June 1938
The melancholy mood that followed the fatal accident at Hawkinge did not persist in the squadron for very long as we received the news that our Gladiator fighters would be arriving shortly. So it was in only a few days that I came down to the flight one morning to hear, not the familiar crackle of Rolls-Royce Kestrels being warmed up by the ground crews, but the strange sound of rattling valve rockers and the swish of the huge slow-turning wooden propeller of the Gladiators and their Mercury engines. And what a welcome sound it was, and what an exciting sight to see these superb, aggressive-looking fighters lined up on the tarmac outside our hangar and to know that I was once again going to be able to fly a real fighter. This was the last of the epoch of silver-winged biplane fighters going back to such unforgettable names as the Snipe, the Camel and the SE.5. Compared with the monoplane fighters already in service in the Luftwaffe it was obsolete, but nevertheless it deserves an honoured place in the annals of RAF history for it performed very creditably when put to the test in the early stages of the war when our resources were stretched to the limits. In northern France Gladiator squadrons flew in support of the British Expeditionary Force in the winter of 1940, and later as part of the Advanced Air Strike Force. Very few of those aircraft ever came home, but they contributed to the breathing space that was desperately needed at that time. The Gladiators operated very successfully in North Africa, Norway, Greece and Malta. Where they came up against the Fiat CR.42 of the Regia Aeronautica they shot down a great number, and acquitted themselves well in many theatres, including Aden, Syria and Iraq. In the latter case a military coup led by one Rashid Ali, an Arab with strong German sympathies, was seen to be a serious threat to our interests in the Middle East. Our main base at Royal Air Force Habbaniyah, forty miles west of Baghdad, was the key to our defence and was seen to be such by the Germans, who persuaded Rashid Ali to lay siege to the base. A strong Arab artillery force was deployed on the plateau overlooking the airfield, and for several days it pounded the base with heavy gunfire. A spirited defence was mounted in reply by training aircraft from No. 4 Flying Training School, whose base it was. Their aircraft of Airspeed Oxfords and Harvards were fitted with makeshift bomb racks and guns, and their pilots took on their unaccustomed role with bravado. They were hard pressed and suffered quite a few casualties, but help was at hand when a flight of Gladiators, all that could spared, was sent up from Egypt and helped to turn the tide. Rashid Ali was sent packing and calm returned to Habbaniyah, this courageous Royal Air Force strategic base on the Euphrates. Several years later I was reminded of this piece of Arab treachery when I took command of a fighter-bomber wing of Venom fighters at Habbaniyah. They too would take their place in Middle Eastern military history when they were called upon to attack Egyptian installations at the head of the Suez Canal in the Anthony Eden débâcle.
The Gladiator was the most prolific of all the biplanes, and some 450 were manufactured and saw service in many parts of the world. The aircraft was a delight to fly, with a good rate of climb and great manoeuvrability. Originally it had a very flat approach and landing angle because of its excellent streamlining, but the fitting of generous-sized flaps on each of the four mainplanes gave a marked improvement, making the approach much steeper and providing a better view over the nose for the approach and landing. The use of these flaps, however, could be a dangerous trap for the unwary because there was a considerable downward change of trim when they were lowered, and this had to be appreciated and the aircraft trimmed accordingly. However, it was only a matter of getting used to it, and it presented no problem as experience was gained on the aeroplane.
The Munich Crisis brought an end to those halcyon days of air shows, formation aerobatics and any fun flying, and everything was sharply focused on states of readiness, combat tactics and interception practices against formations of Battles, Hampdens and Blenheims. The lovely silver wings that epitomized my original romantic ideas of flying military aircraft were gone now, repainted with drab warlike camouflage. But these extra months of ‘phoney war’ provided an opportunity for the Royal Air Force to get its act together and put in place our ground radar stations that were to play a vital part later on. With the Gladiator the squadron felt that we now had a chance of putting up a reasonable fight, even against the Me 109s, if we could be directed by the developing ground radar stations and put into a favourable position with a height advantage to attack the faster Germans. Up to this time, however, the radar stations were not advanced enough to give regular practice interceptions for our fighters. Another aspect of our training now had to be given immediate attention. It was becoming clear that we were going to have to fly in much worse weather than in peacetime days and nights, and so training in flying on instruments was intensified. The Gladiator was the first fighter to be fitted with what became known as the standard instrument flying panel. This panel grouped together in logical layout the dials of the instruments needed for flying without reference to outside features like the horizon. Hitherto these instruments were quite often spread around the cockpit in a haphazard fashion, which made it very difficult for a pilot to adopt the first rule of blind flying. This was to concentrate on continually scanning all the blind-flying instruments together and coordinate their readings to give a true picture of the aircraft’s attitude. This needed practice and above all concentration. If this was lost it was easy to become disoriented and one was tempted to disbelieve one’s instruments. I was appointed as the Squadron Instrument Flying Instructor, and in October was sent to North Weald for a Link trainer course. At this time I was thrilled to get my logbook back from the squadron commander annotated with his annual assessment of ‘Exceptional as a Fighter Pilot’, a fairly rare annotation, not very often seen!
When the Link trainer arrived it was set up in the Education Section and I was put in charge. It might be said that the Link trainer was the first ‘simulator’, as it reproduced on the ground an aircraft’s cockpit with a standard instrument flying panel, flying controls and a throttle, and it provided a means, although primitive, of training pilots to read their instruments to maintain control of their aircraft under blind-flying conditions The trainer could be fully enclosed and the instructor sat at a desk where a duplicate set of instruments was displayed so that he could monitor the pupil’s performance. The instructor also had a ‘crab’ connected electronically to the trainer, which marked through an inked wheel the course followed by the trainer on a chart on the instructor’s table. There was an intercom system of communications, and blind approaches to airfields could be practised through using the Lorenz System. Approaches were made by flying down a beam broadcast over the radio. A continuous note marked the desired centre-line, and dots or dashes would sound if the aircraft was to one side or the other of the centreline. This Lorenz System was later developed and became the standard instrument landing system (ILS) fitted in most Air Force aircraft and installed at many airfields. It is still in use today by both military and civil aircraft.
When I was not flying I spent nearly all my time putting the squadron pilots through the instrument flying routine. More and more of our flying included practical exercises in climbing and descending through cloud, and as confidence grew aircraft were regularly taken up through the overcast in formation. As the squadron’s instrument flying instructor I am ashamed to admit that on one occasion at this time I committed the worst blunder imaginable, with nearly tragic results. I had climbed up through about 5,000 feet of cloud in my Gladiator to get above the overcast and to carry out a trial on the use of a gunsight mirror in sunny conditions. After completing the trial and jotting down my notes on my knee-pad I could not resist a few loops and rolls in the lovely clear skies But in a moment of madness and disregarding all the rules that I was always impressing on my pupils, I dived straight into the cloud without a thought for checking my instruments, and forgetting that the artificial horizon would have been toppled during my aerobatics. I had no time to prepare for the concentration needed for flying on instruments before the thick fog of cloud enveloped me. From the joy and thrill of throwing the Gladiator around in the sunlight I suddenly felt the icy chill of a malevolent cockpit around me and a forboding fear that I had never experienced before. Unaccountably I then did another unforgivable thing, and trusted in my own ‘seat of the pants’ feelings rather my instruments. I could swear that the aircraft was diving and turning to the right, so I tried to correct this by rolling to the left. All at once the cockpit filled with dust and sand and I was hanging on my safety harness. The realization that I was completely disorientated, inverted and in a very dangerous situation unless I could regain control while still in cloud made me get a grip on myself. I concentrated on what my instruments were telling me, ignoring the artificial horizon, and gradually brought the Gladiator under control and descended gently through the cloud. With blessed thankfulness I saw horses grazing in a paddock and a newly turned ploughed field opened up below me. Once again the friendly, familar cockpit seemed to wrap around me reassuringly, and the landing back at Hawkinge was as confident as always. But it was a very chastened ‘exceptional’ fighter pilot who contemplated what had happened, and I admit I have never let on to anyone before now that moment of folly and its scary consequences.