STORMY STRUGGLE
RAINDROPS KEPT FALLING ON ROGER COLEBROOK’S HEAD
With a sense of awkwardness I stared up at the briefing room ceiling. The briefing officer, interrupted by the increasing racket of rain that drummed incessantly on the flimsy roof, gazed at me. He remained silent for some moments and in the ensuing pause I made cracks in the corrugations turn into charts of roads and hills, and I wondered how much more this rickety prefabricated structure could endure before drips of water turned into disastrous deluges. I speculated on whether the nighttime flight we were planning would be realistic in these drastic conditions. As if he had read my mind, the briefing officer raised his voice to continue.
56(F) Squadron Lightning flies over Cyprus.
“Sod it,” said Squadron Leader Paul Hobley, who, as well as leader for the planned sortie, was my 56(F) Squadron flight commander. A humorous man, our flight commander was no ectomorph. His buoyant, larger-than-life character offered a role model for the younger pilots like myself. “We’re meant to be an all-weather outfit, are we not?” He looked up at the ceiling.
“In that case,” he growled, “we should fly in all weather conditions, should we not?”
“That’s okay with me.”
The flight commander, though, seemed unconvinced by his own line of logic. Perhaps conscious of my lack of flying experience on the Lightning, he appeared to struggle with his necessary decision. He stepped towards the nearest window and squinted his eyes as he tried to look outside. “Bugger,” he breathed, as if to himself; his attempts to observe were thwarted by rain driven forcefully against the glass. I guessed that conflicting ideas within his head must have been influenced by the events of just six months ago – the Arab-Israeli Six-Day War had been fought a short distance across the Mediterranean Sea from our squadron base at Akrotiri in Cyprus. At the front of all our minds, the situation remained volatile; our involvement in one way or another could not be ruled out. We had been briefed, for instance, on how, three days into the conflict, on Thursday 8th June 1967, a United States ship, the USS Liberty, had been attacked by Israeli jets and torpedo boats. The Liberty, very nearly sunk in the assault, had suffered over 30 deaths and many injured sailors. Israeli apologies had been received with scepticism by some US crew members who claimed that the attack, so they reckoned, may well have been deliberate.
If Israel, or another Middle East country, decided to attack Cyprus (which would happen seven years later with the Turkish invasion of the island) then our 56(F) Squadron Lightning Mk 3s would be required to provide air defence of the sovereign base areas. Bearing in mind the Six-Day War, this was some commitment for we had been briefed on how, at 0745 hours (Israeli time) on the morning of 5th June 1967, coincident with civil defence sirens sounding across Israel, all but 12 of the Israeli Air Force’s nearly 200 jet aircraft had conducted a mass attack against Egyptian airfields. The Israelis had approached below radar cover and in the ensuing mêlée a total of over 300 Egyptian aircraft, including large numbers of the latest Soviet-built MiG 21 fighters and Tu-16 Badger medium bombers, had been destroyed and some 100 Egyptian pilots killed.
Such a scenario applied to our Cyprus situation with our dozen or so 56(F) Squadron Lightnings would mean that – to put it mildly – we’d face challenges of Gordian knot complexity. We knew that our best tactic, therefore, was to build a reputation as an efficient, audacious unit capable of operating in any weather, day or night, to provide deterrence against attack in this tense and turbulent region. During the Six-Day War, and for a short period afterwards, our QRA (Quick Reaction Alert) duties, normally restricted to daylight hours, were extended to a full 24-hour commitment. Camp beds were set up in the squadron crew room and rostered pilots slept in their flying suits. Pilots were briefed to expect possible defectors from Israel’s neighbours who might seek safe haven at Akrotiri. From my own point of view, I was non-operational at the time nevertheless I slept most nights in the squadron crew room in order to provide support in the form of tea, coffee, snacks and general dogs-body tasks for the operational pilots.
“Oh, bloody hell,” said the flight commander. His vivid eyes burned forth from plump cheeks as he gazed first at me, then outside. “I think I’ll have a word with the engineers.”
My mind was in turmoil as I watched him push past the briefing room’s cheap, battered furniture towards the telephone. He picked up the receiver and my thoughts seemed to churn. Just over a year had elapsed since my first solo flight on the Lightning and although I felt that I’d matured considerably during that period, I was still only twenty-one years of age and still had much to learn. I had always wanted to be a fighter pilot; I loved flying – even if it meant coping with sub-tropical rain storms from time to time – but I was learning that sometimes the job’s realities did not always match dreamy-headed expectations. Demands could be tough in a belligerent world embroiled in hostilities. As well as the ongoing ramifications of the Six-Day War, the Vietnam War was a serious issue at the time. The United States, with hundreds of thousands of troops committed to Vietnam, relied on air superiority and overwhelming fire power to defeat the pro-communist Vietcong guerrillas. Despite this, the war did not appear to be going well for the Americans. We would read in the newspapers about large-scale attacks by the likes of B66 Destroyer aircraft and F105 Thunderchiefs, but we would read, too, about the terrible numbers of casualties suffered by both sides.
“You’re joking,” the flight commander scowled as he spoke on the phone. “This seems to be a reasonable theoretical statement on the subject,” he continued, “but…” I turned to watch as he made a circling gesture with his left hand as if to encourage applause. “Fine,” he said, “let’s do it that way, then.” He replaced the receiver and gazed in my direction. “Well, young Roger,” he said, “looks like we’re going to fill our boots.” He guffawed and went on: “or get them filled, more like.”
“Right-oh,” I said. I watched him closely as he walked back to his chair and sat down again.
“The engineers want to adopt special procedures in this weather,” he said. “The start-up crews will be wearing heavy oilskins for protection so won’t be able to assist with the strapping-in process. The aircraft canopies will be kept closed for as long as practicable, we’ll have to open them ourselves then close them ASAP when we’re in the cockpits. We’ll follow normal procedures from then on. Are you okay with that? Are you happy?”
“Ecstatic!”
“Good-oh.” At this, he hastily re-summarised the details of our planned sortie’s high altitude work before we both stood up, donned our life jackets and ‘bone domes’ (headsets) and moved towards the crew room’s exit door. For a moment we stood by the open door and listened to the dull, sullen sound of deluge. We glanced at each other, nodded, and began to run.
The distance we had to cover was not great, just a hundred yards or so. Time and motion, however, became distorted as we tried to rush, heads bowed, eyes half-closed, towards the engineering line hut. Wincing at the sting of driving rain against faces, our progress was hampered by impromptu streams that swirled around our feet. More like sailors on deck than airmen about to fly, in our confined world of wind and wet I could almost feel a ship’s motion, the scour of flotsam thrown up by the seas, the sting of salt against face and hands. While we struggled onwards, I seemed to hear the creaks and groans of the ship’s superstructure, the grumbles and gurgles as spray, solid as streamers, was propelled against us before exhausted remnants careered towards overworked drainage systems. Just as the ship’s steering gear would struggle to weave the ship’s course, so the flight commander and I threaded our way through the torrents until suddenly, looking like a couple of drowned rats, we burst into the line hut.
The line chief and his men watched us warily. Too polite to make any comment, their expressions nonetheless suggested: “Are you nuts, or something? Are you off your tiny rockers?” We walked towards a desk to check the aircraft logs. “Oh Roger, Roger,” I reasoned with myself, “am I nuts? Have I lost the plot? Am I off my jolly little rocker?” I scrawled a signature in the aircraft technical log, saw that the flight commander had done the same, glanced at the line chiefie and noted his continued muteness. Admittedly the flight commander and I with bone domes on our heads could not hear very well, nevertheless it struck me that some comment, perhaps a terse “good luck, gents” or even “goodbye, gents,” would not have gone amiss. Silence, though, persisted as we two pilots braced ourselves for another dash.
When, after what felt like an ongoing sea dip, the pair of us eventually reached our aircraft, further problems had to be tackled. In order to operate the Lightning’s perspex canopy, a fiddly side hatch had to be accessed after which, at the press of a switch, the canopy could be hydraulically raised. The procedure, though, appeared painfully long-drawn-out, especially with wet, slippery hands. As speedily as possible I carried out the briefed procedure, scrambling into the cockpit from where I could operate the internal cockpit switch to re-close the canopy. By then, however, the interior of the cockpit, including the Martin Baker ejection seat, had become drenched. There was a puddle of water by my feet. The inside of the canopy had started to mist over. The aircraft instruments, beaded with water, were hard to read. Attempts to mop up with my handkerchief, shirt sleeves, gloves – anything – were hampered as these items were themselves already sodden. I strived, however, to make the best of a bad job as I carried out the pre-start checks. Then, after a glance at the other Lightning, I signalled ‘engine start’ to the attendant crewman who, planted there in his stiff oilskins, would not have looked out of place on the heaving deck of a square-rigger off Cape Horn. Nevertheless, he returned my hand signal at which I reached for the start buttons and pressed the appropriate one.
Fortunately, the first of the Rolls-Royce Avons fired-up without difficulty – testimony to the engine’s reliability in even the foulest of conditions – and I could switch on the Lightning’s powerful demisting system. Although the inside of the canopy around my head began to clear, problems at the other end persisted: pools of water by my feet continued to slosh around the floor.
“I’m in an all-weather fighter aircraft…an all-weather fighter aircraft…an all-weather…” the flight commander’s edict ran through my head as I monitored the engines’ start cycles. With both engines successfully ‘burning and turning’ I waited for the leader’s radio call to air traffic control for taxi clearance. Soon, when this had been granted, we began to make steady progress along the rainswept taxiways. While we made headway I thought about tonight’s contrast to more usual Cypriot weather when, in daytime, heat haze would hang like a vapour over the airfield. A typical day’s sun would bear down on shoulders and backs, perspiration would seep from skin, trickle down necks to collect by belts, and prickly heat would cause airforce issue shirts to feel damp and uncomfortable.
However, tonight’s damp, caused by rather different reasons, was put swiftly to the back of my mind when the leader was cleared to take off. When he moved to the downwind side of the runway in order to avoid spray and jet-wake blowing across my take-off path, I thought so far so good. As the leader released his aircraft brakes, I pressed the timer on my stopwatch. After 30 seconds, I released my own brakes, selected full cold power (use of reheat in these conditions was not recommended), and held the ailerons into wind as my aircraft set off down the runway. My peripheral vision picked up a spray-filled blur of runway lights on each side as the Lightning accelerated. At the appropriate airspeed I pulled back the stick for lift-off at which point, quite suddenly, I realised that I had a problem. The main attitude indicator on my flight instrument panel, the not-too-catchily-named OR946, had moved promptly to the top of its glass window and flopped onto its side. Furthermore, I had suffered a simultaneous tailplane trim nose-up runaway – I needed to push hard on the stick to retain control of the aircraft.
In these conditions I relied heavily on my flight instruments to indicate the aircraft heading and attitude. Unless I knew instantly whether I was in a climb, a descent or a turn, disorientation and potential disaster would follow rapidly. The standby horizon still functioned but, tiny and awkwardly placed, this was an instrument of last resort. With low cloud scudding around at some 300 feet I reckoned that my safest option was to stay below this level. Without looking, I fumbled around in the cockpit to feel for the autopilot master switch and the stability augmentation switch. I turned them off but this had no effect. I made an emergency call to air traffic control. Just as the controller responded, the attitude indicator on the said OR946 immediately reversed its position and the aircraft pitched nose-down. At once, my push on the control stick had to be converted to an anguished pull to prevent a frenetic earthwards plunge. Fortunately this worked, but as I raised the aircraft nose, the tailplane trim now ran fully nose-up again. In a split-second my desperate pull on the stick had to revert once more to an equally desperate, adrenaline-charged push.
“Shit,” I thought as, with high anxiety, I attempted to assess my situation. At least I could see a pattern now: an aircraft climbing attitude induced runaway nose-up trim, and vice-versa. In other words, anything other than a straight and level attitude would mean trouble. I decided not to raise the undercarriage and, consequently, I had to keep my airspeed below the 250 knot undercarriage limiting speed. I decided also that, come what may, I should not lose sight of the yellow glow from station and married quarter lighting which was eerily, but fortuitously, reflected along the base of the low cloud. My best hope was to fly as judiciously as possible and attempt to keep aircraft movements in pitch to the minimum. I reasoned, too, that a push force would be required as the aircraft nose came up for the final part of the approach.
As I turned the Lightning downwind I knew that fine judgement was required: a circuit that was wide enough to offer room for manoeuvre, but one that was not too wide – not too much of a Bomber Command-type effort that might cause me to lose sight of the airfield lights. At what I reckoned to be a suitable moment, I lowered the flaps and began to ease the airspeed back to 185 knots. As I did so, I noted that, with the flaps down, the aircraft’s vertical oscillations seemed to reduce. I double-checked the cockpit ‘three wheels’ indicator to confirm that the undercarriage was down and then, still guided by the reflected yellow glow from surrounding cloud, I turned the aircraft onto final approach. Despite the persistent, prodigious downpour of rain, the Lightning’s powerful rain dispersal system, with air from the engines’ mighty compressors blasted directly at the windshield base, meant that I was able to see the runway lights slip into view while I turned. As I lined the machine up with the runway, I extended the airbrakes to help ease my airspeed back from 185 knots towards 165 knots.
Now, as expected, I was conscious of the growing push force required on the stick. Gradually, with deliberate, measured increases of push force, I started to ease the Lightning down…200 feet…watch it, Roger, anticipate the cross-wind…150 feet…concentrate on a good approach angle…100 feet…maintain that forward push force and keep those wings level…50 feet…the threshold’s rushing towards you now…look well ahead…
Suddenly I felt a thump as the Lightning touched down firmly just beyond the runway threshold. At once, I closed both throttles, pushed the stick as far forward as I could manage, and operated the tail ’chute mechanism. An immediate jerk signified that the tail parachute had deployed. Now, at last, with sensations of elation and relief in roughly equal parts, I knew that I had the machine under control. The landing, less than ceremonious, had worked out okay – an unconventional three-pointer with the main wheels and nose-wheel touching down simultaneously – but never mind, I thought, at least the machine was down, the aircraft had been saved, a Martin Baker let-down (use of my Martin Baker ejection seat) had been avoided.
It was not until the next day, when the engineers had examined my aircraft, Lightning XP755, that they were able to explain what had gone wrong. An electrical junction box, mounted on the cockpit floor, had ingested water during the night’s storms. When the aircraft nose was raised or lowered, water ran to the front or rear of the junction box thus shorting-out terminals connected to the OR946 system and to the tailplane trim.
At the time, however, I merely felt continued relief at the way things had worked out. Eventually, when my flight commander landed, we decided that, without further ado, we should drive across to the flight catering section for our night-flying supper.
When we reached the small dining room, and while the flight commander went to order our night-flying meals, I walked over to an adjacent window. I looked out wistfully at the soaking, semi-tropical scene. The approach road, normally well-used, was wind-swept and deserted. Raindrops glistened on plant leaves; thick, silvery spots of reflected light, like weighty beads of mercury. The dining room’s windows rattled ominously in the callous wind. While I pondered the night’s whole bizarre episode, the world’s worries appeared heavy on my shoulders. Even the timing had seemed portentous: I had passed my first green instrument rating test that very morning; before today I would not have been qualified to fly in these conditions.
If my mood was becoming morose, the sound of my flight commander’s spontaneous laughter swiftly cheered me up. I took a deep breath, turned around, and began to walk towards the dining table. It was not long before I picked up the smell of cured bacon cooked, no doubt, on an over-worked frying pan. “Manna,” I thought, “absolute manna. Fit for the gods.” Suddenly I knew that our night-flying supper that evening would be not only hard-earned but even more delicious than usual. I knew that it would help me, too, to keep a sense of proportion over exaggerated worries stirred up in my head by the anomalous nature of the night’s stormy struggle.