Swing the lamp, pull up a sandbag.
Our friend from what is now Zimbabwe had a very funny sense of humor....that could almost get One lodged in the Warri Police Department's Room of Thrills.
Returning late one night from the Downtown Chinese Eatery....while stopped at the umpteenth Police Benevolent Association Charity operation....we were rendered that warm and cheerful salutation of "Uh, What have you for me!".
After much discussion which started off with "Not a damn thing!" and finally progressed with negotiation to a minimum requested donation of Ten Niara.....the agreed upon amount was cheerfully donated to the cause of needy police.
As the funds were received...no receipt being offered or expected....we were told "God Bless You Sir!".
At which point, our Chum pointed one Index finger at his opposite bare forearm....and said "He already has!".
After we had driven away....and I was finally able to get my ability to speak back....I asked the fellow to kindly refrain from such ab lib commentary in similar circumstances in the future as i very much preferred my own bed to any that the Nigerian Police Department might provide on short notice.
Returning late one night from the Downtown Chinese Eatery....while stopped at the umpteenth Police Benevolent Association Charity operation....we were rendered that warm and cheerful salutation of "Uh, What have you for me!".
After much discussion which started off with "Not a damn thing!" and finally progressed with negotiation to a minimum requested donation of Ten Niara.....the agreed upon amount was cheerfully donated to the cause of needy police.
As the funds were received...no receipt being offered or expected....we were told "God Bless You Sir!".
At which point, our Chum pointed one Index finger at his opposite bare forearm....and said "He already has!".
After we had driven away....and I was finally able to get my ability to speak back....I asked the fellow to kindly refrain from such ab lib commentary in similar circumstances in the future as i very much preferred my own bed to any that the Nigerian Police Department might provide on short notice.
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I first arrived in Nigeria in 1978 to numerically replace the Shell CP whose wife had been murdered in their house.
It was my first time in Africa and I soon realised that Lagos was different after being met by the"Bristow representative" who, when I failed to cough up some foreign currency to pay for his services after picking up my bags, was about to take me around a dark corner and relieve me of some, when the actual Bristow representative arrived (late, as ever!) and chased him away.
When I went to sit my Air Law exam for the issue of my Nigerian ATPL, the roneo-ed exam paper had been rendered unreadable because water had leaked onto it and the ink was smudged. The invigilator at first got angry and accused me of defacing the paper, then relented and said that he would give me an oral exam. The only question was to ask what I would do in my VFR Whirlwind if I inadvertently entered a snow storm (highly relevant to Nigeria with the dry season due ina couple of months!). He was satisfied with my answer and my licence was issued a couple of days later.
When I arrived at the Bristow hangar to catch the Islander to Warri, it was standing on the dirt to the side of the ramp (which was very small then) and the pilot (an ex-RN Buccaneer pilot) asked if any of his passengers had any flying experience. On admitting that I did, he told me that I would be his co-pilot and to sit in the right seat. Soon after take off as we were flying down the coast he asked if I'd like to pole it for a bit, to which I readily agreed, though explaining that my only plank experience was about 100 hours in Tiger Moths and Phantmunks more than 10 years previously). As we arrived near the Warri strip, which I found difficult to see and rather small for a plank, I went to hand him the controls. "Oh no" he said, you've been doing okay until now, so lets' see how you get on with the landing! He did talk me through it and his hands were hovering close to the controls, but he was remarkably relaxed and thus my arrival in Warri coincided with my first landing in a FW twin. I was wellicome to Nigeria
It was my first time in Africa and I soon realised that Lagos was different after being met by the"Bristow representative" who, when I failed to cough up some foreign currency to pay for his services after picking up my bags, was about to take me around a dark corner and relieve me of some, when the actual Bristow representative arrived (late, as ever!) and chased him away.
When I went to sit my Air Law exam for the issue of my Nigerian ATPL, the roneo-ed exam paper had been rendered unreadable because water had leaked onto it and the ink was smudged. The invigilator at first got angry and accused me of defacing the paper, then relented and said that he would give me an oral exam. The only question was to ask what I would do in my VFR Whirlwind if I inadvertently entered a snow storm (highly relevant to Nigeria with the dry season due ina couple of months!). He was satisfied with my answer and my licence was issued a couple of days later.
When I arrived at the Bristow hangar to catch the Islander to Warri, it was standing on the dirt to the side of the ramp (which was very small then) and the pilot (an ex-RN Buccaneer pilot) asked if any of his passengers had any flying experience. On admitting that I did, he told me that I would be his co-pilot and to sit in the right seat. Soon after take off as we were flying down the coast he asked if I'd like to pole it for a bit, to which I readily agreed, though explaining that my only plank experience was about 100 hours in Tiger Moths and Phantmunks more than 10 years previously). As we arrived near the Warri strip, which I found difficult to see and rather small for a plank, I went to hand him the controls. "Oh no" he said, you've been doing okay until now, so lets' see how you get on with the landing! He did talk me through it and his hands were hovering close to the controls, but he was remarkably relaxed and thus my arrival in Warri coincided with my first landing in a FW twin. I was wellicome to Nigeria
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One day in harmattan ....
I was headed into Warri with a helicopter pilot in the right seat of the Twotter, back when we were still happily single-pilot.
It was pretty dusty that day and I got it a bit wrong, being just a little too high when I finally saw the runway past the Chief's House.
As I was getting busy throwing that approach away I caught a look of utter disappointment from my passenger in the right-hand seat. He obviously had expected me to do some mysterious rotary-wing thing with my Twotter, flaring and pulling pitch and all that sort of stuff that you guys take for granted that should make it hover.
Once we got it on the ground I told him that it wasn't my fault. DeHavilland Canada had not fitted the thing with a collective, so that 60 knots was all I could manage on the low end, maybe a bit less in ground effect.
It was pretty dusty that day and I got it a bit wrong, being just a little too high when I finally saw the runway past the Chief's House.
As I was getting busy throwing that approach away I caught a look of utter disappointment from my passenger in the right-hand seat. He obviously had expected me to do some mysterious rotary-wing thing with my Twotter, flaring and pulling pitch and all that sort of stuff that you guys take for granted that should make it hover.
Once we got it on the ground I told him that it wasn't my fault. DeHavilland Canada had not fitted the thing with a collective, so that 60 knots was all I could manage on the low end, maybe a bit less in ground effect.
30th April 1986. After a long car journey from Aberdeen I arrived in Haverfordwest, Taffland. I had been there before, a fleeting visit in 1944 when we joined my father when he was stationed at Brawdy flying Met recon. Halifaxs so I was quite au fait with the place. We were accommodated at the predecessor of Faulty Towers complete with a live in retired Colonel. Downtown was a pub that used to be the Abbey’s brewery and the rumour was that there was a long forgotten tunnel to the now defunct nunnery. However we were there to do a job and this was supporting a 30 day hole in the Bristol Channel from Haverford West International.
The chief pilot looked after his appearance and fitness to a very high degree. Always immaculately turned out he resembled the bearded version of a popular boys figurine of the time and had a nickname to suit. We operated from a hangar which was also occupied by a one man charter airline with a Dornier that seemed to have the engines permanently mounted on stands either side of the fuselage and it also flew in that configuration. The rig was about thirty-five minutes each way and as we would get our passengers when a charter aircraft arrived from Aberdeen so breakfast was fairly leisurely. The next day I flew with him on a rig trip and after that I was on my own.
Stay in the hotel until you are told the ETA of the charter, was the brief. The phone call came and I pitched up at our office an hour before planned takeoff. Over to the flight planning desk and there was my MSLS, completely filled in apart from my signature and it included the pax and baggage weight which had been transmitted from Aberdeen. Beside it was my flight log, also immaculately filled in leaving nothing to be done before I started the engines. I then had a personal met brief and a summary of how the whole operation was going.
Being a lazy sod I took this in my stride and at the bewitching hour I loaded the pax; the numbers were right, and off we went. I already knew the return load because it was written on the flight log so there was minimal scribbling on the way. The return manifest matched the flight log perfectly and I winged back to Haverfordwest.
The aircraft was serviceable; it hadn’t been airborne long enough to go U/S; and after the passengers were offloaded I shut it down. On returning to the office the flight log was removed from my possession and my return load was written on the MSLS on my behalf. I was allowed to fill in the Tech Log and then I was invited to go to the hotel for lunch as my chief pilot was also going to look after the engine wash.
This went on, on alternate days, for over two weeks and then the contract came to an end. The aircraft was a gash 76 so it had to be returned to Redhill. I was going to fly it there and then return by train to pick up my car. As the route was fairly close to my last RAF squadron at Odiham I wangled with their ops a zero charge land and chat and I also cleared it with Mike Norris. The company was short of pilots so I suggested it might be a good recruiting wheeze. During their sojourn the other line pilot and the engineer had formed an attachment to a couple of Welsh rarebits and it was arranged that they would also take these two in the back of the 76 for a dirty weekend in the Smoke, On that the five of us launched off towards Redhill.
I had a chat with Cardiff and then we came towards Bristol. I had been to Filton before when I was in Flying Training, the 188 project and Bomber Command. I called up Filton and gave them an overhead time and they seemed quite happy with no traffic. Just then a Shorts 330 passed about 500ft. below me followed immediately by a call from Filton telling me to call some airfield called Bristol Lulsgate. I turned over the page of my AERAD and there was Lulsgate—and the Bristol Control Zone. It did not take more than a fraction to calculate that Luslgate was behind me. Amateur pilots are well known for stumbling into Control Zones; I was a professional, I went through the whole thing---longways. I had a chat, offered my profuse apologies and left any further action to them.
When we arrived at Odiham by pure force of habit I came through my old squadron’s dispersal at about 100ft. followed by a 50 degree climbing break. I had forgotten about the girls in the back and judging by the noise it wasn’t quite the arrival they expected. However, they had quietened down when we taxiied in. I left them all in the crewroom hugging coffees whilst I showed the troops mysteries like weather radar, ILS, HSI, Attitude Indicators and other things unknown to British military helicopters.
Time passed too quickly and we continued to Redhill. There I left them to it and there then followed a miserable journey by British Rail back to Haverfordwest. AM had already rewritten all the detachment paperwork in copperplate so next morning when that was loaded I strapped on my trusty Ford Capri 2.8i and hurled back to Aberdeen.
Lulsgate MORed the incursion to the CAA. I got a letter from the CAA asking me to explain myself. Fortunately the CAA man I knew very well so it was sorted on the ‘old boy’ basis.
The chief pilot looked after his appearance and fitness to a very high degree. Always immaculately turned out he resembled the bearded version of a popular boys figurine of the time and had a nickname to suit. We operated from a hangar which was also occupied by a one man charter airline with a Dornier that seemed to have the engines permanently mounted on stands either side of the fuselage and it also flew in that configuration. The rig was about thirty-five minutes each way and as we would get our passengers when a charter aircraft arrived from Aberdeen so breakfast was fairly leisurely. The next day I flew with him on a rig trip and after that I was on my own.
Stay in the hotel until you are told the ETA of the charter, was the brief. The phone call came and I pitched up at our office an hour before planned takeoff. Over to the flight planning desk and there was my MSLS, completely filled in apart from my signature and it included the pax and baggage weight which had been transmitted from Aberdeen. Beside it was my flight log, also immaculately filled in leaving nothing to be done before I started the engines. I then had a personal met brief and a summary of how the whole operation was going.
Being a lazy sod I took this in my stride and at the bewitching hour I loaded the pax; the numbers were right, and off we went. I already knew the return load because it was written on the flight log so there was minimal scribbling on the way. The return manifest matched the flight log perfectly and I winged back to Haverfordwest.
The aircraft was serviceable; it hadn’t been airborne long enough to go U/S; and after the passengers were offloaded I shut it down. On returning to the office the flight log was removed from my possession and my return load was written on the MSLS on my behalf. I was allowed to fill in the Tech Log and then I was invited to go to the hotel for lunch as my chief pilot was also going to look after the engine wash.
This went on, on alternate days, for over two weeks and then the contract came to an end. The aircraft was a gash 76 so it had to be returned to Redhill. I was going to fly it there and then return by train to pick up my car. As the route was fairly close to my last RAF squadron at Odiham I wangled with their ops a zero charge land and chat and I also cleared it with Mike Norris. The company was short of pilots so I suggested it might be a good recruiting wheeze. During their sojourn the other line pilot and the engineer had formed an attachment to a couple of Welsh rarebits and it was arranged that they would also take these two in the back of the 76 for a dirty weekend in the Smoke, On that the five of us launched off towards Redhill.
I had a chat with Cardiff and then we came towards Bristol. I had been to Filton before when I was in Flying Training, the 188 project and Bomber Command. I called up Filton and gave them an overhead time and they seemed quite happy with no traffic. Just then a Shorts 330 passed about 500ft. below me followed immediately by a call from Filton telling me to call some airfield called Bristol Lulsgate. I turned over the page of my AERAD and there was Lulsgate—and the Bristol Control Zone. It did not take more than a fraction to calculate that Luslgate was behind me. Amateur pilots are well known for stumbling into Control Zones; I was a professional, I went through the whole thing---longways. I had a chat, offered my profuse apologies and left any further action to them.
When we arrived at Odiham by pure force of habit I came through my old squadron’s dispersal at about 100ft. followed by a 50 degree climbing break. I had forgotten about the girls in the back and judging by the noise it wasn’t quite the arrival they expected. However, they had quietened down when we taxiied in. I left them all in the crewroom hugging coffees whilst I showed the troops mysteries like weather radar, ILS, HSI, Attitude Indicators and other things unknown to British military helicopters.
Time passed too quickly and we continued to Redhill. There I left them to it and there then followed a miserable journey by British Rail back to Haverfordwest. AM had already rewritten all the detachment paperwork in copperplate so next morning when that was loaded I strapped on my trusty Ford Capri 2.8i and hurled back to Aberdeen.
Lulsgate MORed the incursion to the CAA. I got a letter from the CAA asking me to explain myself. Fortunately the CAA man I knew very well so it was sorted on the ‘old boy’ basis.
Last edited by Fareastdriver; 10th Oct 2016 at 20:49.
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While not a true helicopter tale of the mid 1960’s, although at the time I was trying to muster cattle in a Brantley in the North West of Oz.
This was about our cattle station manger who being a diabetic was rejected in obtaining a student pilots license.
Being the chap that he was, this small fact did not put him off his intent to fly, so an aircraft was purchased and delivered to the station.
He taught himself to fly (that’s another story) and was soon flying around the station and navigating himself around the north West.
This act rather upset the Authority at the time and various plans were put in place to bring him to justice. To achieve this process the authority had to catch the chap in the act of flying and one of these plans was to wait at various airfields for him to land.
It goes without saying that the only effective way of getting anywhere in the North of Oz at that time was to fly and the authority were no different. They were quite mobile and operated a few types but all painted the same Commonwealth colours.
It can been seen the plan never worked as the Authorities aircraft could be seen from a safe height, so if spotted the chap just flew over and landed elsewhere.
On this particular day the authority were waiting at his local county airfield when he flew over. The chap spotted the Authorities aircraft and went to his standard plan B which was to fly over the town to alert a mate and then proceed about four miles out of town and land in the bush where he would be picked up and driven into town.
The Authorities crew observed what was happening and leapt into their aircraft to follow in the hope of a result. They were flying in a near new twin Aero Commander which during the take off suffered an engine failure. The result was a rejected take off which put the aircraft through the fence and ended up very close to the main road.
The chap driving in with his mate were totally unaware of this occurrence until they came around a corner and saw the Authorities aircraft looking a bit worse for wear.
It certainly did not help with their on going relationship when the chap rolled down the window and said “G’day Bob do you want a lift into town?
He was never effectively stopped and finally retired from aviation with an excess of 9,000 hours.
This was about our cattle station manger who being a diabetic was rejected in obtaining a student pilots license.
Being the chap that he was, this small fact did not put him off his intent to fly, so an aircraft was purchased and delivered to the station.
He taught himself to fly (that’s another story) and was soon flying around the station and navigating himself around the north West.
This act rather upset the Authority at the time and various plans were put in place to bring him to justice. To achieve this process the authority had to catch the chap in the act of flying and one of these plans was to wait at various airfields for him to land.
It goes without saying that the only effective way of getting anywhere in the North of Oz at that time was to fly and the authority were no different. They were quite mobile and operated a few types but all painted the same Commonwealth colours.
It can been seen the plan never worked as the Authorities aircraft could be seen from a safe height, so if spotted the chap just flew over and landed elsewhere.
On this particular day the authority were waiting at his local county airfield when he flew over. The chap spotted the Authorities aircraft and went to his standard plan B which was to fly over the town to alert a mate and then proceed about four miles out of town and land in the bush where he would be picked up and driven into town.
The Authorities crew observed what was happening and leapt into their aircraft to follow in the hope of a result. They were flying in a near new twin Aero Commander which during the take off suffered an engine failure. The result was a rejected take off which put the aircraft through the fence and ended up very close to the main road.
The chap driving in with his mate were totally unaware of this occurrence until they came around a corner and saw the Authorities aircraft looking a bit worse for wear.
It certainly did not help with their on going relationship when the chap rolled down the window and said “G’day Bob do you want a lift into town?
He was never effectively stopped and finally retired from aviation with an excess of 9,000 hours.
A (mostly)true tale of Police Aviation:
There I was at twelve hundred feet over Liverpool, mach 0.196, and we're dropping like a stone to 800, tucking in nicely behind the convoy of blue lights in pursuit of a vehicle with no lights. It's a typical May night in Merseyside – not cold enough for the cabin heat, nor hot enough for the aircon – which we don’t have anyway. But that's neither here nor there. The night is moonless over the city tonight, but who cares. The reflections from all the street lights make it like day. And they call this night flying! We stick with the vehicle like glue, while a nervous Force Incident Manager tells the bobbies on the ground not to get too close, or drive to fast or some such rubbish. It makes no difference. After going round and round the Norris Green corn circles for half an hour the driver rips his sump out on a kerb and grinds to a halt. Turns out it was his girlfriends car. Well, probably his ex girlfriends car now.
After another job where we watch a houseowner’s dog have a good chew on a burglar hiding in the garden, we head on home. A laser beam flicks around the cockpit, but a couple of crazy ivans and turning the nav lights off gets rid of it.
As we approach Woodvale, the airfield is as black as a witch’s tit, where I can see only one or two lights. Obviously the batteries on the landing lights have run down already.
The preferred approach is the “try not to annoy the locals” method. This is a highly co-ordinated approach and allows the pilot to ingress the landing zone in an unpredictable manner, thereby avoiding the incoming ‘phone calls. Personally, I wouldn't bother, if they choose to live next to an airfield…but it keeps the Inspector happy.
I can’t get a visual on the runway, so mentally calculate the intersection of the lights from the local BP gas station and the searchlights over Blackpool tower to find the centre of the airfield. Now it's time to show the Police observers some serious pilot stuff, as I decide to go for the “360 auto to the hover option”. I drop the lever and rack on 90 degrees of bank, at the same time hauling back on the cyclic to get somewhere near the best auto speed. Shouting to make myself heard over the rotor overspeed warning, I get the observers to carry out their pre-landing checks, having, of course, already done mine.
Halfway round the turn I notice that an unforeseen crosswind has sprung up, so rapidly reverse to stay within the confines of the field. By 100 agl I’m within 45 degrees of the wind, and the bobbies are strapped and secure. Now it’s all about airspeed and aim point. Well I’ve got the speed, but I still can’t see the ground. I switch on the landing lamp and then it’s time for a quick “Jesus!!”, flare! flare!, level and run on. Hover autos are for pussys. My nether regions relax and the observers quickly open the windows.
I glance across at the front observer, sitting there with a grin on his face. Well I think it was a grin, but it was dark. “Little does he know” I think. But then again perhaps he does.
“God, I could do with a coffee” says the GIB. I hover taxi over to the pad and shutdown.
At the third attempt, our lowest bidder fuel pump coughs into life, and we put some more go juice into the bird, watched by an audience of the local security patrol on his pushbike. “Why, oh why did I ever leave the military?” I ask myself. “So that I can go home everyday and not have to do this in some godforsaken country getting shot at” I reply, as I walk towards the office.
A vehicle looms out of the darkness heading towards us. I reach for my trusty axe, but it’s okay, it’s only the curry man bringing tonight’s supper. Perfect timing.
There I was at twelve hundred feet over Liverpool, mach 0.196, and we're dropping like a stone to 800, tucking in nicely behind the convoy of blue lights in pursuit of a vehicle with no lights. It's a typical May night in Merseyside – not cold enough for the cabin heat, nor hot enough for the aircon – which we don’t have anyway. But that's neither here nor there. The night is moonless over the city tonight, but who cares. The reflections from all the street lights make it like day. And they call this night flying! We stick with the vehicle like glue, while a nervous Force Incident Manager tells the bobbies on the ground not to get too close, or drive to fast or some such rubbish. It makes no difference. After going round and round the Norris Green corn circles for half an hour the driver rips his sump out on a kerb and grinds to a halt. Turns out it was his girlfriends car. Well, probably his ex girlfriends car now.
After another job where we watch a houseowner’s dog have a good chew on a burglar hiding in the garden, we head on home. A laser beam flicks around the cockpit, but a couple of crazy ivans and turning the nav lights off gets rid of it.
As we approach Woodvale, the airfield is as black as a witch’s tit, where I can see only one or two lights. Obviously the batteries on the landing lights have run down already.
The preferred approach is the “try not to annoy the locals” method. This is a highly co-ordinated approach and allows the pilot to ingress the landing zone in an unpredictable manner, thereby avoiding the incoming ‘phone calls. Personally, I wouldn't bother, if they choose to live next to an airfield…but it keeps the Inspector happy.
I can’t get a visual on the runway, so mentally calculate the intersection of the lights from the local BP gas station and the searchlights over Blackpool tower to find the centre of the airfield. Now it's time to show the Police observers some serious pilot stuff, as I decide to go for the “360 auto to the hover option”. I drop the lever and rack on 90 degrees of bank, at the same time hauling back on the cyclic to get somewhere near the best auto speed. Shouting to make myself heard over the rotor overspeed warning, I get the observers to carry out their pre-landing checks, having, of course, already done mine.
Halfway round the turn I notice that an unforeseen crosswind has sprung up, so rapidly reverse to stay within the confines of the field. By 100 agl I’m within 45 degrees of the wind, and the bobbies are strapped and secure. Now it’s all about airspeed and aim point. Well I’ve got the speed, but I still can’t see the ground. I switch on the landing lamp and then it’s time for a quick “Jesus!!”, flare! flare!, level and run on. Hover autos are for pussys. My nether regions relax and the observers quickly open the windows.
I glance across at the front observer, sitting there with a grin on his face. Well I think it was a grin, but it was dark. “Little does he know” I think. But then again perhaps he does.
“God, I could do with a coffee” says the GIB. I hover taxi over to the pad and shutdown.
At the third attempt, our lowest bidder fuel pump coughs into life, and we put some more go juice into the bird, watched by an audience of the local security patrol on his pushbike. “Why, oh why did I ever leave the military?” I ask myself. “So that I can go home everyday and not have to do this in some godforsaken country getting shot at” I reply, as I walk towards the office.
A vehicle looms out of the darkness heading towards us. I reach for my trusty axe, but it’s okay, it’s only the curry man bringing tonight’s supper. Perfect timing.
Nigerian In Law
Since We're Airing Our Dirty Laundry.....
In the era of single pilot Bell 212 operations I was tasked to deliver a C-Box and a Bell Hoist to a satellite platform in the TOPCON field which was connected to the main platform. The other Bell 212 was stranded there and causing distress as we only had two on the operation. The hoist was too long so we used tie down straps to hold the sliding doors in place as they were ajar. Good thing we didn't need the floats........
In order to achieve this I flew to the main platform where everything was unloaded. Each item was then to be individually underslung to the satellite as there was no way they could be carried along the walkways.
The C-Box was delivered with no issues with our extremely able Chief Engineer hanging out of the port side of the aircraft calling out distances in addition to the mirror and the engineers on the satellite gesticulating.
The hoist was all but delivered when I was waved off by the engineer on the satellite as they were still sliding the C-box out of the way. So I initiated a climb and dutifully switched off the electric load release. As I leveled out at around 300' the Chief Engineer shouted "It's gone !". Of course I asked what had gone. He then shouted "The F**king hoist !". I looked into the mirror just in time to see the hoist enter the murky sea like a spear and knew there would be questions in the upper echelons. Luckily the Chief Engineer, while screaming epithets, had also checked the instrument panel light to ensure I had in fact switched off the load release.
When we arrived back at Warri the solids had already impacted the air conditioning and everyone except me was wearing goggles. In those days the "Tic-Tac", a very basic laptop connected to a modem and an HF radio, was the intra-operation communication medium. Apart from being summoned to Lagos immediately to explain the loss of what I had been told was the ONLY Bell Hoist in Bristow, there was an excellent spoof news report sent to all operations by the Chief Pilot of the Port Harcourt Shell operation where a tragic Bell Hoist drowning incident (not accident !) was causing anticipation of job losses.
I was very lucky having the Chief Engineer in the back; not only had he seen for himself that the load release light was extinguished, he showed total impartiality and integrity; he personally inspected the entire hook assembly (he had huge Bell experience), and found that it had been assembled incorrectly during it's previous overhaul. It would release undemanded if there was any lightening of the load, which my leveling off had caused.
I was exonerated but had to endure months of drowning/murder/tragedy wind-ups and stories at my expense. The engineer who carried out the incorrect assembly was caught red handed shredding the paperwork for it. He was "interviewed" but there were no other consequences for him.
There was a pipe laying barge in the TOPCON field at the time. The engineers had gotten friendly with the crew so they knocked up a replacement hoist out of scaffold poles and the job was completed almost on schedule. The Oceaneering divers on the Malaysian Moon also dragged the area for the hoist without success.
Subsequently a few replacement hoists arrived in Nigeria from those in storage in the blister hangar at Redhill; only hoist in Bristow my a**e !
NEO
In order to achieve this I flew to the main platform where everything was unloaded. Each item was then to be individually underslung to the satellite as there was no way they could be carried along the walkways.
The C-Box was delivered with no issues with our extremely able Chief Engineer hanging out of the port side of the aircraft calling out distances in addition to the mirror and the engineers on the satellite gesticulating.
The hoist was all but delivered when I was waved off by the engineer on the satellite as they were still sliding the C-box out of the way. So I initiated a climb and dutifully switched off the electric load release. As I leveled out at around 300' the Chief Engineer shouted "It's gone !". Of course I asked what had gone. He then shouted "The F**king hoist !". I looked into the mirror just in time to see the hoist enter the murky sea like a spear and knew there would be questions in the upper echelons. Luckily the Chief Engineer, while screaming epithets, had also checked the instrument panel light to ensure I had in fact switched off the load release.
When we arrived back at Warri the solids had already impacted the air conditioning and everyone except me was wearing goggles. In those days the "Tic-Tac", a very basic laptop connected to a modem and an HF radio, was the intra-operation communication medium. Apart from being summoned to Lagos immediately to explain the loss of what I had been told was the ONLY Bell Hoist in Bristow, there was an excellent spoof news report sent to all operations by the Chief Pilot of the Port Harcourt Shell operation where a tragic Bell Hoist drowning incident (not accident !) was causing anticipation of job losses.
I was very lucky having the Chief Engineer in the back; not only had he seen for himself that the load release light was extinguished, he showed total impartiality and integrity; he personally inspected the entire hook assembly (he had huge Bell experience), and found that it had been assembled incorrectly during it's previous overhaul. It would release undemanded if there was any lightening of the load, which my leveling off had caused.
I was exonerated but had to endure months of drowning/murder/tragedy wind-ups and stories at my expense. The engineer who carried out the incorrect assembly was caught red handed shredding the paperwork for it. He was "interviewed" but there were no other consequences for him.
There was a pipe laying barge in the TOPCON field at the time. The engineers had gotten friendly with the crew so they knocked up a replacement hoist out of scaffold poles and the job was completed almost on schedule. The Oceaneering divers on the Malaysian Moon also dragged the area for the hoist without success.
Subsequently a few replacement hoists arrived in Nigeria from those in storage in the blister hangar at Redhill; only hoist in Bristow my a**e !
NEO
A private owner of a B206 upgraded to an AS350 - it was a Sneaky Rebuild from Canada, where the dataplate from a wreck, and one or two serviceable parts from it are surrounded by a brand new aircraft, thus avoiding the payment of the New Build Tax. This bird was a left-hand-drive, with a bench seat across the front and a nice set of Squirrel Cheeks for extra storage in the cargo compartment.
I went out with an experienced qfi to get an official endorsement on it - being LHD, the throttles etc were on the floor at the left door, inaccessible to the qfi on the RH bench seat, so for the GF sequences, I sat on the left side, and for the emergency bits we swapped seats.
All went swimmingly until it was time for some power terminated autos. We swapped sides, and after a perfect circuit for positioning, qfi pulled the throttle, I lowered the lever, and set up for the auto. On finals it was, of course, looking excellent. Here comes the flare, nicely judged, now a little pitch pull...... oh poo, the collective won't move!
"It's stuck! Collective stuck!" I called, and qfi also tries to pull, looks down and sees the collective lock had applied itself. He tries to unlock it, but he needs to push it down to do so, and I am pulling up like crazy - I win.
All this in 2 poofteenths of a second, I had already nosed over to retain some speed, and we hit the ground in a level attitude and with maybe 10kt. We bounced over a raised taxiway (really lucky as catching the toes would have rolled us over forwards) and landed next to a ditch on the ground on the other side. We slid to a stop in a cloud of dust and a hearty "hi-ho Silver!" whereupon I unstrapped, walked around to the left door, opened it, unlatched the collective lock, and broke it off so it would never offend again.
After an inspection to let us know the bird was perfectly fine, I hopped on the phone to the local Eurocopter representative to let him know that his collective lock design was defective and potentially deadly. He enquired which machine it was, and his reply was "Zat ees a Caneedian 'elicopter, eet ees not our concern." Which only reinforced my opinion of ze French support in Oz.
I went out with an experienced qfi to get an official endorsement on it - being LHD, the throttles etc were on the floor at the left door, inaccessible to the qfi on the RH bench seat, so for the GF sequences, I sat on the left side, and for the emergency bits we swapped seats.
All went swimmingly until it was time for some power terminated autos. We swapped sides, and after a perfect circuit for positioning, qfi pulled the throttle, I lowered the lever, and set up for the auto. On finals it was, of course, looking excellent. Here comes the flare, nicely judged, now a little pitch pull...... oh poo, the collective won't move!
"It's stuck! Collective stuck!" I called, and qfi also tries to pull, looks down and sees the collective lock had applied itself. He tries to unlock it, but he needs to push it down to do so, and I am pulling up like crazy - I win.
All this in 2 poofteenths of a second, I had already nosed over to retain some speed, and we hit the ground in a level attitude and with maybe 10kt. We bounced over a raised taxiway (really lucky as catching the toes would have rolled us over forwards) and landed next to a ditch on the ground on the other side. We slid to a stop in a cloud of dust and a hearty "hi-ho Silver!" whereupon I unstrapped, walked around to the left door, opened it, unlatched the collective lock, and broke it off so it would never offend again.
After an inspection to let us know the bird was perfectly fine, I hopped on the phone to the local Eurocopter representative to let him know that his collective lock design was defective and potentially deadly. He enquired which machine it was, and his reply was "Zat ees a Caneedian 'elicopter, eet ees not our concern." Which only reinforced my opinion of ze French support in Oz.
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The Dornier 328 turboprop has latches on the power levers that need to be raised to get into reverse. The problem is that you need to be on the flight idle stop before you raise the latches. If you raise the latches as you are retarding the levers to the stop, then they make the levers freeze in a position well short of flight idle, which is not a good thing.
If you then push the levers forward they should unfreeze and can then be retarded, but the normal reaction is to keep pulling back, which may only make them freeze all the harder. An Italian 328 crew ran right off the end of the runway in Genoa into the sea, when four people died, and another 328 crew later went off the end at Aberdeen, this time with no casualties and only minor damage.
When you look at this, it seems to be a German thing: The power lever design is very, very good, except that it's unforgiving of a mistake that someone not a German might easily make.
The design has never been changed, but crews have been advised not to make this mistake! I guess that if you crash now, you get a letter in your permanent file for not following German advice.
We had a real disaster in Lagos once, when a grass fire set off an ammo dump at the Ikeja Army Base right in the middle of town. (It turned out that there was a lot of munitions left over from the Biafra war that had been left there and forgotten.)
We watched the show from the roof of the BRC, when it was one hell of a fireworks display, multiple heavy detonations, and tracer rounds flying off in random directions, followed by a stream of panicky locals flooding down the street in front of us, when some of them were stampeded into a swamp and then trampled and drowned by those coming from behind.
We had already had the famous "Monkey Calendar." Now when it came time for the company Christmas cards one of SASless' friends, and mine, showed me his idea for the Christmas card, asking me what I thought of it. On the front, instead of some hokey Christmas tree or perhaps Santa Claus, there was this big, glowing explosion from the Ikeja Army Base, as captured by one of us from the roof of the BRC!
I nixed that one, not that it ever was a serious candidate ... or at least I hope it was not. I can't remember what we got instead, maybe six monkeys pulling Santa's sled.
If you then push the levers forward they should unfreeze and can then be retarded, but the normal reaction is to keep pulling back, which may only make them freeze all the harder. An Italian 328 crew ran right off the end of the runway in Genoa into the sea, when four people died, and another 328 crew later went off the end at Aberdeen, this time with no casualties and only minor damage.
When you look at this, it seems to be a German thing: The power lever design is very, very good, except that it's unforgiving of a mistake that someone not a German might easily make.
The design has never been changed, but crews have been advised not to make this mistake! I guess that if you crash now, you get a letter in your permanent file for not following German advice.
We had a real disaster in Lagos once, when a grass fire set off an ammo dump at the Ikeja Army Base right in the middle of town. (It turned out that there was a lot of munitions left over from the Biafra war that had been left there and forgotten.)
We watched the show from the roof of the BRC, when it was one hell of a fireworks display, multiple heavy detonations, and tracer rounds flying off in random directions, followed by a stream of panicky locals flooding down the street in front of us, when some of them were stampeded into a swamp and then trampled and drowned by those coming from behind.
We had already had the famous "Monkey Calendar." Now when it came time for the company Christmas cards one of SASless' friends, and mine, showed me his idea for the Christmas card, asking me what I thought of it. On the front, instead of some hokey Christmas tree or perhaps Santa Claus, there was this big, glowing explosion from the Ikeja Army Base, as captured by one of us from the roof of the BRC!
I nixed that one, not that it ever was a serious candidate ... or at least I hope it was not. I can't remember what we got instead, maybe six monkeys pulling Santa's sled.
Perhaps Guy Fawkes Day would have been more appropriate.
I and another American flew the 212 on contract during the Clean Up of that disaster when the US Military with the odd (operative word) British Military arrived to assist.
Both of us had prior experience being around those kinds of things so we were a bit immune from worries about the associated risks and on more than a couple of occasions landed right in amongst the area that was thickly littered with the assorted inventory of things that should have gone "Bang" or "Boom" but instead had just gone "Thud".
Later on there was a series of Controlled Detonations way out west of Lagos which we had to attend with a Trauma Surgeon and some Medical personnel in the event of a casualty of some kind. Seemed a bit odd as a Sanitary Crew with a broom, shovel, and trash bin might have been of more use had there been a mishap.
One fine morning...while parked in the safe zone two miles from the Detonation Zone we monitored the Radio Net and heard the standard warning of "Fire in the Hole....Fire in the Hole...." and observed the detonation of a rather large pile of things that did go "BANG!" and after a bit heard the Thunder Clap and felt the ground shake. While commenting that sounded a a bit different than previous blasts....we observed some smoking comet trails heading skywards and arcing over in our direction.
Being very cool, calm, and collected....I wryly commented....nice try....but you can't scare me with that stuff....I have been much closer to such things as I am an old Hand at this kind of stuff.
About that time...less than a hundred yards away...several rather significant items of about 155mm Howitzer Shell size impacted at the other end of the football pitch and started several small grass fires.
I amended my statement to "Well on second thought....perhaps you can!".
I and another American flew the 212 on contract during the Clean Up of that disaster when the US Military with the odd (operative word) British Military arrived to assist.
Both of us had prior experience being around those kinds of things so we were a bit immune from worries about the associated risks and on more than a couple of occasions landed right in amongst the area that was thickly littered with the assorted inventory of things that should have gone "Bang" or "Boom" but instead had just gone "Thud".
Later on there was a series of Controlled Detonations way out west of Lagos which we had to attend with a Trauma Surgeon and some Medical personnel in the event of a casualty of some kind. Seemed a bit odd as a Sanitary Crew with a broom, shovel, and trash bin might have been of more use had there been a mishap.
One fine morning...while parked in the safe zone two miles from the Detonation Zone we monitored the Radio Net and heard the standard warning of "Fire in the Hole....Fire in the Hole...." and observed the detonation of a rather large pile of things that did go "BANG!" and after a bit heard the Thunder Clap and felt the ground shake. While commenting that sounded a a bit different than previous blasts....we observed some smoking comet trails heading skywards and arcing over in our direction.
Being very cool, calm, and collected....I wryly commented....nice try....but you can't scare me with that stuff....I have been much closer to such things as I am an old Hand at this kind of stuff.
About that time...less than a hundred yards away...several rather significant items of about 155mm Howitzer Shell size impacted at the other end of the football pitch and started several small grass fires.
I amended my statement to "Well on second thought....perhaps you can!".
Trogs is probably parked in the Monsoon ditch!
AM had already rewritten all the detachment paperwork in copperplate s
Join Date: Apr 2008
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IT wisnae me SAS!
It was a quiet night in at 3 Bomadi and since I was on nights I declined the invitation to a young Pork & Cheeser Engineers gaff where the Warri equivalent of "The Who" were planning a jam session to while away the dark African night. My cellmate - a short wiry moustachioed former Royal Marine and accomplished bongo player begged me to lend him the Night Standby Nissan pickup since riding a bicycle through "snake alley" past the Shell swimming pool and Bush Hut clutching one's bongo was liable to end in tears.
Off went the mighty Nissan and I settled in for a scintillating evening flipping through the 3 available TV channels.
Midnight was fast approaching with no sign of the vehicle returning so after checking my bike tyres in case there was a call out I was just about to turn in when with a screech of tyres the pickup arrived sideways in the driveway disgorging a well oiled bongo player who fell straight through the mosquito netting on the veranda leaving a well defined short wiry shape like a Looney Tunes cartoon character.
To my surprise the pickup rapidly reversed out of the drive and tore off into the African Night - the driver's identity was not clear but appeared to be a bearded
Oyibo.
Interrogation of the bongo player proved difficult since he appeared to be speaking an ancient form of Norwegian and early next morning as I set off for work at 06:00 although he had regained a basic grasp of English seemed now to have been inflicted with early onset of Alzheimer's !
On arrival at the hangar it was obvious the pickup had not been miraculously returned so I sent the drivers off to scour the camp for the missing Vehicle - Joe the driver discovered it in the monsoon drain by the old Shellie teachers accommodation and it was duly recovered.
The suspected perpetrator (an upstanding character from WT with the initials DT) who had been temporarily detained by security at the main gate on his way back on foot to Idugbo at 02:00 denied any involvement.
WE WILL NEVER KNOW.
Trog
Off went the mighty Nissan and I settled in for a scintillating evening flipping through the 3 available TV channels.
Midnight was fast approaching with no sign of the vehicle returning so after checking my bike tyres in case there was a call out I was just about to turn in when with a screech of tyres the pickup arrived sideways in the driveway disgorging a well oiled bongo player who fell straight through the mosquito netting on the veranda leaving a well defined short wiry shape like a Looney Tunes cartoon character.
To my surprise the pickup rapidly reversed out of the drive and tore off into the African Night - the driver's identity was not clear but appeared to be a bearded
Oyibo.
Interrogation of the bongo player proved difficult since he appeared to be speaking an ancient form of Norwegian and early next morning as I set off for work at 06:00 although he had regained a basic grasp of English seemed now to have been inflicted with early onset of Alzheimer's !
On arrival at the hangar it was obvious the pickup had not been miraculously returned so I sent the drivers off to scour the camp for the missing Vehicle - Joe the driver discovered it in the monsoon drain by the old Shellie teachers accommodation and it was duly recovered.
The suspected perpetrator (an upstanding character from WT with the initials DT) who had been temporarily detained by security at the main gate on his way back on foot to Idugbo at 02:00 denied any involvement.
WE WILL NEVER KNOW.
Trog
Me and one half of my House Mates, the German speaking one, decided to put on a Bash....a BBQ kind of thing....not the British kind where all one does is provide the fire.
I contracted with a local who worked for one of the Shell Contractors to provide all the Chop.
The rest of the fare (liquid) and the Fire....we provided.
The day before the BBQ...I confirmed all was in order and relayed said news to my house mate.
Come the evening of the BBQ....beautiful fire going....guests present....drink flowing....and no Chop....no sign of the local fellow....and upon doing some last minute checking....there was going to be no Chop.
A Quick phone call to the Chinese....and some hurriedly emptying of wallets....and we had a lovely Chinese Meal made all the better due to the ambiance of the lovely fire.
Had I been able to get my Hands on the contract Chef.....he would have been on a Spit over said Fire!
Seems he was confused as to the actual date of the Do....if you believe that!
I contracted with a local who worked for one of the Shell Contractors to provide all the Chop.
The rest of the fare (liquid) and the Fire....we provided.
The day before the BBQ...I confirmed all was in order and relayed said news to my house mate.
Come the evening of the BBQ....beautiful fire going....guests present....drink flowing....and no Chop....no sign of the local fellow....and upon doing some last minute checking....there was going to be no Chop.
A Quick phone call to the Chinese....and some hurriedly emptying of wallets....and we had a lovely Chinese Meal made all the better due to the ambiance of the lovely fire.
Had I been able to get my Hands on the contract Chef.....he would have been on a Spit over said Fire!
Seems he was confused as to the actual date of the Do....if you believe that!
I have never met a better Line Training Captain
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I would concur with that. I will never forget the immaculately brushed hair and beard, and white poloneck under his pressed flying suit. Nicer guy you wouldn't want to meet. Good memories
TC
TC
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Great stories - keep them coming, chaps.
Just a pretty ordinary tale..
I was once (just on exercise in mountainous terrain) entrusted with the job of running the helipad.
The Army (B47s) and Air Force (UH1s) of course both had different requirements - but we somehow managed.
It seemed that the Air Force brass had little confidence in their chaps finding the location and assessing the wind.
To assist, I was issued with a quantity of hand smoke flares in all sorts of lovely colours.
These, of course, were not really needed (lengths of toilet paper are an effective substitute) but a chap from the adjacent M.A.S.H outfit was keen to trade any leftovers I might have had for cartons of beer.
Great.
The normal rule was "One can, per man, per day, .. perhaps" - so I was popular with the men for a while.
Until..
A carton of the loose pyrotechnics had been mistakenly left outside their mess tent.
The inevitable happened when, later in the evening, someone seems to have stepped outside and flicked a cigarette butt...
We heard the hullabaloo from about a mile away.
Nothing actually burnt down, but .. have you ever seen an olive drab marquee in psychedelic colours?
Just a pretty ordinary tale..
I was once (just on exercise in mountainous terrain) entrusted with the job of running the helipad.
The Army (B47s) and Air Force (UH1s) of course both had different requirements - but we somehow managed.
It seemed that the Air Force brass had little confidence in their chaps finding the location and assessing the wind.
To assist, I was issued with a quantity of hand smoke flares in all sorts of lovely colours.
These, of course, were not really needed (lengths of toilet paper are an effective substitute) but a chap from the adjacent M.A.S.H outfit was keen to trade any leftovers I might have had for cartons of beer.
Great.
The normal rule was "One can, per man, per day, .. perhaps" - so I was popular with the men for a while.
Until..
A carton of the loose pyrotechnics had been mistakenly left outside their mess tent.
The inevitable happened when, later in the evening, someone seems to have stepped outside and flicked a cigarette butt...
We heard the hullabaloo from about a mile away.
Nothing actually burnt down, but .. have you ever seen an olive drab marquee in psychedelic colours?
Last edited by Stanwell; 17th Oct 2016 at 23:15.
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I notice a lot of these great stories involve Nigeria. I'm not a pilot but had to go and service some equipment in Lagos. The airport was a complete shambles inside, outside was worse. Got a "taxi" into town. Stuck in traffic there was a couple of LOUD thumps on the car roof. I sh$t myself and looked out the window to see a pickup truck with half a dozen "soldiers". T shirts, shorts and thongs. One of them was about to thump my taxi roof again with the butt of his AK47, welcome to Lagos!
I'll never forget the way the Chief Chemist communicated with the Lab staff. He literally screamed at them, frequently! I couldn't get out of the place quick enough. I rejected a later request to service the equipment.
I've been to some dodgy places but Lagos takes the cake....!
I'll never forget the way the Chief Chemist communicated with the Lab staff. He literally screamed at them, frequently! I couldn't get out of the place quick enough. I rejected a later request to service the equipment.
I've been to some dodgy places but Lagos takes the cake....!