpit and how small in comparison with the size of the aircraft. I needed more time to familiarize myself with the cockpit layout and too late began to think that perhaps I should have stuck with the Wirraway.
The walk-around complete, I climbed into the cockpit assisted by the Sub-Lieutenant and a Naval rating known as a “Pilot’s Mate”. After a further discussion on start up procedures, I was ready to go.
First carry out a left to right check (in Boeings this is called the scan). Confirm ignition switch off, main fuel cock on, throttle ½ inch open, supercharger control in low gear, and park brake on. Now prime the cylinders, ignition on, select the cartridge starter, and get the all clear to start. That done, press the combined starter and booster coil push-button.
There was a muffled explosion, a cloud of black smoke and a few revolutions of the propeller. Then the engine simply stopped. The Sub-Lieutenant, who was standing on the port wing leaning into the cockpit, muttered something about a jammed starter solenoid. He called this news down to the Pilot’s Mate, who had been standing at ease by the starboard wing with his hands behind his back. The Mate leapt Tarzan-like on to the starboard wheel and from there on to the wing. Astonished, I saw him produce a rubber mallet and give a resounding whack to the engine cowl in front of the windscreen. This presumably freed the offending solenoid and after springing back to the ground, the Mate gave me the thumbs up for another start.
After a second cartridge was placed in the firing chamber, I checked all clear and pressed the starter button. There was another big bang with accompanying smoke and the propeller made more desultory turns and stopped. Soot from the cartridge exhaust drifted over the white uniform of the Sub-Lieutenant who was still standing on the wing, and scowling at this latest turn of events. Turned out that I had forgotten to turn on the ignition switch. Guilty as charged, Your Honour!
A third cartridge was selected, ignition switch on, throttle set, and I pressed the starter button. A big bang as the cartridge fired and magnifique! -the prop spun and the engine caught on all 18 cylinders. Adjusting the throttle to idle, I turned to the Sub-Lieutenant only to see him hopping around on the ground having been blown off the wing by the slipstream. I nearly wept with laughter! Selecting the wing-locking lever, I watched fascinated as the wings slowly lowered into place. On my signal, the Pilot’s Mate withdrew the wheel chocks and gave me a salute from the safety of the starboard wing tip. The Sub-Lieutenant had already exited stage left, shaking his head in disbelief.
Having received taxi instructions from the tower controller, I released the tail-wheel lock and swung out of the lines. The long nose of the Sea Fury meant that I had to continuously weave to check ahead, meanwhile keeping an eye on the brake air pressure gauge. Each squeeze of the brake lever depleted the air reservoir and at idle rpm the air compressor was inefficient. I discovered that exhaust smoke from the engine was being drawn into the cockpit by the slipstream, and it was necessary to wear the oxygen mask while taxying. After being cleared for take-off, I did a final check of the trims, ensured the canopy was locked open, adjusted the seat, noted the position of the airspeed indicator and muttered a small incantation to the patron saint of pilots.
As I gingerly opened the throttle, I noticed two red fire tenders on either side of the runway, their occupants dressed in asbestos suits (or whatever they wore in those days), helmets on and ready for battle. These chaps were serious about their job, and as I began the take-off roll, both tenders initially kept up till about 40 knots, and then rapidly fell behind. With full left rudder trim, it was easy to keep straight with coarse rudder, while the acceleration was similar to that experienced in a Mustang. I had just raised the tail when I momentarily lost sight of the airspeed indicator. Engrossed in keeping straight and with the shattering noise of 2500HP belting my ears, I was beyond the normal 100 knot take-off speed when I found it again. After lifting off I realised that the beast was airborne at less than half throttle. If you think that improbable, then page three of the Pilots Notes states:- “ Full throttle should always be used for take-off, even though the aircraft may become airborne before a full throttle position is reached”.
Now off the deck, I hurriedly pushed the throttle to full take-off power. As it went through the rich mixture cut-in point of +4 boost, the extra torque caused a rapid roll. I picked the wing up smartly and tried to raise the gear. This was no mean feat, as being rather short and with a locked shoulder harness, I could barely reach the undercarriage lever. The lever could only be raised after a safety catch was unlatched and this was a tricky one-fingered effort. The Fury porpoised a few times as I groped for the safety catch and gear combination with my right hand, while I transferred my left hand from the throttle to the stick. This ridiculous switching of hands at a critical moment of take-off was a feature of several British fighters, including the Spitfire. Finally I got the gear up and pulled the propeller pitch control back into what would normally be full coarse pitch on most aircraft – but which was called “Auto” in the Sea Fury. Henceforth the propeller pitch was controlled automatically by the throttle. Climbing at 165 knots and passing 1500 feet, I swapped hands to close the canopy.
What happened then, beggars belief. I was wearing a standard issue cloth helmet to which my goggles were attached by an elastic band. While winding the canopy handle forward my gloved hand slipped and the handle ran free under aerodynamic load. I ducked instinctively, remembering in a flash the warning from the Sub-Lieutenant of the lethality of an unlocked free-sliding canopy. The canopy slammed shut missing my head, but catching the top of my goggles. I was jerked up by the elastic band and by the force of the slipstream tugging against the goggles, which were whipping around outside the canopy. I lost sight of the instrument panel, seeing nothing but blue sky while by now the Fury was accelerating and getting badly out of trim. I was up the proverbial creek, not game to let go of the stick in order to use both hands to force the canopy open. It was sheer farce, but by now I had lost my sense of humour.
In between straining with my neck to break clear of the goggles, and groping for the elevator trim to relieve the stick pressures, my head was twanged back hard several times against the top of the canopy. Meanwhile the Sea Fury was rocketing skyward at 3000 feet per minute. Fortunately, after one more savage neck pull, the elastic band snapped and my goggles disappeared below, leaving me with a sore neck and high pulse rate. I was miffed some weeks later, when explaining to a disbelieving RAAF stores officer that I had indeed lost my goggles from a Sea Fury. He was unconvinced that my story was true, adding that if I was so stupid as to beg for rides in Navy aircraft, I deserved to pay for the lost goggles.
Having regained my lost dignity, I now enjoyed myself doing steep turns, stalls in the landing configuration (I was a bit worried about spinning if I stuffed the recovery), and a few aerobatics. Apart from the high noise level inside the cockpit, the Sea Fury proved a beautiful aircraft to fly. I was surprised at how short the wings looked from the cockpit and the feather lightness of the controls even at 400 knots. The rate of roll was impressive and in retrospect, I preferred the Sea Fury to the Mustang. I felt, however, that the Mustang would be more forgiving in belly landing. Trying combinations of power settings I found that at maximum range configuration the aircraft steadied at 195 knots with only 1400 rpm. With climb power for aerobatics the speed quickly reached 400 knots, with an acceleration in a dive near that of a Vampire. I was tempted to do a vertical climbing roll, but again the thought of an inadvertent spin made me cautious, so I satisfied myself instead with numerous barrel rolls.
Just before one slow roll, I aimed the Fury at a cloud for nose reference and was startled to see another aircraft coming at me head on. I broke violently then straightened up long enough to look over the port wing. Nothing seen in that direction. Glancing ahead through the bullet-proof windscreen, I again saw the same aircraft. Relieved and slightly foolish, I realized that it was only a squashed insect on the windscreen.
It was time to go home. I had trouble opening the canopy, but finally got it locked turning final. The long nose began to block my view of the runway as I caught a glimpse of the fire tenders beginning to move. Then came the second unforgettable moment of my flight. Passing the threshold, I closed the throttle and rounded out.
To this day I swear it looked nice to me, with my speed was right on 90 knots, a calm day and really, I couldn’t miss… But to my horror the Sea Fury ran out of elevator, bounced heavily into the air and left me with no choice but to go around. Visions of a full power torque roll made me change my mind and I was fortunate to recover with a burst of power and frantic juggling of the stick. After that, all went well, although the aircraft seemed to slow up quickly once the tail was down. Meanwhile the fire tenders on the grass verge had shot past me and must have misjudged my stopping speed, judging from the clods of earth torn up by their skidding wheels as they changed down through a thousand gears.
The penny dropped when I realized that after the first bounce I had inadvertently squeezed the brake lever on the control column, landing with the brakes partially on. No wonder the aircraft pulled up faster than anticipated by the fire tenders. So, that is the end of the story. Well, almost..
A few years later, on November 4th, 1958, I was back at Nowra, this time in Dakota A65-65. I was now a Flight Lieutenant, which is one stripe more than a Sub-Lieutenant. There was a Sea Fury on the tarmac and we weren’t leaving till later that evening. So I walked down the hill to the tarmac and said hello to the Senior Pilot.
“ Oh, so you have flown the Fury before?” said the Senior Pilot – a Navy Commander.
“Did you enjoy it, old man?”
Yes, I loved it I said (lying in my teeth). Any chance of doing a couple of circuits, I added? No problem, said the Man. This time I was offered Sea Fury RAN 893, issued with a bone-dome and briefed by the duty Sub-Lieutenant to use “ Around 105 knots over the fence, seeing it’s your first trip in a Fury for a few years”.
105 knots suited me fine and I told him that my previous mentor had told me to go for 90 knots. This Sub-Lieutenant was shocked and said that it was fortunate that I did not bend the aircraft, because 90 knots was just above the stall and used strictly for carrier landings. Tell me about it, I said. Back then, I must have missed page 42, paragraph 6b(d) of my trusty Pilot’s Notes Sea Fury which read “The recommended speed for deck landing is 90-92 knots. It is necessary to pull the control column well back to effect a three-point touch-down.” I am still looking for the first Sub-Lieutenant…
The trip in RAN 893 went off without drama and I enjoyed every minute, greasing the Fury with a tail-high wheel landing. I have flown many different types of aircraft since those days and at the time I first wrote this article was happily poling the delightful Boeing 737 around South Pacific skies. Now, long since retired to the safe job as a flight simulator instructor, I would give the world to be able to renew my acquaintance with a Sea Fury – minus the earlier frights, of course..
Last edited by Centaurus; 26th Jul 2011 at 09:24.
Join Date: Mar 2009
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Good yarn Centaurus. Never had the opportunity to fly a Sea Fury, but always admired it. Unfortunately by late1959 along with a squadron of Fireflys', they were all parked on the Dummy Deck. Wings folded, tires going flat and birds nesting in them. Eventually the twenty aircraft were sold to a scrap metal merchant for $100 each who set up his boilers and reduced them all to alloy ingots. Only five were retained and these were exclusively used by the aerobatic team.
Last edited by Exaviator; 27th Jul 2011 at 01:28.
Silly Old Git
sold to a scrap metal merchant for $100 each who set up his boilers and reduced them all to alloy ingots.
Talking about REAL aeroplanes. Here is the story of the four-bladed Ryan. I hope the Mods let this one through as it's bit long.
IT WOULDN’T HAPPEN THESE DAYS
Back in May 1995, AOPA (Australia) published a delightful flying story by Doctor Tony Fisher. It was called My Mustangs. During a recent culling of scrap books and other aviation paraphernalia from my shed, I re-discovered this lovely tale of derring do, and decided every pilot should read it; if only to show that once upon a time, when there were few regulations, flying was real fun. No ASIC cards, big brother surveillance cameras, anti-terrorist fences, or gun-toting grim faced Federal police at major airports.
While this story is set in 1963, many pilots now flying or “managing” fly-by-wire computer controlled Airbuses and Boeings weren’t even born when Tony Fisher first flew his Mustang. Tony’s story reminded me of another pilot I knew, who, 18 years earlier in 1945, found himself in a similar predicament. That pilot was Ensign Joe Ziskovsky of the United States Navy and his aeroplane wasn’t a Mustang but something infinitely more dangerous - the mighty Martin B-26 Marauder, known in those days as the Widow Maker. More of Joe and his Marauder, later.
In April 2009, AOPA still had Tony Fisher on its books and very soon I had his telephone number in Tasmania. To my relief, Tony had no objection to my relating his Mustang adventures and was quite happy to accept minor editing here and there. In his story, mention is made of Tocumwal aerodrome, NSW. After the war ended in 1945, Tocumwal became one of several storage units for surplus military aircraft. While most were destined to be melted down for scrap metal, others were stored in a flyable condition. I knew one RAAF pilot based at Tocumwal whose sole task was to regularly test fly each serviceable Mustang. I envied his job because believe me, there was over a hundred of them to be flown. Eventually after six months of this, he became so bored with flying a quick circuit in each Mustang that he began to hit the bottle. He was later posted to fly Lincolns at Townsville which is where I first met him.
In 1952, Tocumwal was a landing point for cross-country navigation flights by RAAF trainee pilots and their instructors from No 1 Basic Flying Training School at Uranquinty, NSW. We landed there for lunch one day and hardly had the propeller of our Wirraway stopped turning, when my instructor was off and away with a spanner and screwdriver to knock of the astro-dome of a B24 Liberator – one of a hundred or so parked in the sun. He had his heart set on a punch-bowl at home and the astro-dome was just the right size. The fact he was nearly bitten by a deadly red-back spider nesting in the fuselage of the B-24 didn’t faze him.
It was my first trip to this fabulous place with countless Mustangs, Mosquitos and Beaufighters parked on the grass with their once proud roundels fading in the hot sun. It was at Tocumwal where Tony Fisher bought his second Mustang for a song and had his first close shave. This then, is Tony’s story which he called:
MY MUSTANGS
My love affair with a P51 started in 1963 when I was approached by a non-ferrous metal dealer from Taren Point just south of Sydney. He knew I had a private pilot’s licence and asked if I was interested in buying an aeroplane he had obtained by tender to melt down for pots and pans. The name P51 didn’t mean a great deal at the time other than it was some sort of RAAF fighter.
My first aeroplane was a Fairchild Argus which I bought shortly after Sammy Dodd gave me my private pilot’s licence. I took my wife Helen to look at my pride and joy. She took one look and claimed, “you needn’t think I’m getting into that thing. That’s the old paper plane from Moree. My father went to Sydney once in that and said he could have got there quicker on a push bike”. That’s what you get for marrying a nurse from Moree.
When the non-ferrous dealer mentioned the P51’s 400mph cruise I thought of Helen’s father on a push bike. I was sold. The price having been agreed upon, $600, my next step was to find a way of getting it out of Sydney and down to Canarney, our 5000 acres at Jerilderie in NSW.
A mate of mine Chris Braun, who had flown P51’s in the RAAF, was now flying DC3’s for Butler Air Transport. I asked if he would fly the P51 down to Canarney. He was all in favour but the Department of Civil Aviation (DCA) not only wanted a new 100 hourly but where was it going and what was to happen to the Mustang when it got there? It was decided it was to be part of a museum at Jerilderie. They fell for it.
While these negotiations were in progress I located another aeroplane at Tocumwal, A68-193, an air reconnaissance Mustang for $700. Not saying a word to Helen, I bought that too.
It was now time for me to get a conversion as this was not possible at the time, due to prejudice against ex-service aircraft. I decided to obtain one while in the United States.
My partner in Southern Cross Farms in Florida, Lane Ward, found a doctor in Merced, California, who owned a P51, and a US Colonel, who were prepared to lend me an aeroplane and teach me to fly it. There was a stipulation that prior to take off, I was to write a cheque for the full value of the aeroplane, because if I bent it – I owned it. When the Colonel found out I only had 200 hours and most of that in a Fairchild Argus and a G Bonanza, he thought it prudent that I obtained some time in a heavier aircraft such as a T6 Harvard.
Next day, the Colonel and I started circuits and landings in a T6. He was not all that impressed with my early attempts. “Say boy, watch that turn, don’t do that in the 51 or your wife is going to end up owning the aeroplane”. This went on for two days and by the end of it I was sorry I’d ever heard of a P51. Finally the hour arrived when I was due to fly the Mustang. “Now watch that right rudder, keep on top of it, don’t let the torque get away or you’ll knock that guy right out of the tower”.
He asked if the pedals were adjusted correctly. I could reach them but didn’t realize they moved a foot – not like the Argus only six inches. After last minute instructions re ram air etc, the Merlin roared to life and I taxied down toward the threshold.
“04 Papa ready,” I croaked. My voice sounded strange even to me. My throat was so dry.
Finally it came. “04 Papa cleared for take off, make left turn, remain in the circuit area”.
I pushed the throttle forward 30, 40, 50, 60 inches Manifold Pressure. The noise of the Merlin was deafening. I could just make out the guy in the tower. Somehow I had a feeling he was just as frightened as I was. With the power came the torque and more and more rudder to keep the monster from racing off to the left towards the tower. I sank lower and lower into the cockpit. Lane later said I could have sworn to God there was no-one in the aeroplane as it took off.”
Airborne, I reached for the gear lever and retracted the wheels. The P51 was heading for the skies like the homesick angel it was. Two thousand feet per minute and indicating 200 knots. At 1,000ft I eased back on the throttle to 30 inches and noticing what looked like a 182 Cessna ahead, decided to follow it onto final. Suddenly the Cessna seemed to be attacking me backwards at 200 miles an hour. The landing wasn’t anything to brag about but everyone seemed pleased to see me and the aeroplane back in one piece. I reclaimed my cheque and we all went home to celebrate.
NO 2
Max Annear and his mate Sid, two ex-RAAF Mustang mechanics, were checking out A68-193 for its ferry flight to Canarney homestead, Jerilderie. When they were satisfied it was ready, Max rang me and Joe Palmer and I flew down to Tocumwal in the red Ryan Trainer that I owned..
There was the Mustang sitting on the tarmac ticking over like a sowing machine. Max must have seen the anxiety on my face.
“Tony, are you sure you can fly one of these things?”
“You’ve got to be kidding” I said - trying to sound confident. “I was taught by the pride of the Yankee Air Force”. I failed to mention my total time on type was ten minutes.
It was drizzling with rain as I lined up and there was a sense of déjà vu. There was no tower and the pedals had been adjusted. The canopy clicked shut. I gave them a wave, lined up and opened the taps.
Hurtling down the strip I was about to ease back on the stick when there was a loud BANG, then another BANG BANG. The Colonel had said nothing about anything like this. I pulled off the power and applied full brakes. We were fast running out of strip. I left the runway and was now heading for the fence. “God, this is where I make Fisher’s gate. I hope the traffic on the highway gives me the right of way, to which surely I’m entitled.”
The Mustang stopped ten feet from the posts but the Rolls Royce engine was still purring. I taxied back to Max. “What’s wrong now?” I could hear the disdain in his voice. “I tell you Max, it made a loud bang. It seems to have stopped, - perhaps it was some carby ice”. He was not impressed. “I don’t know, but please check it out”.
I was glad to be back in the Ryan on the way back to Jerilderie. I wondered about what it would be like with some mad Jap in a Zero firing six cannons at you and the RR Merlin backfiring as well.
Several days later Chris Braun rang up and said he had permission to ferry Mustang A68-104 from Sydney down to Jerilderie. Fisher’s Airforce was beginning to take shape. About this time, Helen received a letter from my son Robby’s school inviting her up for a chat. We’re a little concerned about Rob. He has this wild imagination even for a five year old. He keeps saying his father owns two fighter aeroplanes, three seventy foot boats (names Vim, Derwent Hunter and Helsal), 500,000 acres in the Northern Territory and four cars including a Rolls and a Caddy”. I could never resist a bargain.
“But it’s all true,” poor Helen tried to explain. She was dismayed when she overheard the headmistress say “God, the whole family must be off. Imagine what the father must be like”.
From then on I would cross the road anytime I had to pass the school.
It was Australia Day when we had the Carnarney Cup – a private, but everyone welcome air pageant. Max had found that one of the diaphragms in the Merlin had perished, but he had located a guy who had a new Merlin in his garage which he had bought at a disposal auction.
He wanted ten dollars to change carburetors. Max also required an additional $80 for four drums of avgas (800 litres). Things were somewhat cheaper then.
That year we had 100 guests. Those we couldn’t put in the homestead were sleeping in the woolshed and under wings etc. There were 33 aeroplanes that year. Johnny Ault and I got up at 0500, jumped in the Ryan and flew down to Tocumwal where Max was waiting with Mustang 193 all fuelled and ready to go. I jumped in, taxied to the runway, switched to ram air, completed the cockpit check and opened the tap. Roaring down the runway I had a great view of where I nearly made Fisher’s Gate. Pulling back on the stick she soared sweetly into the air. Climbing to 3000 ft I levelled off, set the revs at 2000 and the boost at about 30 inches and set the nose for Canarney.
About fifteen minutes later I could just make out the homestead on the Billabong River. The temptation was too great. I lowered the nose, increased the revs to 2500 and boost to 50 inches. The airspeed indicator began to climb well above 300 knots. At about 100 ft I leveled off and passed right over the homestead. Then pulling back on the stick I climbed away at 3000 fpm. Looking back, it was like treading on an ant’s nest. There were bodies coming out of everywhere, mostly in pyjamas and all wondering what all the noise was about.
NO 3. A SHORT LANDING IN A P51
My uncle, Bob Macintosh, supervised both Canarney and a property called Concord, 3000 acres of the Cunnineuk Estate just north of Swan Hill. It took him six hours to commute between the properties. Although 25 years my senior, we were great mates and enjoyed one another’s company.
He bred and loved race horses, but hated aeroplanes. I hated race horses, but after my mother’s death I had invested half of her estate into the two properties. When things were quiet on Canarney I would often jump into one of the Mustangs and within 20 minutes would be buzzing the Concord homestead. On one occasion there was a gentle breeze of about five knots coming from the west. There was no one home so I decided to return to Canarney via Cadell homestead which was Edgar Pickle’s place.
I flew over the homestead and could see Edgar on the verandah. There was no windsock, the airstrip was only 2000 ft long, and one way from the boundary to his front verandah, east to west. Taking a long final I set myself up in the precautionary attitude and came in low over the boundary fence.
After a few seconds and almost half the strip gone, I realized I was doing a downwind landing. I was committed. I noticed that Edgar had vacated the verandah and was now behind a tree. “God,” I prayed. “here’s where I knock Pickle’s place right into the Wakool River”. Pulling back on the stick and left rudder I attempted to ground loop it to the left, but the brute headed straight for his house. I sheer desperation I applied full right rudder. Round she went in a great cloud of dust coming to rest not far from the fence and the entrance from the main road. A passing motorist seeing the dust and commotion drove straight in and up to the aeroplane, just as I was winding back the canopy.
“Are you all right, mate?”
“Course I’m alright,” I claimed - not wishing to emphasise my predicament.
“I though you’d crashed”.
“No way, that was a normal precautionary short landing”.
“oh, yeah” he sounded a bit skeptical. What sort of aeroplane is that?”
“A four bladed Ryan,” I lied. After all he could have been Arthur Doubleday’s (Director of Civil Aviation) brother.
“How fast will it go?”
“400 knots”.
“What’s it worth?”
“800 dollars”.
“I’m learning to fly next year. I was going to buy a Cessna, but now I’ve seen one up close I think I’ll buy a Ryan”.
Pickles was still behind the tree and refused to enter into the conversation until after the prospective Ryan buyer had left.
“Fisher, if you insist in arriving in this manner, I must respectfully request that you change your mode of transport”.
We inspected the aircraft taking particular notice of its undercarriage. Edgar gave it a clean bill of health so we retired for a well earned cup of tea.
The P51’s gave us a lot of enjoyment. They were at Canarney for about six years. One was sold to a fellow by the name of Don Busch and the other to a furniture salesman called Bob Eastgate. Busch unfortunately killed himself due I believe a C of G problem in a steep climbing turn. The other is occasionally flown in Victoria, but not, I’m told by its owner.
I have the greatest admiration for this aeroplane which is far more forgiving than many believe. However, my greatest admiration goes to the pilots who flew them in the medium for which they were designed – combat.
While at Jerilderie, the aircraft were kept in top mechanical condition by trained RAAF servicemen from Tocumwal. During these six years, we had no airframe or engine failure whatsoever, which speaks volumes for the aircraft reliability. They were housed in a specially constructed hangar, not a barn as has been claimed by the uninformed.
They were flown by many pilots including Chris Braun, Joe Palmer, Bill Pike, John Lindner, Charlie Smith, Johnny Ault, Les Barnes and Edgar Pickles. We were all cavalier in many attitudes to life, but never to our aeroplanes.
Although that is the end of Tony Fisher’s story, I will add a postscript. Remember that Tony had only a private pilot’s licence and barely 200 hours when he first flew the Mustang. All he had flown previously was a Tiger Moth, Ryan Trainer and the Fairchild Argus. Certainly he had never had an instrument rating. Most RAAF fighter pilots of that era also had around 200 hours before flying Mustangs – but most of those hours were on Wirraways and their training included instrument flying. It places Tony’s experience of flying the Mustang in perspective.
The various other pilots that were involved with Tony Fisher’s Mustangs were either serving or former RAAF or airline pilots. One who was not mentioned was Bruce Clarke – a C130 Hercules pilot. I flew with Bruce on HS 748’s of the RAAF VIP squadron at Canberra. He was able to cadge a flight in one of Tony’s Mustangs after helping to arrange for mechanics to transport glycol coolant from the RAAF base at Richmond NSW for the Merlin engines.
At the time the Mustang he flew had a canopy problem so Bruce flew it without the canopy. It was very noisy, he said – and showed me a tiny photo of him taking off at Jerilderie, sans canopy. Several of the characters in the story have long since passed on – after all it was 46 years ago. Tony Fisher added more to his story when I talked to him last week. Around 1965, a couple of RAAF pilots heard about his Mustang and after driving to Jerilderie asked Tony for permission to fly it. He led them to where one Mustang was under cover in a sheep shed. The Mustang was covered in dust and bird droppings and both pilots thought better of the idea. Tony wheeled the aircraft out of the shed, started the engine and after take off did a few aerobatics. The pilots were amazed and changed their minds and each flew the Mustang for a circuit. As I said earlier, those sort of things happened in those days – but today – no way.
In 1970, Mustang 193 that Tony picked up from Tocumwal, had a sad ending when it crashed at Bendigo Victoria, killing the pilot, Don Busch. The second of Tony ‘s Mustangs - former A68-104, was still flying in 2008 at Point Cook in Victoria. Later that year it was damaged in a belly-landing after one wheel would not extend. It is hoped to take to the air again in 2009.
The Martin Marauder was a medium bomber used by the United States Air Force in World War 2. One pilot who flew the Marauder, Lt. Col Douglas Conley, in a book published in 1975 entitled “Flying Combat Aircraft” by R. Higham and A. Siddall, had this to say:
: “ the aircraft had a performance average of one crash a day from unknown causes and with all hands killed is reason enough to make anyone jumpy. Conley admitted to considerable apprehension on each take off. “The stubby wings were responsible for the Marauder’s nickname in the USAF of The Flying Prostitute – she had no (or very little) visible means of support. The serious control problems upon engine failure earned her the name the Martin Murderer and the reputation of a Marauder a day in Tampa bay was assigned to her about the time I began flying her in the fall of 1942”.
In 1977 I flew an F28 of Air Nauru from Nauru Island to Majuro airport in the Marshall Islands of Micronesia. Among passengers waiting there was Captain Joe Ziskovsky, a former wartime Catalina pilot who after having worked for the Boeing Aircraft Company in Seattle, was joining Air Nauru to fly the Boeing 737. After retiring from Air Nauru a few years later, he moved to South Africa to be with his wife who was a school teacher. There he flew various light aircraft on safari charters. One of his letters to me explained how he became a pilot in the United States Navy in 1943. During the early part of the Pacific war against the Japanese he was an Ordnance man in the US Navy whose job was to service bomb sights and guns of US Marine aircraft in the South Pacific. During the bitter fighting between American and Japanese forces in the Solomon Islands in 1942, Joe served at Guadacanal, surviving daily shelling by Japanese ships aiming at Henderson Field, recently captured from the Japanese army.
He re-mustered as a pilot and flew Catalina flying boats until the surrender of Japan in 1945.
This is an edited extract of Joe’s adventure, flying the Martin Marauder solo!
“After the war I was assigned to a Naval air transport squadron at Patuxant River for a short time, and then to what is now Cape Canaveral. It used to be Banana River Naval air station, which was an assembly base for all the war surplus aircraft in the south east USA, for the Navy. When I arrived, nearly all the people originally stationed there were getting discharged on points for length of service etc.
After being there for only two weeks (there were no tower operators and only one lieutenant and five enlisted pilots), we asked if we could check out in any or all of the planes that were there, and were being brought there. The lieutenant didn't give a damn as he was also awaiting discharge, and so all of us enlisted men would get a handbook and sit in the cockpit for a while, figure out how to start the plane, get the emergency procedures put on a clipboard with the power settings and speeds, and when we got enough guts, would go out and take off.
There were a few hairy moments, especially on landings, as the runway was only 4000 feet long, and on the first flight we wanted to carry a bit more speed on the approach. The worst scare I think I had, was when I decided to check out in what the Navy called the JM-1, which was the Navy version of the Martin Marauder. The Navy used it for towing targets for gunnery practice. Its biggest problem was that all the handbooks were for the Air Force versions, and most of the switches and other stuff like fuel tank valves etc were in a different place.
Anyway, the day I got the guts to go, and not knowing that the Marauder had piss poor expander brakes, I took off solo. The damned aeroplane literally ran away with me. It was not a joke. After levelling out at 10,000 feet, I did a couple of approach to stalls, plus some feathering, steep turns, and finally returned for landing. I spent a long time trying to get the beast on the ground. I had read in the flight manual not to get too slow in the final turn with or without flaps, and not to let the engines load up at idle power.
I am sure I made five or six approaches before I got it on the ground the first time, although it was way down the runway. I decided to make it a touch and go as I was too far down to pull up. After a few more attempts to land I finally got it on the ground pretty fast, and with a bit of luck I managed to run out of runway and out of brakes at the same time!
I nursed it back to the ramp and parked it. There was only one mechanic left on the base, so the next guy took one of the other three remaining Marauders that were parked on the field. Meanwhile I managed to get checked out (sort of), in all twelve different types of aircraft on the base, plus the Martin Mariner PBM seaplane. While you sat up a hell of a lot higher than the Catalina's, it didn't fly or land much differently.
I then got transferred from there to San Diego to a ferry squadron moving airplanes all over the USA to maintenance and overhaul shops, and getting last planes off the assembly lines at the end of the war that had been sitting for a long time. My favourite was the Grumman Tigercat. It was a really easy plane to fly and land, but had a lousy hydraulic system and brakes. It had an emergency air bottle to stop the plane if you lost the hydraulic system. The only problem was that even though you could hand pump the gear and flaps down, when you pulled the air bottle to stop, you could only watch as the wheels locked, the tyres would burst and you just hung on. Other than that it was a real goer, with two Pratt and Whitney R2800 engines and only weighing about 7000lbs in ferry configuration. You could move it out to 400 knots for a thrill, but it would really chew the gas”.
…………………………………………..
Tony Fisher had just over 200 hours as a private pilot on a Fairchild Argus and a Ryan Trainer before his first solo on a Mustang. By contrast, Joe Ziskovsky was an experienced Navy pilot when he first flew solo on the Martin Marauder; a hot aircraft with a deadly reputation as a widow maker. Both pilots had the fright of their lives but survived to tell their tales. I am glad they did, because those sort of things wouldn’t happen these days…
IT WOULDN’T HAPPEN THESE DAYS
Back in May 1995, AOPA (Australia) published a delightful flying story by Doctor Tony Fisher. It was called My Mustangs. During a recent culling of scrap books and other aviation paraphernalia from my shed, I re-discovered this lovely tale of derring do, and decided every pilot should read it; if only to show that once upon a time, when there were few regulations, flying was real fun. No ASIC cards, big brother surveillance cameras, anti-terrorist fences, or gun-toting grim faced Federal police at major airports.
While this story is set in 1963, many pilots now flying or “managing” fly-by-wire computer controlled Airbuses and Boeings weren’t even born when Tony Fisher first flew his Mustang. Tony’s story reminded me of another pilot I knew, who, 18 years earlier in 1945, found himself in a similar predicament. That pilot was Ensign Joe Ziskovsky of the United States Navy and his aeroplane wasn’t a Mustang but something infinitely more dangerous - the mighty Martin B-26 Marauder, known in those days as the Widow Maker. More of Joe and his Marauder, later.
In April 2009, AOPA still had Tony Fisher on its books and very soon I had his telephone number in Tasmania. To my relief, Tony had no objection to my relating his Mustang adventures and was quite happy to accept minor editing here and there. In his story, mention is made of Tocumwal aerodrome, NSW. After the war ended in 1945, Tocumwal became one of several storage units for surplus military aircraft. While most were destined to be melted down for scrap metal, others were stored in a flyable condition. I knew one RAAF pilot based at Tocumwal whose sole task was to regularly test fly each serviceable Mustang. I envied his job because believe me, there was over a hundred of them to be flown. Eventually after six months of this, he became so bored with flying a quick circuit in each Mustang that he began to hit the bottle. He was later posted to fly Lincolns at Townsville which is where I first met him.
In 1952, Tocumwal was a landing point for cross-country navigation flights by RAAF trainee pilots and their instructors from No 1 Basic Flying Training School at Uranquinty, NSW. We landed there for lunch one day and hardly had the propeller of our Wirraway stopped turning, when my instructor was off and away with a spanner and screwdriver to knock of the astro-dome of a B24 Liberator – one of a hundred or so parked in the sun. He had his heart set on a punch-bowl at home and the astro-dome was just the right size. The fact he was nearly bitten by a deadly red-back spider nesting in the fuselage of the B-24 didn’t faze him.
It was my first trip to this fabulous place with countless Mustangs, Mosquitos and Beaufighters parked on the grass with their once proud roundels fading in the hot sun. It was at Tocumwal where Tony Fisher bought his second Mustang for a song and had his first close shave. This then, is Tony’s story which he called:
MY MUSTANGS
My love affair with a P51 started in 1963 when I was approached by a non-ferrous metal dealer from Taren Point just south of Sydney. He knew I had a private pilot’s licence and asked if I was interested in buying an aeroplane he had obtained by tender to melt down for pots and pans. The name P51 didn’t mean a great deal at the time other than it was some sort of RAAF fighter.
My first aeroplane was a Fairchild Argus which I bought shortly after Sammy Dodd gave me my private pilot’s licence. I took my wife Helen to look at my pride and joy. She took one look and claimed, “you needn’t think I’m getting into that thing. That’s the old paper plane from Moree. My father went to Sydney once in that and said he could have got there quicker on a push bike”. That’s what you get for marrying a nurse from Moree.
When the non-ferrous dealer mentioned the P51’s 400mph cruise I thought of Helen’s father on a push bike. I was sold. The price having been agreed upon, $600, my next step was to find a way of getting it out of Sydney and down to Canarney, our 5000 acres at Jerilderie in NSW.
A mate of mine Chris Braun, who had flown P51’s in the RAAF, was now flying DC3’s for Butler Air Transport. I asked if he would fly the P51 down to Canarney. He was all in favour but the Department of Civil Aviation (DCA) not only wanted a new 100 hourly but where was it going and what was to happen to the Mustang when it got there? It was decided it was to be part of a museum at Jerilderie. They fell for it.
While these negotiations were in progress I located another aeroplane at Tocumwal, A68-193, an air reconnaissance Mustang for $700. Not saying a word to Helen, I bought that too.
It was now time for me to get a conversion as this was not possible at the time, due to prejudice against ex-service aircraft. I decided to obtain one while in the United States.
My partner in Southern Cross Farms in Florida, Lane Ward, found a doctor in Merced, California, who owned a P51, and a US Colonel, who were prepared to lend me an aeroplane and teach me to fly it. There was a stipulation that prior to take off, I was to write a cheque for the full value of the aeroplane, because if I bent it – I owned it. When the Colonel found out I only had 200 hours and most of that in a Fairchild Argus and a G Bonanza, he thought it prudent that I obtained some time in a heavier aircraft such as a T6 Harvard.
Next day, the Colonel and I started circuits and landings in a T6. He was not all that impressed with my early attempts. “Say boy, watch that turn, don’t do that in the 51 or your wife is going to end up owning the aeroplane”. This went on for two days and by the end of it I was sorry I’d ever heard of a P51. Finally the hour arrived when I was due to fly the Mustang. “Now watch that right rudder, keep on top of it, don’t let the torque get away or you’ll knock that guy right out of the tower”.
He asked if the pedals were adjusted correctly. I could reach them but didn’t realize they moved a foot – not like the Argus only six inches. After last minute instructions re ram air etc, the Merlin roared to life and I taxied down toward the threshold.
“04 Papa ready,” I croaked. My voice sounded strange even to me. My throat was so dry.
Finally it came. “04 Papa cleared for take off, make left turn, remain in the circuit area”.
I pushed the throttle forward 30, 40, 50, 60 inches Manifold Pressure. The noise of the Merlin was deafening. I could just make out the guy in the tower. Somehow I had a feeling he was just as frightened as I was. With the power came the torque and more and more rudder to keep the monster from racing off to the left towards the tower. I sank lower and lower into the cockpit. Lane later said I could have sworn to God there was no-one in the aeroplane as it took off.”
Airborne, I reached for the gear lever and retracted the wheels. The P51 was heading for the skies like the homesick angel it was. Two thousand feet per minute and indicating 200 knots. At 1,000ft I eased back on the throttle to 30 inches and noticing what looked like a 182 Cessna ahead, decided to follow it onto final. Suddenly the Cessna seemed to be attacking me backwards at 200 miles an hour. The landing wasn’t anything to brag about but everyone seemed pleased to see me and the aeroplane back in one piece. I reclaimed my cheque and we all went home to celebrate.
NO 2
Max Annear and his mate Sid, two ex-RAAF Mustang mechanics, were checking out A68-193 for its ferry flight to Canarney homestead, Jerilderie. When they were satisfied it was ready, Max rang me and Joe Palmer and I flew down to Tocumwal in the red Ryan Trainer that I owned..
There was the Mustang sitting on the tarmac ticking over like a sowing machine. Max must have seen the anxiety on my face.
“Tony, are you sure you can fly one of these things?”
“You’ve got to be kidding” I said - trying to sound confident. “I was taught by the pride of the Yankee Air Force”. I failed to mention my total time on type was ten minutes.
It was drizzling with rain as I lined up and there was a sense of déjà vu. There was no tower and the pedals had been adjusted. The canopy clicked shut. I gave them a wave, lined up and opened the taps.
Hurtling down the strip I was about to ease back on the stick when there was a loud BANG, then another BANG BANG. The Colonel had said nothing about anything like this. I pulled off the power and applied full brakes. We were fast running out of strip. I left the runway and was now heading for the fence. “God, this is where I make Fisher’s gate. I hope the traffic on the highway gives me the right of way, to which surely I’m entitled.”
The Mustang stopped ten feet from the posts but the Rolls Royce engine was still purring. I taxied back to Max. “What’s wrong now?” I could hear the disdain in his voice. “I tell you Max, it made a loud bang. It seems to have stopped, - perhaps it was some carby ice”. He was not impressed. “I don’t know, but please check it out”.
I was glad to be back in the Ryan on the way back to Jerilderie. I wondered about what it would be like with some mad Jap in a Zero firing six cannons at you and the RR Merlin backfiring as well.
Several days later Chris Braun rang up and said he had permission to ferry Mustang A68-104 from Sydney down to Jerilderie. Fisher’s Airforce was beginning to take shape. About this time, Helen received a letter from my son Robby’s school inviting her up for a chat. We’re a little concerned about Rob. He has this wild imagination even for a five year old. He keeps saying his father owns two fighter aeroplanes, three seventy foot boats (names Vim, Derwent Hunter and Helsal), 500,000 acres in the Northern Territory and four cars including a Rolls and a Caddy”. I could never resist a bargain.
“But it’s all true,” poor Helen tried to explain. She was dismayed when she overheard the headmistress say “God, the whole family must be off. Imagine what the father must be like”.
From then on I would cross the road anytime I had to pass the school.
It was Australia Day when we had the Carnarney Cup – a private, but everyone welcome air pageant. Max had found that one of the diaphragms in the Merlin had perished, but he had located a guy who had a new Merlin in his garage which he had bought at a disposal auction.
He wanted ten dollars to change carburetors. Max also required an additional $80 for four drums of avgas (800 litres). Things were somewhat cheaper then.
That year we had 100 guests. Those we couldn’t put in the homestead were sleeping in the woolshed and under wings etc. There were 33 aeroplanes that year. Johnny Ault and I got up at 0500, jumped in the Ryan and flew down to Tocumwal where Max was waiting with Mustang 193 all fuelled and ready to go. I jumped in, taxied to the runway, switched to ram air, completed the cockpit check and opened the tap. Roaring down the runway I had a great view of where I nearly made Fisher’s Gate. Pulling back on the stick she soared sweetly into the air. Climbing to 3000 ft I levelled off, set the revs at 2000 and the boost at about 30 inches and set the nose for Canarney.
About fifteen minutes later I could just make out the homestead on the Billabong River. The temptation was too great. I lowered the nose, increased the revs to 2500 and boost to 50 inches. The airspeed indicator began to climb well above 300 knots. At about 100 ft I leveled off and passed right over the homestead. Then pulling back on the stick I climbed away at 3000 fpm. Looking back, it was like treading on an ant’s nest. There were bodies coming out of everywhere, mostly in pyjamas and all wondering what all the noise was about.
NO 3. A SHORT LANDING IN A P51
My uncle, Bob Macintosh, supervised both Canarney and a property called Concord, 3000 acres of the Cunnineuk Estate just north of Swan Hill. It took him six hours to commute between the properties. Although 25 years my senior, we were great mates and enjoyed one another’s company.
He bred and loved race horses, but hated aeroplanes. I hated race horses, but after my mother’s death I had invested half of her estate into the two properties. When things were quiet on Canarney I would often jump into one of the Mustangs and within 20 minutes would be buzzing the Concord homestead. On one occasion there was a gentle breeze of about five knots coming from the west. There was no one home so I decided to return to Canarney via Cadell homestead which was Edgar Pickle’s place.
I flew over the homestead and could see Edgar on the verandah. There was no windsock, the airstrip was only 2000 ft long, and one way from the boundary to his front verandah, east to west. Taking a long final I set myself up in the precautionary attitude and came in low over the boundary fence.
After a few seconds and almost half the strip gone, I realized I was doing a downwind landing. I was committed. I noticed that Edgar had vacated the verandah and was now behind a tree. “God,” I prayed. “here’s where I knock Pickle’s place right into the Wakool River”. Pulling back on the stick and left rudder I attempted to ground loop it to the left, but the brute headed straight for his house. I sheer desperation I applied full right rudder. Round she went in a great cloud of dust coming to rest not far from the fence and the entrance from the main road. A passing motorist seeing the dust and commotion drove straight in and up to the aeroplane, just as I was winding back the canopy.
“Are you all right, mate?”
“Course I’m alright,” I claimed - not wishing to emphasise my predicament.
“I though you’d crashed”.
“No way, that was a normal precautionary short landing”.
“oh, yeah” he sounded a bit skeptical. What sort of aeroplane is that?”
“A four bladed Ryan,” I lied. After all he could have been Arthur Doubleday’s (Director of Civil Aviation) brother.
“How fast will it go?”
“400 knots”.
“What’s it worth?”
“800 dollars”.
“I’m learning to fly next year. I was going to buy a Cessna, but now I’ve seen one up close I think I’ll buy a Ryan”.
Pickles was still behind the tree and refused to enter into the conversation until after the prospective Ryan buyer had left.
“Fisher, if you insist in arriving in this manner, I must respectfully request that you change your mode of transport”.
We inspected the aircraft taking particular notice of its undercarriage. Edgar gave it a clean bill of health so we retired for a well earned cup of tea.
The P51’s gave us a lot of enjoyment. They were at Canarney for about six years. One was sold to a fellow by the name of Don Busch and the other to a furniture salesman called Bob Eastgate. Busch unfortunately killed himself due I believe a C of G problem in a steep climbing turn. The other is occasionally flown in Victoria, but not, I’m told by its owner.
I have the greatest admiration for this aeroplane which is far more forgiving than many believe. However, my greatest admiration goes to the pilots who flew them in the medium for which they were designed – combat.
While at Jerilderie, the aircraft were kept in top mechanical condition by trained RAAF servicemen from Tocumwal. During these six years, we had no airframe or engine failure whatsoever, which speaks volumes for the aircraft reliability. They were housed in a specially constructed hangar, not a barn as has been claimed by the uninformed.
They were flown by many pilots including Chris Braun, Joe Palmer, Bill Pike, John Lindner, Charlie Smith, Johnny Ault, Les Barnes and Edgar Pickles. We were all cavalier in many attitudes to life, but never to our aeroplanes.
Although that is the end of Tony Fisher’s story, I will add a postscript. Remember that Tony had only a private pilot’s licence and barely 200 hours when he first flew the Mustang. All he had flown previously was a Tiger Moth, Ryan Trainer and the Fairchild Argus. Certainly he had never had an instrument rating. Most RAAF fighter pilots of that era also had around 200 hours before flying Mustangs – but most of those hours were on Wirraways and their training included instrument flying. It places Tony’s experience of flying the Mustang in perspective.
The various other pilots that were involved with Tony Fisher’s Mustangs were either serving or former RAAF or airline pilots. One who was not mentioned was Bruce Clarke – a C130 Hercules pilot. I flew with Bruce on HS 748’s of the RAAF VIP squadron at Canberra. He was able to cadge a flight in one of Tony’s Mustangs after helping to arrange for mechanics to transport glycol coolant from the RAAF base at Richmond NSW for the Merlin engines.
At the time the Mustang he flew had a canopy problem so Bruce flew it without the canopy. It was very noisy, he said – and showed me a tiny photo of him taking off at Jerilderie, sans canopy. Several of the characters in the story have long since passed on – after all it was 46 years ago. Tony Fisher added more to his story when I talked to him last week. Around 1965, a couple of RAAF pilots heard about his Mustang and after driving to Jerilderie asked Tony for permission to fly it. He led them to where one Mustang was under cover in a sheep shed. The Mustang was covered in dust and bird droppings and both pilots thought better of the idea. Tony wheeled the aircraft out of the shed, started the engine and after take off did a few aerobatics. The pilots were amazed and changed their minds and each flew the Mustang for a circuit. As I said earlier, those sort of things happened in those days – but today – no way.
In 1970, Mustang 193 that Tony picked up from Tocumwal, had a sad ending when it crashed at Bendigo Victoria, killing the pilot, Don Busch. The second of Tony ‘s Mustangs - former A68-104, was still flying in 2008 at Point Cook in Victoria. Later that year it was damaged in a belly-landing after one wheel would not extend. It is hoped to take to the air again in 2009.
The Martin Marauder was a medium bomber used by the United States Air Force in World War 2. One pilot who flew the Marauder, Lt. Col Douglas Conley, in a book published in 1975 entitled “Flying Combat Aircraft” by R. Higham and A. Siddall, had this to say:
: “ the aircraft had a performance average of one crash a day from unknown causes and with all hands killed is reason enough to make anyone jumpy. Conley admitted to considerable apprehension on each take off. “The stubby wings were responsible for the Marauder’s nickname in the USAF of The Flying Prostitute – she had no (or very little) visible means of support. The serious control problems upon engine failure earned her the name the Martin Murderer and the reputation of a Marauder a day in Tampa bay was assigned to her about the time I began flying her in the fall of 1942”.
In 1977 I flew an F28 of Air Nauru from Nauru Island to Majuro airport in the Marshall Islands of Micronesia. Among passengers waiting there was Captain Joe Ziskovsky, a former wartime Catalina pilot who after having worked for the Boeing Aircraft Company in Seattle, was joining Air Nauru to fly the Boeing 737. After retiring from Air Nauru a few years later, he moved to South Africa to be with his wife who was a school teacher. There he flew various light aircraft on safari charters. One of his letters to me explained how he became a pilot in the United States Navy in 1943. During the early part of the Pacific war against the Japanese he was an Ordnance man in the US Navy whose job was to service bomb sights and guns of US Marine aircraft in the South Pacific. During the bitter fighting between American and Japanese forces in the Solomon Islands in 1942, Joe served at Guadacanal, surviving daily shelling by Japanese ships aiming at Henderson Field, recently captured from the Japanese army.
He re-mustered as a pilot and flew Catalina flying boats until the surrender of Japan in 1945.
This is an edited extract of Joe’s adventure, flying the Martin Marauder solo!
“After the war I was assigned to a Naval air transport squadron at Patuxant River for a short time, and then to what is now Cape Canaveral. It used to be Banana River Naval air station, which was an assembly base for all the war surplus aircraft in the south east USA, for the Navy. When I arrived, nearly all the people originally stationed there were getting discharged on points for length of service etc.
After being there for only two weeks (there were no tower operators and only one lieutenant and five enlisted pilots), we asked if we could check out in any or all of the planes that were there, and were being brought there. The lieutenant didn't give a damn as he was also awaiting discharge, and so all of us enlisted men would get a handbook and sit in the cockpit for a while, figure out how to start the plane, get the emergency procedures put on a clipboard with the power settings and speeds, and when we got enough guts, would go out and take off.
There were a few hairy moments, especially on landings, as the runway was only 4000 feet long, and on the first flight we wanted to carry a bit more speed on the approach. The worst scare I think I had, was when I decided to check out in what the Navy called the JM-1, which was the Navy version of the Martin Marauder. The Navy used it for towing targets for gunnery practice. Its biggest problem was that all the handbooks were for the Air Force versions, and most of the switches and other stuff like fuel tank valves etc were in a different place.
Anyway, the day I got the guts to go, and not knowing that the Marauder had piss poor expander brakes, I took off solo. The damned aeroplane literally ran away with me. It was not a joke. After levelling out at 10,000 feet, I did a couple of approach to stalls, plus some feathering, steep turns, and finally returned for landing. I spent a long time trying to get the beast on the ground. I had read in the flight manual not to get too slow in the final turn with or without flaps, and not to let the engines load up at idle power.
I am sure I made five or six approaches before I got it on the ground the first time, although it was way down the runway. I decided to make it a touch and go as I was too far down to pull up. After a few more attempts to land I finally got it on the ground pretty fast, and with a bit of luck I managed to run out of runway and out of brakes at the same time!
I nursed it back to the ramp and parked it. There was only one mechanic left on the base, so the next guy took one of the other three remaining Marauders that were parked on the field. Meanwhile I managed to get checked out (sort of), in all twelve different types of aircraft on the base, plus the Martin Mariner PBM seaplane. While you sat up a hell of a lot higher than the Catalina's, it didn't fly or land much differently.
I then got transferred from there to San Diego to a ferry squadron moving airplanes all over the USA to maintenance and overhaul shops, and getting last planes off the assembly lines at the end of the war that had been sitting for a long time. My favourite was the Grumman Tigercat. It was a really easy plane to fly and land, but had a lousy hydraulic system and brakes. It had an emergency air bottle to stop the plane if you lost the hydraulic system. The only problem was that even though you could hand pump the gear and flaps down, when you pulled the air bottle to stop, you could only watch as the wheels locked, the tyres would burst and you just hung on. Other than that it was a real goer, with two Pratt and Whitney R2800 engines and only weighing about 7000lbs in ferry configuration. You could move it out to 400 knots for a thrill, but it would really chew the gas”.
…………………………………………..
Tony Fisher had just over 200 hours as a private pilot on a Fairchild Argus and a Ryan Trainer before his first solo on a Mustang. By contrast, Joe Ziskovsky was an experienced Navy pilot when he first flew solo on the Martin Marauder; a hot aircraft with a deadly reputation as a widow maker. Both pilots had the fright of their lives but survived to tell their tales. I am glad they did, because those sort of things wouldn’t happen these days…
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