MAD MOMENTS
SIMON MORRIS PUSHING THE BOUNDARIES
The mind, it seems, likes to play tricks in situations of high anxiety. It is as if, in dire scenarios, the brain thinks that it might be best to detach itself from reality. Simultaneously, memory cells will go into overdrive after which details can be recalled with uncanny clarity. Alarming scenes will run through in front of the eyes as though watching a dramatic film so that the event may be remembered, even many years later, as if it had occurred only yesterday.
In my own case, the circumstances that had led to such a state were as unforeseen as they were perilous. One moment I was in a position of good order and control while I flew my instrument rating test until, following a few minutes of sheer, unadulterated madness, the aircraft and the lives of its two pilots and many others on the ground below were in jeopardy. Despite this, when I heard my examiner’s agitated voice call: “prepare to eject,” for some inexplicable reason his words caused me to relax. To some folk, as our two-seat Lightning T4 spun ever downwards towards a busy German town, such a call might have appeared not only superfluous but also the cause of even greater suspense within our cockpit. For me, however, the instructor’s words seemed to formalise the situation: now I felt free to release the bottom ejection seat handle which I had been gripping almost guiltily and to reach up for the main ejection seat handle above my head. I waited for his command: “eject!” which surely would come at any moment. Meanwhile, perhaps in part because of my curious and entirely illogical sense of sudden relaxation, my mind appeared to drift in remarkable and random directions as if I needed desperately to justify to myself why I had ended up in such a position.
Simon Morris sitting in a 92 Squadron Lightning cockpit, early 1970s.
For one thing, I should not really have been a member of Her Majesty’s Royal Air Force. I was what might have been described as a wild colonial boy when, three years earlier in 1970, I’d arrived at London’s Heathrow Airport to be greeted with suspicion by the immigration officer. Born in England on 13th May 1950, my home was in Dar es Salaam, Tanganyika (now Tanzania) where my father was a civil engineer. Consequently, I’d held what was known as a British Overseas passport. The immigration officer had adopted a peculiar expression, something between a sneer and a challenge, when he’d looked me up and down. A group of RAF policemen standing behind him had gazed in my direction but had remained impassive. The immigration officer had frowned as he asked me how long I intended to stay and whether I planned to seek employment. “I’m going to join the Royal Air Force,” I’d said, glancing hopefully at the RAF policemen, although their facial expressions hardly radiated encouraging moral support. A few further questions had followed after which the immigration officer had grunted some comment, then waved me through.
My intention to join the Royal Air Force, though, had been genuine enough. However, some years before this, when at the King’s School, Rochester in Kent, where I’d been a boarder and where I’d started my military life as a member of the army section of the school’s Combined Cadet Force, my reasons for changing to a light blue uniform had been less than glamorous. One day, our squad corporal had seemed to smirk as he gave the order: “all those who fancy becoming a ‘crab’ by joining the RAF section, fall out.” One or two individuals had sneaked off while the rest of us had cast sideways glances to see who had gone. Meantime, our squad corporal, an odious fellow who I’d disliked heartily, had reached out to shove me sideways to fill a gap. He’d called me an idiot for moving too slowly. At this, I’d performed a smart right turn, saluted and marched off towards the light blue yonder even though I had not the faintest idea what was involved and, in any case, had cared not a jot as my entire aim was to irritate that tiresome squad corporal even more than he was irritated already.
A year or two later, by which time I’d been promoted to the rank of cadet flight sergeant and had gained some gliding experience, I’d applied for a Royal Air Force scholarship. This had seemed a natural progression although, in truth, I had no real ambition to join the RAF or to become a pilot. I had wanted to be a civil engineer, like my father. Nonetheless, out of some 4,000 applicants I was one of the lucky few (four, I was told) to be selected. Problems persisted, however, when I failed my RAF medical test with ‘low tone hearing loss in the left ear’. A further test at the Central Medical Establishment had confirmed the finding. “Suppose I’d better become a nav, then,” I’d said to the doctor.
“No chance, old son. Navigators need to have good hearing to understand what their pilots say.”
“Air Traffic Control?”
“Nope. It’s the equipment branch or engineering for you.”
“What?”
“It’s the equipment branch or…” he’d raised his voice.
“I heard you the first time.”
“Oh.”
“Come on, Doc. Have a heart.”
“Sorry, old chap. It’s out of my hands.”
I’d stared gloomily at the doctor as he gathered up the medical notes. “Now where on earth should I send all this ghastly paperwork?” he’d begun to grumble to himself. “Back to Biggin Hill, I suppose.”
“I’ll take it for you, doctor,” I’d volunteered. “I’m on my way to Biggin Hill now,” I’d lied.
“Okay, then. Why not? That will be helpful.” He had seemed grateful for the offer.
I had left the medical set-up feeling thoroughly downhearted. I’d decided to catch the Tube to Marble Arch before wandering unhappily around Hyde Park while I contemplated my future. I’d continued to clutch the good doctor’s paperwork as, darkly, I pondered the unkindness of the fates. Eventually, I suppose, it was inevitable that discretion, even if the better part of valour (according to Mr Shakespeare’s theory), should give way to curiosity. I’d sat down on a bench and stared at the envelope marked ‘Medical-in-Confidence’. I’d turned the package over, given it an expeditious shake, even listened (with my good ear) for possible alien interference. I had glanced left and right to ensure that I was not overlooked, then ripped open the envelope. The contents, I’d quickly determined, were not worth the paper they were written on. I had no alternative, therefore, but to file the whole package as neatly as possible in the nearest wastepaper bin. I then left Hyde Park to set off back to East Africa post haste as any well-behaved, non-wild colonial boy should do.
It was some months later that my parents received a letter from the RAF asking why I’d not taken up my place at Cranwell. After further letter exchanges I was summonsed back to London for another audiometry test. This time, when in the acoustic chamber, I had kept pressing the test button even after the tone was too faint for me to hear it. In fact I was still pressing the button when the door was opened and a young airwoman had taken off my earphones and said: “It’s okay, sir – all over now.” She had gone on to confirm that I had passed the test with absolutely no indication of hearing loss in either ear. (This technique, by the way, subsequently got me through 40 or so years’ worth of audiometry tests. Nowadays I wear hearing aids, nevertheless I remain confident that I could pass an audiometry test without difficulty. The moral is simple: don’t give up; keep pressing the button. That’s the way to do it.)
My flying training had commenced shortly after this and I had been lucky to pass both the basic and the advanced training courses as one of the top students. During the course we were handed forms that asked for our first three choices of aircraft posting. I’d put simply: ‘Lightning, Lightning, Lightning’. I had felt more than delighted, therefore, when, on my 23rd birthday, I’d arrived at RAF Coltishall to attend the Lightning operational conversion unit.
One thing we learnt swiftly at Coltishall was that the Lightning’s characteristics in a spin were erratic and hazardous. It was prohibited to enter a spin deliberately in a Lightning. In the event of an inadvertent spin, stated the Pilots’ Notes, the aircraft should be abandoned by a minimum height of 10,000 feet.
This dictum was no doubt in my mind on Christmas Eve 1973 as our Lightning T4, still in a violent spin as the aircraft passed through 5,000 feet, continued to plunge downwards directly above the centre of Herford, an historic, pristine town founded by Charlemagne and situated in the prosperous German state of Nordrhine-Westfalen. By now my examiner had cried: “prepare to eject!” My hands had reached up to grasp the top ejection seat handle.
Such an improbable – incredible – situation had been sparked just a few minutes earlier when the ground controller had advised us: “there’s an aircraft, similar type to yourselves, in your one o’clock position at a range of five miles.”
“I have control,” the examiner said to me as he grabbed our Lightning T4’s flight controls and concurrently selected reheat on both engines. Normally a placid enough fellow, he at that second appeared to undergo prompt transmogrification. Evidently irresistible, so it seemed, was the temptation to engage in a brief dogfight with a Lightning from our rival squadron. In practically no time, with high levels of ‘g’ as the two aircraft had wheeled about the sky, we ended up in a classic Battle of Britain scenario: two pilots both determined to outdo their opponent. The battle of the ‘top guns’, though, did not last long. After some violent manoeuvres during which both aircraft were pushed and pulled, turned and rolled, climbed and dived, it was our Lightning which managed to achieve a position of advantage above and behind the adversary, and within missile firing range. Less advantageous, however, was our airspeed. I hardly needed to look at the airspeed indicator gauge. The unstable, wallowing motion of the aircraft revealed clearly enough that we were close to stall speed.
After that, events began to happen fast. Our Lightning T4 appeared to quiver for a second or two, as if in a flutter of uncertainty. Then, in an abrupt and vicious sideways movement, the aircraft flicked into an incipient spin. The nose dropped to a very steep nose-down attitude and, with the airspeed close to zero, the Lightning entered the autorotational stage of a fully developed spin.
Just now, with the Lightning still hurtling downwards, ongoing thoughts persisted to rush through my head in haphazard fashion. A detached voice tried to speak to me: “Now Simon, you musn’t do this…no, no Simon, you shouldn’t be doing this…definitely not, Simon don’t do it…” A hideous figure swam before my eyes, the body and limbs swathed in plaster, the frog mouth set in a rictus grin that revealed the stubs of several teeth. Like an irresponsible schoolboy who had committed some crime and was bound to be found out, I glanced guiltily around me. Scattered clouds, some light-coloured, some dark, chased each other in small circles; they ran dizzily faster and faster – the light then the dark then the light then the dark; I felt helpless, mesmerised into inactivity like a creature caught in the glare of a car’s headlights. In place of the cold, December day’s reality I fantasised about blazing sunshine, a huge hot sky, and below on all sides great stretches of desert scrub overlooked by Mount Kilimanjaro in the northern reaches of my home country. I imagined a calm evening with small wisps of white cloud motionless above. I pictured a cosy bedroom with a vase of roses on a table by the bed.
Our altitude was now some 2,000 feet above ground level. I became suddenly very tired and very hot. Perspiration started to run down my face. Clouds, dark and light, still chased each other in rapid, giddy circles. Perhaps that odious corporal was right after all; maybe I should not have become a ‘crab’ – I should have stayed as a ‘pongo’, stuck with the boring old army. This was no place for a wild colonial boy, let alone a well-behaved, non-wild one. I had been tryingly trained – brainwashed – by the air force’s military machine and it was all going seriously pear shaped.
At 1,000 feet, with my grip on the ejection seat handle becoming ever tighter, I sensed the culmination of my state of icy, paralysed calm. I could see unwelcome, outlandish items pop into view: faces staring up, a church spire, spots on the Lightning’s windshield, houses all around, rows of parked cars, the Lightning’s shadow fleetingly silhouetted against a building, a tall tree with trimmed arms that stood black against bright Christmas decorations. I was aware of my examiner’s shrill utterances as he muttered endlessly, agonisingly, to himself, pattering his way through spin recovery actions.
Suddenly, at the very nadir of my mental gyrations (not to mention the physical gyrations of the Lightning), a small glimmer of hope dawned. By now the aircraft was at ultra-low level with a nose-up attitude of 40 degrees (yes, forty degrees). Both engines were at full reheat as they blasted flames, fumes and fury at magnitude 10-plus on the Richter scale along the length and breadth of Herford’s ancient, pristine main street. The Lightning’s spin, however, had been brought under control. The aircraft appeared to hang in the sky like a puppet suspended on strings. Time and motion seemed to stop. Gradually, though, as the massive might of the Lightning’s twin Rolls-Royce Avon engines persevered with their struggle against gravity, the Avons started to gain the upper hand.
Now, as the Lightning accelerated at an exponential rate, the airspeed and the altitude swiftly began to look healthier again. From our calamitous, ground level situation we were suddenly back up at 10,000 feet as if propelled there by a giant spring…instant deliverance from chaos and insanity, potential death and destruction. It was hard to take in. For a second I wondered if the experience had actually happened; perhaps I had dreamed the whole thing; maybe it had been a mere flight of fancy. I glanced at my colleague. Despite his close-fitting oxygen mask, the sheet-white pallor of his face revealed his state of shock. I shook my head; so the episode had not been a dream after all; pity! The instrument rating examiner, though, seemed in a sorry plight, one of acute torpor – a psychiatric reaction as if, within the petrified passages of his brain, the narrowness of our escape was being played over and over like some interminable horror movie. I preferred not to speculate too closely on the intense mix of agitation and dread that must have been charging through his head.
“Would you like me to take control of the aircraft?” I asked him. He nodded a ‘yes’ but said nothing. I grasped the Lightning’s flight controls, disengaged reheat, spoke politely to air traffic control and elected for a visual recovery to our base at RAF Gütersloh. Throughout this procedure, while I headed back for a landing which I attempted to make as innocuous-looking as possible, he maintained a stunned silence.
It was later that evening, when he’d recovered his voice, that an impromptu meeting with my instrument rating examiner took place in the officers’ mess. His expression suggested that he was still a worried man. Our Lightning T4 had exceeded allowable ‘g’ limits and had been declared unserviceable while the engineers completed safety checks. We had not, however, revealed details of our involuntary spin.
In the officers’ mess I was joined by my girlfriend who, along with her sister, had chanced to be Christmas shopping in Herford at the time of the incident. They had witnessed the whole terrifying ordeal as our Lightning had plummeted towards them.
If conversation was awkward initially, it was not long before my girlfriend decided to be direct. “What do you have against my boyfriend,” she said staring into the instrument rating examiner’s troubled eyes, “that would make you wish to finish him off?” She spoke softly so as not to be overheard by others in the room.
He mumbled some reply.
My girlfriend, though, seemed dissatisfied. “You remember what happened?” she hissed, a touch of sarcasm in her tone.
“Yes, I remember,” he said. “A rush of blood to the head – a mad moment – something I shall never forget. Sorry.”
An uncomfortable hush ensued.
“My God,” she said eventually. “Someone up there must have been keeping a kindly eye on you two.” She pointed first at us, then heavenwards.
She was right, of course. There was no doubt that we had been treated with astonishing benevolence by the deity – more so, perhaps, than we deserved. Despite that, details of the episode remained confidential within our small group; other than amongst ourselves and close friends, my girlfriend and her sister did not talk about the near-disaster that they had observed. No complaints were received from the German authorities. No individual citizens submitted any form of censure even though many hundreds of Christmas shoppers must have witnessed the scene. The tale of that brief moment of madness appeared to become lost in the mists of time. Until, that is, today.
FROM ARDUA TO ASTRA
If my spinning incident had plumbed the depths, it was some two-and-a-half years later that I had an opportunity to examine the opposite end of the spectrum.
It was early in the morning on 28th July 1976 when I made preparations for a Lightning T4 air test. The aircraft had undergone deep maintenance and the engineers had requested an air test before the machine could be ‘signed off’. A planned schedule had to be followed so I quickly went through the paperwork to remind myself of the requirements. These included an accurately timed, level acceleration from Mach 0.9 to Mach 1.7 at an altitude of 40,000 feet. The workload would be high, the fuel consumption would be high – in fact everything would be high, especially in the T4 trainer with its small ventral fuel tank.
When I walked out to the aircraft, I went via the engineering set-up to sign for the Lightning and to speak with the duty engineers. “Should be no problem, sir,” said the chief technician. “We’ve strapped up the right-hand seat. The pre-flight’s been done. The paperwork’s in order. She’s all ready for you.”
“Thanks, chief.” I scrawled a signature then set off for the Lightning T4 XM 955. While I walked towards the aircraft, a peculiar sensation – as buoyant as a bubble – appeared to come over me. As if by some strange premonitional process, I seemed to know that something exceptional would happen on this flight.
When near the Lightning T4, my by-then experienced eye confirmed that the radar dome and canopy area looked okay. I checked that the pitot tube’s cover had been removed, then felt along the length of that symbol of virility which appeared to challenge those who dared to inspect it too closely. I smiled coyly to myself when I remembered my own personal, private experience of Lightning pitot tubes. This, I recalled, went back some years, to my first inflight refuelling sortie. That sortie had not gone well; I’d struggled to apply the correct techniques and at one point my aircraft had ended up within the powerful air vortices formed behind a Victor tanker’s wing. The result had been dramatic: my Lightning, pounded by the violent airstreams, had ended up in an undemanded, vertical dive (these seemed to become habit-forming during my Lightning career) with, before long, an indicated airspeed of 800 knots as the aircraft plunged earthwards.
My thoughts as the machine plunged were along the lines of ‘flipping marvellous’, although it might not have been the word ‘flipping’. On this occasion, however, the Lightning was not in a spin; recovery had been relatively straightforward and I’d soon managed to climb back up to rejoin the Victor tanker. Unfortunately, my airspeed indicator gauge had remained stuck at 800 knots. When I’d reported this to the pilot of the other Lightning, still quietly practising his own in-flight refuelling skills while I’d gone plunge-about, he’d moved into a close formation position on my aircraft for a visual inspection. “It’s your pitot tube,” he’d said at length, “it’s bent downwards and backwards through almost 180 degrees.”
“Bent pitot tube?”
“Bent as a bad bastard on a bank raid.”
“Say again?”
“I say again…it’s bent.”
“Hey-ho.” The news had caused implications to brush across the surface of my brain. A weak point in the construction must have buckled during the violent manoeuvres. Further in-flight refuelling would have been impractical; I’d needed to get back to base ASAP.
“I’ll lead you down,” my Lightning colleague had said.
I’d experienced no difficulty during the subsequent recovery and landing, and later that day I had asked if I could keep the bent pitot tube as a memento. “No problem,” my boss, Wing Commander Chris Bruce, had said, and to this day the device remains in my house in Canada where it makes an ideal lamp stand.
However, for the portentous day of the air test itself, when, carefully, I scrutinised the Lightning T4’s pitot tube, I was conscious of its significance for the accurate airspeed and altitude readings required. When satisfied, I moved back to examine the starboard undercarriage system, the underwing surface, and the airframe sides before I walked to the rear of the aircraft to inspect the jet pipe area. Soon, on completion of the external checks, I clambered up the cockpit access ladder on the left side of the two-seat aircraft.
As I strapped in, I glanced at the adjacent German countryside. Flat farmland stretched beyond the boundary fence of RAF Gütersloh; further away, highlighted on the horizon, I could make out lines of pine trees. The air traffic control tower, daubed in green camouflage paint, was positioned some distance from the runway. The runway itself, which stood out as a black ribbon of tarmac surrounded by grass, had been reinforced and lengthened to cope with Lightning operations.
I reflected for a moment on the sense of familiarity I now enjoyed here in Germany, although in some respects this could seem inappropriate. Set in the heart of West Germany’s most populous and most economically powerful state, RAF Gütersloh was close (a mere matter of minutes of flying time in a Lightning) to the hazards created by the iniquitous Inner German Border, the dreaded ‘iron curtain’ that divided the West from the East. As a consequence, the attitude of local folk to our noisy flying activity was, in general, one of tolerance – considerably more so than at home in the United Kingdom. Even so, we avoided flying at supersonic airspeeds outside a specially designated and less well-populated area due north of Gütersloh. This was the area I would use for today’s air test.
With my engine start procedures completed, I scribbled down notes on the special kneeboard that carried the air test schedule. I asked air traffic control for taxy clearance, then tested the aircraft brakes before I set off for the run-way-in-use. Conscious of the Lightning T4’s limited fuel reserves, I taxied at a reasonably rapid pace. In my mind, I tried to go over the required performance details during the take-off run; these would be needed by the engineers in their post-flight air test report. Soon, as I approached the runway, the controller cleared me for immediate take-off. I moved swiftly towards the take-off point before, with the Lightning’s wheelbrakes applied, I advanced the Rolls-Royce Avon engines to around 80% power. On the air test schedule I recorded temperatures, pressures and other key information. Then, having double-checked the remaining pre-take-offs, I advanced the twin throttles to full power as, simultaneously, I released the aircraft brakes.
As the Lightning T4 roared off down the runway, I made a mental note of the aircraft’s performance figures. When settled in the climb, I wrote these down while I headed due north towards Hamburg. I planned to fly to the northern edge of the supersonic area before heading south for the supersonic run. The Lightning T4’s forward fuselage cross-section, with distinctive bulges to accommodate the side-by-side crew, offered an improved ‘area-rule’ (transonic drag reduction) profile. On top of this, the lack of an in-flight refuelling probe, a small ventral fuel tank and no missiles all added to what was known as a ‘hot ship’ – hotter, indeed, than other marks of Lightning.
Before long, as I rolled out on the planned southerly heading, I trimmed the aircraft at an accurate altitude of 40,000 feet with the Machmeter indicating exactly 0.9 Mach. There was no time to waste. I’d already spoken to the controller, so I re-checked, visually and on my airborne radar, that all looked clear ahead then I engaged full reheat on both engines. The Machmeter soon reacted: Mach 1.0…Mach 1.3…Mach 1.5. At this altitude there were no outside references to offer an impression of speed so I had to rely on the Machmeter alone to indicate progress. The acceleration did not take long; in just a couple of minutes or so the required Mach 1.7 was indicated on the gauge. Suddenly, it occurred to me that a good distance lay ahead before I reached the limit of the designated supersonic area; the Lightning could remain at this airspeed with impunity for a while yet. Why not use the opportunity, I thought, for a small experiment of my own?
Without further ado, I hauled back the Lightning T4’s control stick. My eyes narrowed as I scanned the ‘g’ meter to hold a steady 4 ‘g’ for a short period. Then I applied a small forward movement of the stick to maintain a nose-up angle of 85 degrees. Now, as the Lightning began to hurtle upwards with no bother at all, I carefully watched my altimeter: 45,000 feet…50,000 feet…55,000 feet. At a reading of 55,000 feet it occurred to me that in the event of aircraft pressurisation failure I could face problems. Even though I could switch to 100 per cent oxygen at a pressure of 50 Hg, and even though I was wearing a full pressure jerkin, potential trouble still loomed. I decided, therefore, to roll the Lightning on to its back to help restrain the rate of climb. I soon discovered, however, that the rate of roll at these high altitudes was slow – painfully slow. At more normal heights, the slightest movement of the ailerons would cause the Lightning to roll through 360 degrees almost before you’d realised it. That day, up there, matters were different.
As the aircraft persisted with its upward trajectory, I still monitored the altimeter closely: 60,000 feet…65,000 feet. Suddenly I realised that I was close to 70,000 feet. Like some exuberant ballistic missile on a determined run, the Lightning T4 kept going although I recall that the rate of climb eventually started to reduce. With the aircraft some thirteen miles above the surface of the earth I was well into the stratosphere, but I saw with relief that my airspeed did not reduce below 180 knots which equated to 0.9 Mach.
The sensation at that high altitude was surreal, even eerie. Through the top of my canopy (remember I was upside down) I could distinguish most of the landmass of Germany. The sky, the colour of deep blue – almost black – ink, formed a vast backdrop to the distinct line of the earth’s curvature. A great distance below I observed scattered patches of white cloud which produced dazzling, bizarre reflections. I experienced a strong sense of awe for the intoxicating beauty and brilliance of the views around me. The situation was unique. My surroundings, though, were bleak, alien; I was in a world of silence and loneliness to which I did not belong; I began to feel an urge to return to civilisation without delay.
A glance at my engine instruments confirmed that both of the Rolls-Royce Avon’s reheats remained lit, although they had reduced from full reheat to stage four. Acutely aware of the need to avoid engine flame-out, I decided not to touch the throttles for the time being. The flight controls still felt sluggish and unresponsive so I elected to make minimal control inputs. At length, however, as the aircraft began to descend, I judiciously rolled the wings level and selected a suitable heading for home.
With my recovery to Gütersloh now underway, I could mull over my exceptional experience. I knew that I couldn’t claim the Lightning’s high altitude record; others had flown to greater heights than me. Even so, the event would mark, in one sense at least, the personal pinnacle of my career – a 37-year flying career during which I would fly 40 different aircraft types. (On leaving the RAF after 12 years’ service, I’d become a company pilot for two years, then serve with the Republic of Singapore Air Force for a brief spell before joining British Airways where eventually I’d become a senior captain on the Boeing 777.)
Just now, with my mind still contemplating the recent spontaneous, implausible experience, I struggled to work out the ramifications. I felt as if I had witnessed a magnificent concert; an audience of one transported to a particular place; an intensely privileged place, a place of euphoria. I could hardly claim to be an astronaut, nonetheless I was conscious of comments made by astronauts, of the clean and pure sensation inclined to touch the soul as planet Earth was observed from afar.
If such thoughts seemed high-flown, it was not long before I was brought back to reality when, after an uneventful landing at Gütersloh, I discussed the air test results with engineers. We went over the figures, re-checked the air test schedule, discussed this and that. “Thanks, sir,” said the chief technician eventually.
“No problem,” I said, and turned around to head for the operations set-up and a much needed cup of coffee. As I walked, an eclectic mix of thoughts beyond the nitty-gritty of air test schedules persisted to surge through my mind. My eyes had been opened. I had raised my gaze to the heavens. The wild colonial boy had been taken to new boundaries – per ardua ad astra. But for the time being, I reckoned, the wild colonial boy had landed – Apollo 11 was down – one small step for man, one giant leap for my Lightning T4. Now I felt dog tired and very hungry. I had a deep sense of satisfaction too.