PRODIGIOUS PLANS
TERRY ADCOCK RECOLLECTS A TENSE INSPECTION
The plan seemed straightforward enough. At least, that was what we reckoned at the time. We even had a back-up plan – a Plan B, if you like. I have to admit, though, that we did not anticipate a Plan C, let alone a Plan D or E. As things turned out, this was unfortunate.
Wing Commander Terry Adcock at his desk in Penang.
The pomp and ceremony that go with a Royal Air Force station’s annual inspection by the air officer commanding will involve many time-consuming but obligatory, if irksome, preparations. Parade-ground drills must be rehearsed, office floors swept, surfaces polished, paintwork painted, windows wiped, stores stored, cookhouses scrubbed, and messes must be made to look un-messy. Personnel will be required to set-to as every conceivable nook and cranny across the station will be spruced-up ahead of the big day. Folk will be on edge; future postings and promotions can be influenced by an inspection’s success or otherwise.
As the commanding officer of a training unit (3 Squadron) at the Lightning Operational Conversion Unit at RAF Coltishall in Norfolk, I was, of course, deeply involved when the time came, in mid-May 1970, for that station’s annual inspection. The wing commander in charge of the operations wing at the time had ambitious ideas. “We’ll plan to scramble twenty-five aircraft plus one spare,” he said at a briefing some days before the inspection. A few raised eyebrows, even the odd sharp intake of breath, were evident when he said this. “And I’m sure,” he went on, “that the AOC will be duly impressed.”
“Twenty-five, sir?” asked someone.
“Yes, twenty-five.” The wing commander hesitated as he looked around the room. Nobody spoke but facial expressions revealed thoughts that varied from ‘good gracious,’ to ‘shit’, to ‘you’ll be lucky, old son’. Despite such looks of discouragement, the wing commander persisted with his briefing while he explained that his planned flypast of twenty-five Lightnings would entail neat box formations for the benefit of the air vice-marshal. In the event of bad weather, however, the twenty-five aircraft would take off in a stream, one after the other, then climb up to altitude before returning to Coltishall individually in a pre-planned sequence.
A montage of Terry Adcock’s penultimate Lightning flight in Cyprus.
Questions followed the wing commander’s briefing until eventually, when the meeting broke up, most of us were reasonably happy with the plan. It was not until some days later, on the morning of the inspection date itself, that doubts returned. “We’re expecting a cold front to pass overhead Coltishall this afternoon,” said the weatherman. He spoke in fine, confident tones and I speculated on whether he possessed plenary meteorological powers. I glanced out of an adjacent window. The sky was overcast and looked threatening, but the local visibility was okay, there were no signs of rain yet and the surface wind coincided, more or less, with the runway direction.
“Exactly when do you expect the front to pass overhead?” someone asked. The weatherman hummed and harred at this. Clearly there were ambiguities and dark places in the meteorological mastery. “So much for the plenary powers,” I thought. In spite of this, the wing commander announced that we would proceed with Plan A – the neat box-formation option. He reckoned that the flypast would be completed and all the aircraft safely back on the ground before the cold front went through. In view of the uncertain timing I expressed reservations, but I had to agree with the wing commander’s point that we were a very experienced group of Lightning pilots and that, furthermore, as a training unit we possessed a large number of two-seaters. About 40 Lightning pilots in total would be flying in the formation. “If ever there was a formation that could cope with a bit of bad weather,” said the wing commander, “this is surely it.”
At this, we dispersed in anticipation of the air vice-marshal’s arrival. As the appointed hour approached, the parade formed up, drill sergeants bellowed orders, tidy lines of airmen and airwomen stood shoulder-to-shoulder. All stood rigidly to attention when the air vice-marshal was driven up in a highly-polished car from which he stepped out to inspect the rows of personnel before he made for a saluting dais. Soon, the band struck up the Royal Air Force March and the parade began to move past the dais. The ‘eyes right’ order was given; the marchers obeyed in an instant; the air vice-marshal saluted severely. Meanwhile, families and friends, wives in posh frocks, miscellaneous folk, had assembled near the dais so as to admire the proceedings.
Before long, when the parade had been declared an official success, participants were dismissed to make their way to places of work. In my own case, this was the 3 Squadron hangar where I had to wait around until the air vice-marshal had concluded his inspection of the wing operations set-up. I knew that organisation well; I had been the squadron leader in charge until my recent change to a flying job and I was anxious, therefore, that the inspection there should go well.
In a reflective mood while I waited, I recalled a particular incident that had occurred shortly before my posting. The wing operations room, solely a communications centre in peacetime, became the airfield’s command and control centre in the event of war. As part of this war role, the room’s walls were covered in acres of maps, some of which displayed areas as far away as eastern Europe. One night, during a markedly dull communications exercise, I saw that the officer on duty, Flight Lieutenant Benny Baranowski (he was born in Poland), was staring wistfully at the eastern European section of the map. He was normally an ebullient, upbeat character, so I asked him why he looked despondent. There was little to do, he said with a sigh, but to stare at the map and to think bad thoughts.
“Bad thoughts?” I said.
“Yes, sir,” he said.
“What happened, Benny?”
“Can’t remember. No point to remember. Too much in the past.”
There was a long silence.
“We cannot help who we are,” I said.
“Hmmm. Some things hard to discuss. Besides…”
“What?”
“Not so nice there.”
“What’s not so nice?”
“Everything. Crap cars, crap cookers, crap everything.” He looked cross. Clearly, though, materialism was not the point. The issues that bothered him ran deeper.
“Go on,” I said.
He glanced at me. Such talk was unusual, whether in the work environment or in the mess, but there was scarcely any current activity, the room was quiet, few personnel were on duty and we could not be overheard. He looked around the room before, in low tones, his story came tumbling out. As his commanding officer I knew a little of his background, but that night, while I listened to some of his detailed descriptions, I became at once saddened and enthralled.
He talked of how, in the early part of World War 2 when he was a nineteen-year-old lad, all of his family had been killed – murdered, in all probability – and he had ended up in a concentration camp. He had managed to escape and, despite suffering from pneumonia, he had commenced a mammoth walk which had finished up in southern Europe. By fair means or foul, he had made his way from there to the United Kingdom where he had applied to join the Royal Air Force. To his very considerable credit, especially in view of the circumstances, he had become a commissioned officer.
When he had ended his account, and with a sense of emotion, I stood up and walked to the section of map that portrayed Poland. He joined me and together we removed the perspex cover in order to cut away the offending area.
It was some time later, in unexpected circumstances, that this small kindness was repaid.
Flight Lieutenant Baranowski was a large man – a champion shot-putter and discus thrower – who possessed uncommonly large hands. After a dining-in night at the officers’ mess one evening, I became embroiled in a nefarious game of mess rugby. At the bottom of the scrum and with bodies piled high above me, I struggled to find breath. Then a curious thing happened. The load began mysteriously to lighten and before long I found myself placed on a stool as a welcome glass of beer was thrust in my direction. Flight Lieutenant Baranowski’s massive hands had removed individuals one by one from the scrum, hurled them into far corners of the room, then lifted me off the floor. In pretty short shrift, the scrum had been ruthlessly terminated. Benny had returned a favour and no-one argued with Benny.
My nerves suddenly stiffened when I caught sight of the highly-polished car as the vehicle headed in my direction. Anxiously, I checked that my best air force hat was straight and I stood to attention. The vehicle swept up in a suitably dignified manner. I saluted and moved forward to help the air vice-marshal from his car. “Hello, Squadron Leader Adcock,” he said, “hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”
“Not at all, sir,” I said obsequiously and less than truthfully, “the 3 Squadron pilots have been assembled in the crew room.”
Handshakes and polite conversations in the crew room ensued while the pilots, all dressed in clean flying suits, chatted with the air vice-marshal. Before long, however, conversations had to be curtailed as the time for the planned flypast drew near. By now late morning, the pilots gathered up their flying kit and soon, as the unusual and impressive number of Lightning pilots began to walk to their allotted aircraft, activities were observed by the attendant wives, families and friends. The air vice-marshal himself was driven to the air traffic control tower from where he would watch events.
With one exception (a Lightning that suffered a starter fire and consequently had to be abandoned) the start-up went well. A remarkable spectacle followed as the remaining twenty-four machines (plus one spare) taxied towards the take-off point. As my section of four Lightning T5s brought up the rear, I had a grandstand view. With a sense of awe, I watched the aircraft line up in turn for take-off in pairs. Throttles were advanced before brake release; a heat haze began to shimmer above the runway – a mirage-like effect that spread gradually to a wider area; the collective potency produced by so many Rolls-Royce Avon engines was a sight to behold.
When my turn came, I experienced some turbulence during the take-off run but not enough to worry me unduly. What did concern me, though, was the sight of aircraft ahead – or rather the lack of such sight. As the machines disappeared swiftly into cloud it was evident that the frontal system had started to approach sooner than forecast.
My mind now went into overdrive. With recovery problems to the airfield looming, I could not see the point of a climb to high altitude. I decided, therefore, to remain below cloud. I led my section of four aircraft out to sea towards an area of improved cloudbase. On the aircraft radio I instructed the pilots in my formation to use their airborne radars to lock-on to the other Lightnings ahead and to keep me informed of the situation. It soon became obvious, though, that problems had developed at altitude as the other formations struggled to establish their relative positions. Just as mind-boggling levels of confusion began to take hold, the order was given for all aircraft to initiate recovery to Coltishall without delay.
I now reckoned that my best option would be to sneak back to Coltishall ahead of the masses returning from high altitude – the 20 other Lightnings, plus the spare, plus a random Chipmunk aircraft that had inconveniently and tiresomely entered the toxic mix. I turned at once towards the airfield and increased airspeed as I led my formation back for a visual break and landing. The weather at this stage, although hardly wonderful, was still sufficiently good to permit visual approaches.
At a range of some seven miles from the airfield I suddenly caught sight of another formation of four Lightnings: the wing commander operations and his team had arrived just ahead. As I watched his formation break into the circuit, I manoeuvred to arrange appropriate separation. At the point of breaking into the circuit, however, we heard the controller’s anguished voice call: “overshoot for crash diversion”. The wing commander’s Lightning had careered into the runway crash barrier; the three others in his formation had been instructed to fly to a diversion airfield.
Meanwhile, as the air vice-marshal in the air traffic control tower took in the developing drama, he quietly (and prudently) announced his departure from the scene (“things seems to be getting a bit busy,” he told the duty pilot, “perhaps I should leave you to it.”) The ambitious plans to impress our important visitor had begun to turn distinctly, hideously, pear shaped.
When I called “downwind for precautionary landing” (a term used in the Lightning force to indicate that, in the event of tail parachute failure, the aircraft would not overshoot as should be the case ordinarily) the controller replied: “there’s an aircraft in the crash barrier, divert immediately.”
“Negative,” I said, “I’m short of fuel.”
“Understood,” said the controller after a pause, “in that case you’re clear to land precautionary.”
An instance of crash barrier engagement (92 Squadron)
As I had over-ridden the controller I knew my approach and landing had to be right. My finals turn, though, proved to be more than a little eye-watering; suddenly I found that I was struggling to line up with the runway. “Confirm the surface wind?” I asked the controller tersely. His reply sent a shudder of apprehension down my spine. With the frontal zone’s passage the wind had veered through almost 180 degrees. We were, in effect, using the wrong runway. No wonder there were problems with the finals turn. And no wonder, I thought, an aircraft has ended up in the barrier. At once I overshot for a second attempt. This time, with proper allowance for the new wind, I managed a successful landing behind the others in my formation who, having observed my first approach, had duly altered their own approach paths.
Any sense of relief, however, was short-lived. As I taxied back to dispersal I became aware of mounting ordeals for the formations still airborne. The weather states at nominated diversion airfields had started to deteriorate and moreover, to add to the unfolding chaos, one of the Lightnings had developed radio problems. All air traffic on the same frequency had to endure a continuous, aggravating stream of radio checks mixed with puffs and blows as the pilot tried to establish contact. My heart sank: vivid images raced through my mind of a calamitous affair some years ago at Leconfield under eerily similar circumstances. On that occasion, the outcome had been the loss of a number of valuable Hawker Hunter aircraft when the pilots had been forced to eject from their machines.
Suddenly, while I taxied back towards the dispersal area, I caught a glimpse of a Lightning as the machine made a low approach above the still-occupied crash barrier. The pilot, by now doubtless very low on fuel and very devoid of ideas, appeared determined to land his aircraft into the wind. Ignoring all standard rules and procedures he flew low above the crash barrier before he manoeuvred vigorously to land his aeroplane. I felt as if I was watching some kind of live horror movie. Instinctively, I held my breath as the Lightning hurtled down an inadequate length of runway. Luckily the tail parachute deployed correctly and the pilot was able to bring his aircraft to a halt just in time. This was the last aircraft to land at Coltishall that day. I let out a long, low, whistle of astonishment, shook my head with a sense of woe and clambered hastily from my cockpit.
At length, when the limited number of pilots that had made it back to Coltishall met up in their crew room, nervous chatter accompanied graphic accounts of individual experiences. However, when we learnt that, unlike at Leconfield, all of our aircraft had landed safely, the air of relief was palpable. This did not, though, impede ongoing, if somewhat embellished, recollections of a Plan B – if not a Plan C, D or E – that would long remain in the collective memories of those involved.
FINE FINALE
Self-sufficiency, so we are told, is a good thing. It was some dozen years later when I had to put this to the test in no uncertain terms. By then I had been promoted to the rank of wing commander and, as the commanding officer of 5(F) Squadron based at RAF Binbrook in Lincolnshire, I faced a Plan B of an altogether different kind. The circumstances were as unexpected as they were unusual.
Initial plans to base Lightnings on the Ascension Islands to secure the route south during the 1982 Falklands campaign were rapidly abandoned when someone realised that the runway and other surfaces at Ascension airfield were unsuitable. With the airfield’s relatively low LCN (load classification number) the Lightning’s skinny, high pressure tyres would have caused the aircraft wheels to sink axle-deep into Ascension tarmac.
As a Plan B, therefore, Headquarters 11 Group declared that our Lightnings should undertake a detachment to Cyprus where we would practise weapon firing – an armament practice camp or APC. In more normal times we would in-flight refuel to Cyprus in one hop. However, as the Victor in-flight refuelling aircraft were heavily committed to the Falklands campaign, on this occasion we would have to make alternative arrangements. This meant that ten Lightnings in two sections of five would be required to fly along airways, stick to air traffic control routes and procedures, and generally act like airliners (minus, regretfully, the airline hostesses). Five separate legs were planned with four stops – Dijon in France, Pisa and Brindisi in Italy, and Souda Bay in Crete. At Pisa and Souda Bay we would rest overnight.
Flying across the Alps en route to Cyprus.
It was at the first stop that I began to appreciate the magnitude of our undertaking. In addition to navigational planning, submission of flight plans and other aircrew-type duties, the pilots had to refuel the aircraft, fit pre-positioned tail parachutes, top-up starter systems and carry out other essential engineering turn-round procedures. By the time I climbed back into my cockpit for the next leg I felt hot and hassled, my hands smelt of aviation fuel, and a hundred-and-one details persisted to spin around in my head. I vowed never again to take for granted the sterling work performed by our engineering turn-round crews.
Fortunately, groundcrews had been flown in ahead for the overnight stops at Pisa and at Souda Bay. Our departure from Souda Bay for the final leg on 10th June 1982 worked well until, as we took up a heading for Akrotiri in Cyprus, the controller instructed us to hold at 6,000 feet to the west of Crete. I knew at once that this was a non-starter: the Lightnings’ fuel margins were typically tight and any delay would have meant a return to Souda Bay to refuel before a second attempt.
“Your transmissions are intermittent,” I said to the controller who promptly repeated his instruction for us to hold at 6,000 feet to the west.
“You’re still intermittent,” I said, “we’re climbing as per the flight plan and will keep well clear of incoming traffic.” An irate-sounding controller immediately repeated his instructions.
“Your message,” I said, “is not understood, but thank you for your assistance. Have a good day.” At this, I ordered the formation to change to a different radio frequency, but not before we had picked up the controller’s rant as he expressed choice, if not altogether polite, remarks.
We continued due east for Cyprus and as I glanced down at the blue-green translucence of the Mediterranean Sea, I could not avoid a sense of wistfulness. After more than two years on 5 Squadron, I realised that I could expect a posting quite soon. My Lightning days were well and truly numbered, and I knew it. As I thought about the long period of time I had spent within the Lightning world, disconnected memories of events large and small seemed to come flooding back. I recalled, for instance, a bizarre occasion when I was despatched from Coltishall to the Ministry of Defence to agree a squadron number; a new reserve squadron was about to be formed and the powers-that-be at Coltishall were keen on the designation ‘Number 65 Squadron’.
My experience at the Ministry of Defence could have come straight from the television programme ‘Yes, Minister’. I was hustled into an obscure office where the desk officer produced a small box of cards which he placed on his desktop. Available squadron numbers were written on individual cards with a separate card for each squadron. I explained that 65 Squadron would do us nicely, thank you, as this squadron had a fighter background, was the favoured choice back at Coltishall, and we knew that it was available. “No chance,” said the desk officer, “these squadron numbers must remain in sequence and the next one has a background in maritime operations.”
“But…” my discomfiture must have been clear.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” the desk officer asked pleasantly.
“Thank you,” I said, “I would.”
“Then kindly excuse me for a minute or two while I deal with the makings.” He winked and as soon as he had disappeared from the office I grabbed the small box, fished around for the card marked ‘Number 65 Squadron’ and placed it on top of the pile.
“Now where were we?” the desk officer asked amiably as he returned carrying our cups of coffee. I said nothing but I looked at him, glanced at the small box, then looked back at him again. “Ah, yes. About the squadron number,” he went on. “Well, as I say, my hands are tied, I’m afraid, and we’ll have to stick to the order in this box. Now let me see…” he picked up the top card. “Well, well,” he said, “now there’s a thing. It looks like I’m going to have to allocate you Number 65 Squadron.”
Formation flying over Cyprus.
Suddenly I spotted a distinctive pattern on my radar screen. The island of Cyprus was in our sights. As the formation initiated descent towards Akrotiri, my thoughts seemed in turmoil. While disjointed images about the end of my flying days persisted in my mind, I mused about how my present way of life would swiftly, sadly become a far-off and flimsy memory. The giant leap from cockpit to desk would mean an inevitable metamorphosis; like that desk officer in the Ministry of Defence, maybe I was destined to become a mere ministry man. As if alerted to a looming precipice with treacherous waters below, I felt a mood of growing gloominess.
The distractions of Cyprus, however, and the business of our armament practice camp provided good antidotes to ‘bad thoughts’. Along with all of our squadron personnel, my mind seemed preoccupied, too, with distant events in the Falklands. Four days after the squadron reached Cyprus a ceasefire was declared but the ramifications lingered on. I recalled the reaction of our squadron pilots all those weeks ago when told of plans to send us to Ascension: half seemed eager and excited, the other half went rather quiet. A peacetime air force could seem decidedly different to one embroiled in war.
It was towards the end of the detachment in Cyprus, perhaps when I was off-guard and maybe even in the process of self-rebuke for unnecessary ‘bad thoughts’, that the bombshell struck. It came in the form of a buff-coloured envelope. When handed to me, I gazed at the innocuous yet life-changing item, turned it over a few times then ripped it open. I was, indeed, destined to become a ministry man.
Plans now had to be put into effect in a manner, as the saying goes, both fast and furious. A number of issues, while not exactly pernicious, nonetheless seemed to grow daily in complexity. For one thing, I was given just two weeks for my family to vacate our ex-officio house and move to a different married quarter. In twenty-four years of marriage, this would become home number twenty-five. I decided that, in view of the hectic arrangements required on return to Binbrook, my last flying on the squadron should be in Cyprus. I decided, too, that my final day of flying should involve all fifteen of the squadron pilots in Cyprus: a formation of nine Lightnings (with one spare acting as whipper-in) followed by a formation of five.
We flew over Akrotiri Bay towards the local hospital where, with prior agreement, we roared past at balcony level for the benefit of staff and patients. We then overflew individual service units as a farewell thank you. I noted how personnel rushed outside to watch and how their vigorous hand waves demonstrated appreciation.
At the conclusion of the second formation, we repaired to the officers’ mess for a special luncheon after which, at an opportune moment, I walked alone to the bottom of the mess garden where I wept in private. The proceedings seemed surreal and it was not until later that evening, when I stared up at the frozen stars in the Cypriot night sky and watched a cloud drift across the face of the moon, that reality suddenly struck. I had a curious feeling of detachment. I somehow knew that I would never pilot an aircraft again and, indeed, I never have done.