The Lightning Boys 2

BEAR REACTION

ALAN WINKLES ON THE BRINK

The female controller’s nervous tone added to my own sense of apprehension. No doubt the circumstances of my scramble had intensified our mutual, if unspoken, anxiety. She handled the intercept geometry well, though, and her logical instructions meant that I was in a good position to identify the Soviet machines when I rolled out behind them. At that stage, however, matters were relatively straightforward; the dilemmas were yet to come.

Several months had gone by since my last quick reaction alert scramble but that was not so unusual; as a member of 5(F) Squadron based at Binbrook in Lincolnshire, I was used to our somewhat backwater location. The lion’s share of QRA activity was handled by our colleagues at RAF Leuchars in Scotland and, to be truthful, I would feel envious of their tales of action, excitement and general derring-do that would filter down after Soviet aircraft interceptions.

Five-ship formation of 5(F) Squadron Lightnings.

By mid-September 1968, with my squadron’s lack of involvement in QRA activity, it was, perhaps, understandable if a certain lethargy afflicted those on QRA duty for a 24-hour stint. The rush of adrenaline, therefore, was probably all the greater when word was received one day from the controller at Patrington, a ground radar unit near Hull, that Soviet ‘zombies’ identified by the Royal Norwegian Air Force were headed our way. More often than not these so-called zombies would turn out to be Bear D (Tupolev Tu-95 RT) aircraft en route to Castro’s communist Cuba via the Iceland/Faroes gap. Matters, though, were different on this day – Wednesday, 18th September 1968 – and, as events progressed, the situation became increasingly tense. We were armed with live weapons and the use of armed intervention on that day seemed to come perilously close.

To keep us up-to-date with the overall scenario, the Patrington controller used his direct ‘telebrief’ link to our QRA set-up. We learnt that the zombies had flown past Bergen on the Norwegian coast and were headed for Denmark. We learnt, too, that instead of the usual pair of Bear Ds there appeared to be large formations of aircraft. As a consequence, alarm bells were set off across NATO as military forces came to higher states of readiness. It must have been around mid-day when I was brought to cockpit readiness and given scramble instructions. I was ordered to head for a point about 100 miles east of Great Yarmouth in Norfolk where I was required to hold a combat air patrol (CAP). I would fly neat patterns in the sky until needed by the master controller at Neatishead, Suffolk while he monitored the ‘big picture’.

As the first fighter to reach the CAP area, I was on my own initially. Flying at the Lightning’s most fuel-efficient airspeed I held a two-minute race-track pattern at 36,000 feet. From time to time the controller announced: “no trade at present”. His tone, somewhat lacklustre, inferred that he expected the zombies to turn around and head back home soon. If that happened, in turn I would have to fly back to my own base. Anticipating such an instruction, I could not avoid a sense of disappointment; how great it would have been if, just for once, I could have experienced a small slice of the action so regularly enjoyed by the Leuchars wing.

If I had begun to feel sorry for myself, however, such feelings had to be swiftly set aside when the controller next spoke. “The zombies have turned away from the Danish coast,” he said. “They’re now heading 270 degrees.”

“Zombies heading 270?’”My voice may have gone up in tone when I asked this.

“Affirmative,” said the controller, whose own voice had assumed a sudden urgency. “Looks like a dozen zombies are heading this way.”

“Acknowledged,” I said. A dozen! Bloody hell!

“Maintain your CAP for now,” said the controller.

“Copied,” I said. Where’s everyone else? I thought. I’ve got twelve zombies, two missiles and zero back-up. Blimey!

“Standby,” said the controller. “Turn onto an easterly heading now and increase your airspeed to Mach 0.9.”

“Roger,” I said and as I turned, I stared due east momentarily before concentrating on my AI 23B radar cockpit indicator. With my left thumb I carefully rotated a knob on the hand controller to adjust the radar’s scanner angle. I used another switch to modify the scanner’s ‘search’ mode (with over a dozen separate switches on the hand controller, the truism ‘one-armed paper hanger’ was apposite when applied to Lightning pilots). Meanwhile, the Neatishead controller instructed me to change to a different radio frequency and to check in with another controller. The radar unit, it appeared, had summoned more staff urgently to deal with the developing situation. The new controller’s anxious female voice reflected the seriousness of what was going on around us. Despite this, clearly she had been well trained and her instructions were coherent and rational as she set up a 180-degree intercept geometry (the fighter, in this case, would turn through 180 degrees when adjacent to the target to roll out half-a-mile or so behind).

“Targets’ range 100 miles,” she said, at which I selected the longest range scale on my AI 23B.

“Descend now to 32,000 feet.”

“Descending.” I eased back the Rolls-Royce Avon’s twin throttles.

“Maintain Mach 0.9,” she said.

“Copied,” I said. My current throttle setting would maintain the required airspeed in the descent.

“Turn twenty degrees to the port for displacement.”

“Acknowledged.” I eased the Lightning leftwards and made a mental note that my final turn onto targets’ heading would now be to the right.

“Targets’ range down to 80 miles,” she said.

“80 miles.” I continued to press my forehead against the rubber shade as I squinted anxiously at the two-and-a-half inch screen of my cockpit radar indicator.

“Confirm your altitude.” she said.

“I’m just approaching 32,000 feet.”

“Okay. Maintain that height.” I glanced up briefly to try to spot the incoming masses, but I saw nothing yet. I looked down for a moment to observe vast undulating stretches of cloud formed above the North Sea. As I returned my gaze to the radar picture the controller said: “The targets’ range is now reducing to 55 miles and they’re slightly above your present altitude.”

I acknowledged her call and made a minor adjustment on my hand controller. It was at this point that my heart must have missed a beat and a sliver of ice seemed to shoot its way into my intestines. The first ‘paints’ on my radar screen were followed by others until, like green goblins on the rampage, the screen swiftly became swamped. As if an airborne tsunami approached, grim communist hordes were represented by the green ‘paints’ on my tiny radar screen. The formations seemed ubiquitous and relentless. By now, maybe, the incoming crews had spotted their sole contestant on their own radars; my minority-of-one presence must have appeared absurd – risible – as they prepared to pounce. Absurd or not, I was committed to the defence of my mother country and any sense of loneliness had to be put to the back of my mind as I concentrated on my radar screen.

“Contact with the targets,” I said to the controller, “keep talking.” Normally I would have taken control of the intercept at this stage but under the circumstances I opted for ‘close control’.

Although the nervous edge to her voice remained, the controller continued to give good directions. Before long, a glance at the sky confirmed what she and my radar were telling me: this tsunami was no mere figment of the imagination. Radar blips had transmuted into massive machines with great red stars painted on the sides. I was staring at the carriers of nuclear weapons, symbols of dystopia, devils bent on death and destruction on an abominable scale.

“Standby to turn onto the targets’ heading,” said the controller. As if I was sat in a dentist’s chair anticipating a malevolent practitioner about to lunge, I waited anxiously for the crunch moment. Her crucial words eventually came: “Now turn starboard through 180 degrees,” she cried.

I applied 60 degrees angle of bank and kept my eyes firmly out of the Lightning’s cockpit as I turned towards the selected zombie, the second in the lead formation. This turn proved to be less than straightforward. As I became progressively mixed-up with miscellaneous sections of the Soviet Long Range Bomber Force, I had to ease my angle of bank every few seconds to check that the area was clear of possible collision risk. The situation was not helped by prodigious contrails which criss-crossed the sky like scenes from WW2 black-and-white movies of RAF Bomber Command raids. At times it felt as if the day was darkening into night; my active imagination started to visualise vengeful footsteps that crept along like the feet of pursuit in a bad dream.

By the conclusion of my jerky turn through 180 degrees, I managed to stabilise the Lightning’s position on the left side of the chosen zombie. This machine turned out to be a Bear B – the bomber version of the Bear fleet – and I closed slowly to a position about 100 yards abeam. I noted the tail number, markings, crew reaction, camouflage and other significant features then advanced the Lightning’s throttles to overtake. I aimed now for the Bear ahead which, with its large radar dome underneath, proved to be the Bear D maritime surveillance version. As I pulled alongside I became aware of radio chatter from Neatishead: Lightning Mk 3s from RAF Wattisham had been scrambled together with Victor tanker air-to-air refuelling support. This was hardly the heavy brigade compared to my current neighbourhood, nonetheless the prospect of support boosted my morale. Another problem, though, had begun to dominate my thought processes: the Norfolk coast was looming.

The boundary between international and United Kingdom airspace, set at twelve miles from the coast, was a line of sacrosanct significance – violation by a potential enemy would shoot the heebie-jeebies at Hurricane Force 12 through the corridors of power up to the highest levels of government. One option was for me to fly alongside and just forward of the captain’s cabin on the left side, waggle my wings, then commence a slow turn to the left to indicate that the intercepted aircraft should follow. This was an internationally agreed signal but such an option looked a little unrealistic (to put it politely) in current circumstances. My other choice was less palatable: to arm my air-to-air missiles in preparation for an order to fire. The mathematics now became interesting. The infrared heat seekers of my Red Top missiles needed two minutes to warm up. We were flying at eight miles a minute. I therefore needed to select missile cooling by at least 28 miles from the coast. My present range from the coast was 35 miles.

“Request permission to arm up,” I asked the young controller. A horrible pause ensued until her voice, now markedly shrill, replied somewhat ambiguously: “Standby.”

As the miles ticked by I could almost hear arguments raging in the background. I wondered idly how far up the line the issue would travel. At what point would Mr Dennis Healey, the Secretary of State for Defence, be contacted? Perhaps he was in his office, or maybe having an afternoon nap, or possibly enjoying lunch with Prime Minister Harold Wilson – which would be handy from the decision-making point of view, though far be it for me, I reckoned considerately, to cause them to choke on their beer and sandwiches. Maybe they were already in worried debate about last month’s Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia. Perhaps this would influence their earnest discussions in the urgent decision now needed.

At a range of 30 miles from the coast I repeated my request to arm up. The controller’s reply, the same as last time, left me on tenterhooks. With just two miles to go to the calculated critical point I needed a decision fast. The decision, regretfully, was not forthcoming by the time I flew past the 28-mile point and my situation felt increasingly invidious. At 25 miles, still lacking any form of guidance, I resolved to make my own decision. Operation of the missile coolant switch, a procedure detectable by groundcrews, might lead to awkward questions. Nevertheless, I reached down and selected the coolant on. In two minutes’ time, if and when an order to fire was given, all I had to do was to obtain a radar lock-on and ensure that the relevant missile switch was selected. A small squeeze on the trigger by one finger on my right hand and…Bingo!…the Soviet Long Range Bomber Force would be minus one Bear. The process could be rapidly repeated after which they would be minus two Bears. I preferred not to think of the six or seven-man crew ensconced inside each aircraft. I preferred, too, not to dwell on the reaction of the other members of the Soviet force.

As the Norfolk coast came into view, and with the range still counting down relentlessly, Neatishead continued to remain ominously quiet. Something must be done, I thought, this cannot be allowed to go on. If seismic stirrings behind the scenes had created alarm and despondency, that was just too bad. I was the one faced with the here-and-now; if the ‘system’ could not, or would not, offer suitable support then I would have to act on my own initiative. The system had failed me, full stop. In this parlous twilight zone of endless vacillation, someone, somewhere needed to show a bit of grit. If that someone had to be me and if, for the sake of the country – the world, even – a real-life James Bond in the form of me was needed, then so be it.

If such musings seem somewhat inflated, try to place yourself in my situation. The moment was pivotal; the stakes could hardly have been higher. To put things in perspective, just imagine, for instance, the elementary yet dire precautions that had to be made by households in WW2 – buildings sandbagged, wired, guarded, shuttered-up; gardens left untended and cluttered with the dreary accoutrements of war; guns and gun carriages, tents, trucks, gas-caped soldiers, like swarms of giant green insects, that occupied streets, farms, woods, fine countryside which had become shabby, neglected, only half-alive; concrete pill-boxes, some covered in paint, others in domestic disguise to resemble post offices, shops, hay-stacks, vehicles as the populace struggled with crude camouflage to thwart bomb-aimers…just imagine how such efforts would need to be doubled and re-doubled in a nuclear scenario. Even then, the activities could turn out to be futile. Now imagine the responsibility felt by a sole pilot, a young man in his early twenties, whose duty it was to forestall such cataclysmic prospects.

At a range of fifteen miles from the coast, I began to advance my throttles. My Red Top missiles remained on full ‘red alert’ but I had no intention of firing them without authority. Left with no other choice, I was therefore determined to try the ‘follow me’ tactic. At twelve miles from the coast, as I drew level with the Bear D’s cockpit, I attempted to stare in the captain’s direction. The cockpit windows were small, however, and I was uncertain of the captain’s reaction. At ten miles from the coast, just as I was about to take up the internationally recognised ‘follow me’ position, the great Bear D suddenly dipped its starboard wing as the captain initiated a turn due north.

If I had time to breathe a sigh of relief, it was surely a deep one. As I followed the lead Bear D’s turn, a glance over my right shoulder revealed a remarkable sight. An eccentric mix of Bears, Lightnings, Victor tanker aircraft trailed behind in a spontaneously-formed, unofficial formation. Multiple contrails added to the curious spectacle which had begun to assume positively surreal proportions. As the incongruous convoy weaved its way northwards, it was in the vicinity of Flamborough Head that I handed over ‘my’ pair of Bears to Lightnings from the Leuchars wing. I then turned away hard and set my heading for Binbrook.

Later, we learnt that the cause of the day’s furore had been a ‘graduation’ flight by the Bear operational conversion unit based near Murmansk. Evidently the instructors there had wanted to take their students on a different route to normal.

As for me, the effect of the day’s experience had been profound. The system had been found wanting; lessons needed to be learned at many different levels. Like a key pawn in a grand game of chess, great decisions had been left largely in my own hands and the intense concentration required had left me with a feeling of deep fatigue. I endured disturbed dreams that night.