A Test Pilot Remembers
- At December 21, 2013
- By David Mason
- In Uncategorized
- 0
Introduction
I first met Dennis Witham in the summer of 2008 and had no idea of his past history on first meeting up with him that is until I looked around his lounge and came upon a picture of a young man in a flying suit stepping into a BAC Lightning and, as so often happens, the discussion changed direction and opened up into aeroplanes and flying.
I discovered he had been a Test Pilot responsible for experimental and development test flying of military and civil engines at Rolls Royces’ Aero-engine Division Derby & Bristol and had made a significant contribution to the development of military Avon, civil Spey and RB211 engine projects.
This unassuming man then began to reveal so much of his aeronautical past it became “boys own stuff” very quickly and I became utterly fascinated. Although Dennis has become a valued client he has also become a true friend and I am delighted that he tells us his story…
A Test Pilot Remembers
by Dennis Whitham
Part One
Murphys Law
ON THE MORNING OF 7 AUGUST 1972, THE WEATHER WAS FINE with fair-weather cumulus cloud drifting across Bristol Filton airfield on a light westerly breeze. The flight-test crew of two pilots, flight engineer and four flight-test
engineers boarded the Company’s VC-10/RB211 flying testbed G-AXLR to carry out a programme of engine performance measurement tests at various altitudes and airspeeds. It was also the first flight with a new undercowl-pressure switch designed to keep the RB211 fan cowl locks in place to prevent reverse thrust deployment in flight.
Taking off to the west over the Severn Estuary, gear and flaps were retracted and the aeroplane was accelerating to climb speed when, at 3000 feet, the reverser unlock warning light illuminated on the pilot’s instrument panel.
Throttling back to reduce airspeed the captain called for an instrumentation check and visual inspection of the RB211 through the real cabin windows. Everything appeared normal and, after some discussion among the crew, it was decided to continue the flight programme. The aeroplane was carrying fuel for a five-hour flight and to abort at this early stage would mean dumping several hundred gallons of fuel into the Bristol Channel to reduce to an acceptable landing weight on Filtons 7000 ft runway. The aeroplane resumed the climb and, almost immediately, the reverser-unlock warning light went out.
At 20,000 ft the first performance measurement run at 250 knots was completed and the second run at 300 knots was being set up when there was a severe jolt and the aeroplane yawed and rolled violently to the left. The RB211 power lever was immediately slammed back to the shut-off position and at the same time the reverser-unlock warning light illuminated. The Conways were also throttled back, to reduce the huge asymmetric thrust condition, and the aeroplane was brought back on an even keel. Airspeed was decaying at an alarming rate and at 200 knots there was no alternative but to set up a descent. The initial rate of descent was 2500 feet per minute, even when the Conways power was restored to max continuous and the aeroplane trimmed.
An instrumentation and visual check confirmed that the RB211 fan cowl was in the reverse thrust position and the engine was windmilling. It says much for the VC-10s flying qualities that she was controllable under the strong asymmetric force created by the RB211 windmilling reverse drag and both Conways at max continuous thrust. Thank heavens for rear fuselage-mounted engines! With the aeroplane grossly overweight for the predicament she was in, fuel dumping at maximum rate was initiated, even though the aeroplane was not in a designated dumping zone. With unspoken apologies to the residents of Wiltshire and Somerset, Air Traffic Control at Filton was informed of the emergency as the aeroplane headed for the Bristol Channel. Calculations of rate of descent and rate of fuel dumping revealed there was little more than ten minutes remaining before the aeroplane hit the ground, or water. As the descent progressed and the weight decreased, it became clear that the Bristol Channel was within reach. The crew was ordered to check their sea survival equipment and ditching drill. At 5000 feet over the Channel the rate of descent was less than 1000 feet per minute and the aeroplane was eased into level flight, allowing her to slow down until, at 3000 feet, she flew level with acceptable load on the flying controls.
Setting course for Filton airfield, fuel-dumping was stopped at the coastline and a detailed briefing was given on how the approach and landing would be carried out. Landing a VC-10 in this configuration had never been done before and it would be one attempt only. There would not be enough power to make a go-round. Filton ATC had made the preparations. The circuit was clear of other aircraft and the emergency services were standing by. A wider- than-normal circuit was flown, flaps and gear were lowered at airspeeds 10 to 20 knots above normal. The landing run was almost an anti-climax. A post mortem revealed that the under-cowl pressure switch was sensing the wrong pressure.
A TEST PILOT REMEMBERS
By Dennis Whitham
Part two
Not one of my better days!
“PILOT ESCAPES AS BLAZING JET NOSE-DIVES — EJECTOR SEAT LANDS ON HOUSE”. The local newspapers got a good story. I got a bad back. Nobody else got hurt. Here’s what really happened.
March 25th 1964 and I was having a normal day at the office. My office on that blustery morning was the snug air-conditioned cockpit of Lightning Mk.2 XN723* and I was quietly working my way through a series of engine hot re-slam tests at 5000 feet, covering the aircraft’s subsonic speed range. These re-slams were performed by slammimg both throttles from max dry to idle and, at a designated RPM on the rundown, re-slammimg to max reheat.
* XN723 was the first F.2 to fly on 11th July 1961 – It was externally virtually similar to the F.1A; the only external difference was a small intake scoop on the fuselage spine for a DC standby generator. However it incorporated internal design changes. These included improved navigation equipment, a steerable nosewheel, offset TACAN, liquid oxygen breathing and variable nozzle reheat.
I was operating above low cloud cover up and down a north-south line over sparsely populated country a few miles to the east of Nottingham in order to minimise the amount of fuel required for recovery to Hucknall airfield.
Flight endurance was always a problem with the Lightning. Seven tests had been completed, the engines responding smoothly without surging or malfunctioning in any way. These results would be confirmed post-flight by readouts of the onboard comprehensive data-recording system, including a voice recorder wired into the pilot’s R/T. I also had a small tape recorder strapped to my left thigh and wired into my headset intercom. This enabled me to record a lot more information than was possible by scribbling on my knee-pad and would provide the data for my flight test report.
Setting up test number 8, I selected max dry at 4000 feet, 350 knots with airbrakes out to ‘soak’ (stabilize) the engines for one minute. The aircraft accelerated steadily in a shallow climb towards 550 knots at 5000 feet, at which point I selected airbrakes in, slammed the throttles back and, at 82% rpm, re-slammed into max reheat. The number 2 (upper) engine refused to re-accelerate and the RPM ran down, accompanied by falling jetpipe temperature. No bangs or rumbling to indicate surge or mechanical failure, in fact no unusual noise or vibration at all.
Thirty seconds elapsed while I tried to analyse the problem, for this was something quite different to any malfunction I had encountered on this engine before. I was recording on tape anything and everything which might offer the engineers some clues when played back. Three seconds later the aircraft’s emergency warning system sounded its incessant beeper noise and the red master warning light was flashing. My eyes went straight to the systems warning panel just in front of my left shoulder as I silenced the beeper. My blood ran cold —an apt phrase, when I saw that the No.1 (lower) engine fire warning light was on. Within two seconds the beeper was sounding again as both reheat fire warnings illuminated.
No.1 engine was installed below and forward of No.2. My cockpit was above the bifurcated air intake duct to both engines. I began talking on tape again. “We’ve got a fire on No.1.” This was an instinctive reaction. I could not figure out what had happened to No.2 engine, but a red fire-warning light was something else and it demanded immediate positive action. I fired the extinguisher and fumbled with the cover of the fuel booster pump switches. The realisation that I was in a desperate situation, where standard emergency drills offered little remedy, had the surprising effect of steadying my nerve.
With the warning beeper sounding again to draw my attention to the loss of hydraulics and electrical power, I quickly weighed the odds on recovering the aircraft against my survival. If I tried to restart an engine, the HE (high energy) ignition might cause an explosion in the engine bay. Yet with both engines out of action, loss of hydraulic pressure to the flying controls would eventually cause them to seize up, making it impossible to manoeuvre the aircraft.
I had kept the aircraft climbing while all this was happening and now found myself at 11,000 feet with 220 knots on the clock. From now on it would be downhill all the way and the Lightning was not designed for gliding. I called Wymeswold ATC (south of Nottingham on the Leicestershire border) to establish my position and declare an emergency.
As I waited anxiously for their reply my thoughts were on the weather conditions below. Solid cloud cover, base 1200 feet, tops 3500 feet, surface wind westerly 20-25 knots. Even if I could manoeuvre the aircraft it would be virtually impossible to make a glide approach to any available runway with such a low cloud base. I was running out of options.
“Merlin 4, your steer is 355 degrees”. Wymeswold confirmed my estimated position south of Nottingham — but how far? Thinking of Loughborough and Leicester, I turned the aircraft onto a south-easterly heading away from Nottingham and toward open country. The controls felt stiff and the aircraft responded sluggishly. The red fire-warning lights were still on. I informed Wymeswold I was switching to the ‘distress’ frequency to put out a ‘Mayday’ call. This would bring several stations into action so that my exact position could be plotted and the emergency services in the area alerted. My transmission was somewhat abbreviated for the aircraft began rolling to the left and I was hard pressed to correct it, the controls were so stiff. At the same time I felt heat spreading up my back and I visualised fire spreading through the engine bays and jetpipes. I finished my transmission with “am abandoning aircraft.”
Reaching with both hands over my head for the ejection seat handle, I was dismayed to find only my left hand grasping the loop of the horizontal-B handle. The right-hand loop was not there. Twisting to look over my right shoulder I saw that it was bent over and jammed up against the cockpit canopy. Frantically I pulled it free as the twin sensations of losing control of the aircraft and increasing heat at my back became overwhelming. Instead of concentrating on adopting the correct posture for ejection I immediately pulled the handle. The cockpit canopy lifted off and immediately the double bang of the ejector seat gun drove the seat up the rails. The 85 feet-per-second acceleration forced my chin down onto my chest and, through a gap in the protective face-blind, I saw myself leaving the cockpit. The seat tilted over and I was on my back for a few seconds before it began a downward pendulum swing, at which point I was given a firm push out of the seat by the auto-separation device. Momentarily I was in free fall, rotating toward face-down when, with a sharp jerk my parachute opened and for the first time I felt intense pain around my rib cage. Discarding the face-blind I reached up for the webbing straps on which I was suspended and grunted with the severity of it. However, I felt enormous relief that the ejection sequence had worked perfectly and that my arms and legs were intact.
Looking down I saw my aircraft far below streaming a thin trail of black smoke, just before it plunged into cloud. I prayed that neither the aircraft nor the ejection seat would hurt anyone when they hit the ground. Swinging gently to and fro beneath the canopy in the clear cold air I felt something akin to enjoyment and I wished the experience could somehow be prolonged. All too soon I dropped into the clammy embrace of the clouds. If my estimate of cloud base was correct I would have little time to prepare for landing when I emerged from it at 1200 ft.
To my consternation, when I did see the landscape below, I was travelling backwards at a spanking pace and the ground was coming up to meet me at an alarming rate. Glancing over my shoulder I saw green fields, thank heavens!, and high-tension cables — “oh ‘ell!” Ignoring the pain I pulled on the webbing straps and succeeded in swinging myself round to face the direction in which I was travelling. Bringing my knees up I cleared the cable by inches and saw, directly ahead, a round sewerage filter bed. “Oh dear, Whitham’s in the sh… again!” I said to myself. Skimming over the filter bed I just managed to turn my body sideways-on with knees bent before landing with a squelch in the muddy corner of a large field. So ended my first and never to be forgotten (nor repeated) parachute jump.
Getting out of the ‘chute harness was painful but my limbs were intact. I removed my oxygen mask and helmet and, to my amazement, found the small tape recorder still strapped to my left thigh. That could be very useful to the accident investigators, particularly if the aircraft data recorders were not recoverable. As I struggled to stand up the pain in my ribs fused with another sharper pain between my shoulder blades. Taking stock of my position I saw that I was in a shallow depression and at first glance there were no signs of habitation on the higher ground. Then my eyes focused on something on the skyline — a rooftop with a chimney. It was a few hundred yards away across a field but the upslope did not look too steep and, on reflection, what choice did I have? No-one was going to find me if I stayed where I was.
I do not know how long it took me to stumble my way up that field but eventually I reached the backdoor of a neat brick house. The nice-looking young woman who opened the door to my knock was a little taken aback as I asked for help. “Are you from Stoughton aerodrome then?” She looked at my muddy dishevelled appearance. “No”, I replied, “I’ve just baled out of an aircraft and I’m hurt”. “Oh, you’d best come in then”, she said. This was my lucky day, for Sylvia Tomlinson was the local bobby’s wife, and I was at the Police House in the village of Houghton-on-the-Hill, just five miles east of Leicester city centre. She immediately telephoned the emergency services and then got through to my boss, Cliff Rogers at Hucknall. Putting him in the picture I felt relieved, knowing he would take control, set wheels in motion and sort things out.
Mrs Tomlinson handed me a cup of tea. I leaned upright against the sideboard (I daren’t sit down) and engaged her three-year-old son in conversation about the Dinky cars he was playing with. Eventually, help arrived in the form of two firemen, who had been diverted en route to the crash site to pick me up and take me to Leicester Infirmary. One of the orderlies wheeling me into the casualty department, eying my flying suit and helmet, called out “Alright, Bill — just another bloody motorcyclist.” I couldn’t be bothered to react. My reserves of physical and mental stamina were ebbing away and, feeling the need for a shoulder to lean on, I asked one of the firemen to stay with me until my boss arrived. When an Indian-looking doctor appeared on the scene and asked me to get off the bed, stand up straight, then try to bend over and touch my toes, like a zombie I began to do his bidding. Then something clicked in my head and I said, “Don’t be bloody silly.” As I levered myself back onto the bed I noticed my fireman friend engaging the doctor in quiet conversation. After an uncomfortable session in the X-ray department I was back in the casualty begging a cigarette off my friend (my pipe was back in the office) when a minor commotion at the door heralded the arrival of Cliff and my wife, Chris.
The Indian doctor was not best pleased at this invasion of his domain and, after a few minutes of agitated discussion, looked at me severely. “Do you want to discharge yourself from this hospital?” I looked at Cliff, he nodded, I said “Yes”, and before I knew it I was tucked up in the Company ambulance in the capable hands of Sister Downham for the long drive home to Watnall. Just before we departed I handed my tape recorder to Cliff. “I hope it’s all there”, I said. “Oh, and tell Jock Cameron (flight safety equipment department) that the seat worked fine.” After the indignity of being carried upstairs in my own house, I shut up as Sister Downham helped Chris to put me to bed. The doctor came and went. He diagnosed damage to several vertebrae in the area between my shoulder blades, but no injury to ribs. One of the irritating aspects of lying on one’s sick-bed, I discovered, was that doctors invariably discuss their findings with family and friends out of earshot of the patient. Very disconcerting and very annoying. I remember little of the following twenty-four hours. The pain and the effects of delayed shock were uncomfortable and very embarrassing. Chris coped well, with the support of the doctor and Sister Downham and, by the end of the second day, we were ready to receive visitors. Cliff and John Dent (Chief Flight Test Engineer) confirmed news reports that the aircraft had crashed in a field, damaging neither property nor people, and that the ejection seat had landed by the back door of a cottage, breaking a window but hurting no-one. The aircraft data and voice recorders had been recovered and, together with my personal tape recorder, would help identify the cause of the crash. Within two more days the engineers came up with the answer.
The thermometer probe inserted into the main high-pressure fuel pipe of the No.2 (upper) engine had been blown out of its housing by the fuel pressure — the retaining-nut was still secured to the tapping on the pipe. On test number 8 the probe blew out and the engine ran down as it became starved of fuel. However, fuel was now released into the engine bay through the open tapping. This quickly seeped through the bay floor and onto the hot section of the lower engine where it ignited — hence the engine fire warning for this engine. At the same time, the leaking fuel sprayed aft and ignited in the reheat jetpipe zones of both engines —hence the reheat fire warnings on both engines.
The engineers were able to confirm that both engines had been shut down and the fire extinguishers had been discharged. There was clear evidence of fire in the lower engine bay and the jetpipe zones, but none of mechanical failure of either engine. A Ministry of Aviation board of inquiry was held at my bedside some days later, the subsequent findings of which endorsed my account of the incident and the technical investigation carried out by our engineers. One of the recommendations was that the sealing of the upper engine bay floor should be improved. The Company put me in the capable hands of the Royal Air Force medics and after excellent treatment in their hospital and rehabilitation units, I was flying again three months later.
The Rolls-Royce Heritage Trust
Formed in 1981 to promote and preserve the history and engineering excellence of Rolls-Royce. There are five Branches which serve the historical interests of the ancestor companies that, over the years, were assimilated to create the present-day Rolls-Royce – http://www.rolls-royce.heritage_trust/
A Good Shepherd
All too often, emergencies in flight were compounded by either too much fuel or not enough. The VC-10 incident was an example of too much fuel adding to the crews difficulties. In the following incident, running out of fuel was my main concern.
On 4 April 1966 I took off from Hucknall in Lightning Mk.3 XN734 to carry out a supersonic acceleration to Mach 2, followed by an energy climb to 60,000 feet along the Bedford supersonic range. This was a 10-mile-wide corridor from Bedford north-east to The Wash. Climbing to 37,000 feet, the tropopause on that day, Bedford control helped me to align the aircraft for the supersonic acceleration along the range. Given the go-ahead, I selected max reheat at Mach 09 and felt the usual firm push in the back as the aircraft accelerated. After a slight hesitation in the transonic region (Mach 098 to 1.03) accompanied by a tailplane trim change, the aircraft settled into a smooth and steady supersonic acceleration and it became eerily quiet in the cockpit as the shockwave cone developed. The pace of the acceleration was such that I had to talk rapidly, without pause, to record engine and aircraft data.
At Mach 2 I eased the aircraft into an energy climb. The aim was to convert speed (kinetic energy) into height and the technique evolved around a smooth low-G pull up to 40- 45-degree climb angle, followed by a controlled push-over to maintain zero G as the climb progressed max reheat thrust was maintained throughout the climb. Ambient temperature at the tropopause and beyond into the stratosphere was critical in determining the ultimate altitude reached. A year later, we were aiming for and achieving 70-75000 feet, but on this flight 60,000 feet was the programmed altitude.
At 60,000 feet I eased the aircraft out of the climb at Mach 1.2 and recorded my final readings. I throttled back to cancel reheat and applied tailplane trim to counteract the transonic pitch change. The aircraft trembled and felt unstable. Stalling? Pushing the nose down I focused on the Machmeter and the airspeed indicator. They did not make sense in relation to the behaviour of the aircraft and they were not responding in unison as speed increased in the dive. Levelling off at 36,000 feet I set cruise RPM and turned westward towards the Lincolnshire coast. It was immediately obvious that the Machmeter and airspeed indicator were not functioning properly, due to some fault in the pitot/static supply. They were giving false readings for level cruise flight and did not respond normally to acceleration and deceleration. I was in a fix.
Flying an approach to land at 170 knots with no airspeed indicator would be difficult enough in gin-clear weather, but the weather below was anything but. A solid sheet of low stratus covered the area and I would have to make a radar- controlled instrument approach. With no airspeed indicator, Hucknall’s relatively short runway was not an option. I called RAF Binbrook, the nearest Lightning airfield, to check their weather conditions. “Cloud base 400 feet, visibility 1 mile . Oh dear!” I began to feel very apprehensive as I described my predicament to the controller.
“What’s your endurance?’ he asked. “About twenty minutes, I replied, with a rueful glance at the fuel gauges. “Standby’, he said, “we’ll try to get you a shepherd”. The RAF controllers were past-masters at playing down emergency situations and this one was an ace. In a calm matter-of-fact voice he kept me informed as they diverted a Lightning from exercise over Yorkshire and vectored him onto me. Meanwhile, all I could do was set engine RPM for endurance flying and orbit overhead Binbrook.
After a nail-biting ten minutes of watching my fuel gauges run down I was joined by Sqn Ldr John Vickery in a Lightning and he invited me to formate on him for the recovery to Binbrook. Slipping into close formation on his right wing I said ‘Long time since I did this”. His response was to brief me in some detail about how we would fly an approach to land in close formation. It was just like being back in the RAF. Very reassuring — for me!
The descent in clear weather helped me to settle down to close-formation flying, so that when we dropped into cloud for the radar approach to land, I felt reasonably confident. How my shepherd felt about it I’m not sure. He certainly demonstrated great flying skill and airmanship in the way he gave his calls for airbrakes, flaps, gear down and so on. I knew we both had insufficient fuel to make a go-round; we had to make it first time. Sweating with concentration, I clung to John’s wingtip until, at a very low altitude, we emerged from cloud and he began calling airspeed reductions to the runway threshold. Only in the final fifty feet did I start looking at the runway ahead. We landed, I called ‘chute deployed”, John followed suit and we completed our landing run.
After shutdown in dispersal I went across to thank him for rescuing both me and my aircraft. It turned out he had even less fuel remaining than me and made a joke about calling for a tractor to tow him to the dispersal. What a splendid example of selfless commitment on his part. I was pleased to hear that he got a Green Endorsement commendation from the AOC for his effort. The fault in my aircraft was caused by an instrumentation tapping into the pitot/static system coming adrift.
XN734; C/N 95113 ff D. de Villiers 13-7-62 Samlesbury. Aircraft on charge to Rolls Royce for engine development programme F 3 (Avon 301s). To Hucknall, 6-12-65; returned to Warton, 18-9-67; to 60 MU, 5-2-70. Sold to the BAC for Saudi Arabian contract as G27-239. Scrapped at Cranfield 1/12/94
G-27-239 (cn 95113) Initially allocated British military serial XN734 and was used by Rolls Royce for engine development in the early sixties, later allocated the maintenance number 8346M for ground instruction with the RAF. British Aircraft Corporation used the ‘Class B’ registration G-27-239 with its Saudi Support Unit. It was purchased by Aces High in 1986 and allocated the civilian registration G-BNCA. Scrapped at Cranfield in December 1994.
Gallery
Spitfire MK XIV G-ALGT was originally fitted with a Rolls Royce Griffon engine MK 65 which was the original design standard. Unfortunately no further spares are available for this type of engine fitted to G-ALGT and also the Griffon 66 fitted to a Spitfire MK XIX of the Battle of Britain flight. Both engines have reached the end of their approved life. As a result of this Rolls Royce have undertaken a study to modify the Griffon MK 58 engine as it is currently used in the Shackleton AEW MK2 aircraft, to be interchangeable with the Griffon MK 65. The changes required to achieve this standard are integrated into Rolls Royce modification No 267.
Herbert Clifford Rogers OBE DFC Joined R.A.F. in 1938 as aircraft apprentice. Trained as pilot in 1941 and flew Lancasters on operations. Served also with Transport Command before leaving the Service. Was awarded D.F.C. Appointed C.F.I, at Tollerton Airport until joining Rolls-Royce in 1948.Cliff Rogers was the Chief Test Pilot at Hucknall until 1971.
A weird and wonderful flying machine
In 1969, the German company VFW invited three British test pilots to fly their experimental 1262 Hover Rig, designed to evaluate a new fly-by-wire control system for their proposed VTOL fighter, the VAK191. The Rig was powered by five Rolls–Royce RB 108 jet lift engines and, as project test pilot for those engines, I was included in the party.
Ludwig (Lui) Obermeier, VFW’s chief test pilot, was a great fan of Rolls-Royce and had asked me over a day ahead of the others. Displaying a jovial concern for my welfare, he stopped off at the hospital en-route to the airfield to have my blood type identified. “Our blood wagon at the test site is always kept fully stocked with the pilot’s blood type,” he chortled.
In a remote corner of Bremen airport, I became acquainted with the Hover Rig. Tethered to the ground on a huge steel pedestal over a metal grid, it looked like something out of H.G.Wells. Within a long steel framework were the five small lift engines, all in a row. In the centre section were two small fuel tanks.
Thin steel tubes ran along its length, nose to tail and also athwartships, forming stubby mechano–like outriggers. It had two main wheels and a nose wheel. The open cockpit had a canvas cover around front and sides. A familiar and welcome sight was the pilot’s ejection seat. I strapped in, looked through the windshield and there, perched on the nose was a triple cup anemometer. Was Emmet on the design team?
With engines running, I was cleared to manoeuvre the Rig. The controls were conventional – a stick for pitch and bank and foot pedals for yaw control. It was, I soon discovered, different from both the fixed wing aircraft and helicopters I was familiar with. I could select and maintain an angle in pitch and bank by moving the stick and holding it in a fixed position. The Rig would yaw at a rate selected by foot pedal position.
All of which was achieved by sending electrical signals to nozzles, supplied by compressed air from the engines, making them open or close. Hence the term ‘Fly-by-Wire’. Nozzles were positioned at nose and tail and also athwartships on the outriggers. I tried to imagine how I would control this ungainly contraption in free flight.
The moment arrived ‘when men would be sorted from boys’ and, as I mounted the Rig positioned free standing over the grid, the final words of Lui’s briefing were ringing in my ears. “Remember, you have only twelve minutes fuel endurance..”
Take-off checks complete, I took a deep breath and opened the single throttle lever controlling all engines. The vertical lift off was clean and I established a hover at 30 feet over the grid. I was pleased with the engines response and so long as I didn’t get overactive on the controls, I could maintain position. Transition to forward flight was straightforward, but with the engines mounted rigidly in the tilting airframe, I had to juggle with the throttle to maintain height. In sideways and rotating manoeuvres, it felt like a helicopter, except for a total lack of control feedback. I arrived back over the grid at 30 feet to find two engineers positioned at roughly 11 o’clock and 1 o’clock to act as ‘guide dogs’.
Once position was established, the vertical descent to land was no problem; the grid absorbed the down jet blast. On shutdown, my stopwatch showed 8.12 minutes elapsed time. On my second flight, I tried more adventurous manoeuvres and began to come to terms with the Rig slavishly following my stick and rudder movements. I made it back to the grid with just two minutes to spare. It was a stimulating exercise and I was presented with a cartoon-like certificate, signed by all the VFW crew, to remind me of it. Subsequently, Lui made a series of test flights in the VAK191 and had a few ‘interesting moments’ before the project was cancelled.
History records that Rolls-Royce was placed in receivership in February 1971. By then the RB211 had already flown on the VC-10 and the L1011. What remained in shortfall was engine thrust — yet before February was through, an enormous improvement was recorded — from 34,000 lb thrust to the 40,000 lb the L1011, by then known as TriStar, needed. The improvement reflected the touch of Sir Stanley Hooker (SGH) who, having returned from retirement, commented that “the RB211 crisis would never have come about had that great jewel Lombard been at the helm. But it did and the engine entered service with Eastern Airlines a year late. We all know what a success the RB211 ultimately became and that todays Trent engine family is now beginning to dominate its sector of the world market.
Artifacts and images of the Cyprus tour 1954/6
A sombre letter to British Service personnel from EOKA
Ethniki Organosis Kyprion Agoniston (“National Organisation of Cypriot Fighters”). A Greek Cypriot nationalist paramilitary organisation that fought a campaign for the end of British rule in Cyprus, for the island’s self-determination and for eventual union with Greece. During the course of the insurrection, 105 British servicemen were killed as well as 51 members of the police.
Photo reconnaissance over the Suez Canal and Red Sea in Gloster Meteor PR.10 at 500 feet AGL – 1954
A personal note to Flying Instructors and Pupils from Air Vice Marshall Brookes AOC 25 Group between 1956 and 1958…
…and finally the ‘Autumn Ball’, Little Rissington, 1956
Thank you Dennis
Chris Whitham – postscript with a twist!
The familiar scene of another get-together for the few survivors of a Lancaster Squadron, their families and loyal supporters, who would never miss a reunion at the Lincolnshire airfield which meant so much to them.
The photographer was setting up his camera and people were taking their places. There was a lot of chat and laughter as people greeted old friends. Even the weather was good. The photographer called ‘smile’.
Unexpectedly someone shouted ‘Whose dog is that on the front row? Anyone?’ Nobody claimed the dog but one of the men took the dog to the back where there was a path, telling it to ‘go home’. By the time this gallant man had regained his seat, the dog had reappeared and was sitting in his place on the front row. This caused some amusement and some of the people called out to the photographer to take his pictures. After all, the dog was well behaved and doing no harm.
That evening after an excellent dinner at the Woodhall Spa Hotel, the photographs were on display and people were able to make their particular choice.
Just one comment from everyone – ‘Where was the dog?’
The photographer and his assistant said not one of the plates he had taken that afternoon had shown a dog.
Could this have been the ghost of Nigger – Guy Gibsons beloved Labrador!