DIFFICULT DECISIONS
SIR JOSEPH (JOE) GILBERT IS REQUIRED TO SIGN
The young officer sidled up to my desk with a stealthy, soft-treaded gait. He knew that I would not be happy. That was apparent from the anxious movement of his small dark eyes which revealed that he knew that I knew.
“Yes?” I said.
“Your signature is required, sir,” he said. “Right there, please, at the bottom of the file.” He pointed.
92 Squadron pilots L-R: Colin Armstrong, John Richardson, Dougie Aylward, Paddy Roberts, Rick McKnight, Ed Stein, John Holdway, Tim Cohu, Joseph Gilbert, Jim Carbourne, Chris Bruce, Sam Lucas, Geoff Denny, David Cousins, Jerry Bowler, John Rooum.
“Okay, leave it with me.”
The young officer seemed to make no sound at all as he crept out of my office. I may have stared long and hard at the file, tried to put off reading the contents, I don’t really remember. I do recall, though, that when, eventually, I saw with my own eyes what I had suspected all along – that Lightning Mk 2 and Mk 2A aircraft were to be written off from service with the Royal Air Force and offered for use as gate guardians and other such ill-judged purposes – I experienced a deep and ominous sense of disquiet. As the ‘Ministry Man’, the air-vice marshal in the post of assistant chief of air staff (policy), it was my job to sign the final dire document that would, in effect, consign fine, formidable fighter aircraft to the scrap heap. This, in my opinion, was a wanton waste of resources, an imprudent measure, a misguided squandering of assets. To add insult to injury, I had flown some of these Lightnings personally when I was the commanding officer of 92 (East India) Squadron.
When I thought back, I knew that I’d been lucky to have been offered that 92 Squadron post. With a background flying Gloster Meteor, de Havilland Vampire and Gloster Javelin aircraft in the 1950s, I was a reasonably experienced fighter pilot, but seniority had seemed to conspire against my repeated requests for a posting to Lightnings. I was conscious of a particular incident which had sparked my desire to fly the aircraft. As a Javelin pilot in the early 1960s, I’d taken part in an air defence exercise. Known as the ‘Dragmaster’, the delta-wing Javelin with its massive T-tail was incapable of intercepting targets above embarrassingly restrictive heights and airspeeds. This made the prospect of dealing with earnest enemy efforts seem somewhat unrealistic, to put it mildly. One day during the exercise I watched with absolute amazement when a Lightning flew alongside my Javelin, then swiftly and with the greatest of ease switched from one target to the next before zooming off to return to base.
After this I applied to join the Lightning force, although my chances of success had appeared increasingly remote. I’d almost given up the idea until a prompt change of air force policy gave me a sudden and unexpected opportunity: in future, it was decreed, commanding officers of Lightning squadrons would be in the rank of wing commander instead of squadron leader. Although a generally unpopular move, this meant that from my point of view as a newly-promoted wing commander after staff college, I was presented with a very lucky break indeed. My posting as commanding officer of 92 Squadron which, among other matters, would involve the squadron’s move from Leconfield in the East Riding of Yorkshire to Geilenkirchen in Germany (close to the German-Dutch border), would be at once prestigious and challenging.
As, normally, a pilot would not have taken command of a Lightning squadron without previous experience on the aircraft, I began my new job on 92 Squadron with a fair degree of trepidation. After the Lightning conversion course at RAF Coltishall, I needed to become ‘combat ready’ as swiftly as possible. When still fairly new on the squadron, I’d flown a pairs sortie led by an ex-Red Arrows display pilot – a flight that I would not forget. As he’d led me back to base, the ex-Red Arrows had appeared to get a little carried away, so much so that I wondered if he’d forgotten that he was leading a ‘new boy’ and that, instead, he was back in the display team. As we cavorted about the sky I needed all of my powers of concentration to stay in position. Nonetheless, stay in position I did. At the end of the sortie, despite a sense of serious exhaustion, I felt as if I’d somehow passed an informal yet significant test the results of which, although unspoken, proved to the other squadron pilots that I could, indeed, fly the Lightning.
I had been with 92 Squadron for just three months when the squadron move to Geilenkirchen took place. We soon settled in to our new home, a well-planned airbase with a good long runway, fine local facilities and first-rate squadron accommodation. The day after our arrival, when the commander-in-chief of RAF Germany visited the squadron, he admired our Lightnings’ colour scheme – the royal blue spine and tail with the squadron crest of a cobra (to represent that 92 Squadron was an East India gift squadron) and a maple leaf (to signify the squadron’s association with Canada in WW1) painted boldly on the tail. Unaware of plans made by his staff, the commander-in-chief agreed that we should keep our colour scheme without alteration – an authorisation taken literally for the rest of the squadron’s time in Germany.
When declared ‘combat ready’ I would take my turn to hold readiness in the so-called Battle Flight set-up at Royal Air Force Gütersloh with two Lightnings fully armed and prepared to be airborne at short notice. One night, not long after I had commenced Battle Flight duty, the ‘squawk box’ in one corner of the pilots’ small crew room crackled abruptly into life. “Gütersloh, alert one Lightning,” the controller demanded.
At once, the other pilot acknowledged the order and activated the scramble alarm while, as the allocated ‘Q1’ (the first to be scrambled), I dashed to my Lightning. Careful cockpit preparation assisted speedy progress as I leapt up the cockpit access ladder steps two at a time, hastily plugged in my PEC (personal equipment connector), placed my bone dome on my head and checked-in with the controller. “Vector 035 degrees, climb to 36,000 feet…scramble,” the controller cried breathlessly. Clearly, the situation was urgent – a border infringement between East and West Germany, perhaps, or a pilot with some airborne emergency who needed assistance.
A member of groundcrew, having helped me to strap in, removed and stowed my ejection seat safety pins, slid rapidly down the cockpit access ladder, removed the ladder and stood to one side while I started my Rolls-Royce Avon engines. The procedure, slick and well rehearsed, ensured that I was soon ready to taxy towards the runway at which point air traffic control cleared me for immediate take-off. Still fairly new to Lightnings, I felt a sense of thrill from the punch in the back caused when the reheats were engaged during the take-off run. My peripheral vision picked up a blur of lights to each side as the Lightning accelerated down the pitch-black runway.
Once airborne, I checked in with the GCI (ground control intercept) controller who ordered me to continue to climb as I held a north-easterly course. I made frequent checks around the cockpit to confirm that my radar and other systems remained serviceable, and I adjusted my cockpit lighting to reduce the brightness: a night visident (visual identification) involved special hazards and I needed to plan well ahead, including the acclimatisation of my eyes to darker conditions. As the Lightning headed progressively further from base I began to feel apprehensive about my fuel state. When I mentioned this to the controller he merely said: “Turn left now onto a heading of 020 degrees.” No doubt his priority had been focussed on a successful interception even if my low fuel state had meant an eventual diversion away from base.
“Copied,” I said, shortly followed by: “rolling out on a heading of 020 degrees.”
With the Lightning now adjacent to the ‘buffer zone’, the controller waited a few moments before instructing me to turn a further ten degrees to the left. He was under strict orders to ensure that I didn’t fly too close to the East/West German border. “Your target is currently fifteen miles ahead on your right side,” the controller went on, “descend to 32,000 feet.”
I peered anxiously at my small radar screen. The screen, though, was flooded with a variety of complex green radar ‘paints’ and the picture was hard to interpret.
“You are closing on the target,” the controller said, “he’s presently ten miles ahead on your right side and slightly above.”
With my left hand I used the Lightning’s hand controller to make continuous minor radar adjustments but the target, still hidden within radar clutter, remained hard to pick out. However, when the controller said: “Your target’s now just over five miles ahead,” I became convinced that a particular ‘blip’ seemed to coincide with the controller’s ongoing patter. Before long, when the controller’s instructions had verified this beyond doubt, I was able to call ‘Judy’– no further instructions needed from ground control. I concentrated then on manoeuvring the Lightning for optimum visual identification of the target. On most nights, a lighter section of sky or a particular cluster of bright stars or perhaps the moon could be used to advantage. I had to fly with finesse; harsh control movements could have led to difficulty. At length, though, as I approached stealthily from astern and as I employed nature’s luminous back-cloth to highlight the target’s silhouette, I was able to identify a Soviet Tupolev Tu-104 (NATO code-named ‘Camel’), a civil airliner version of the twin-engined, swept wing Tupolev Tu-16 bomber (NATO code-named ‘Badger’).
When I reported this to the controller, he ordered me to break off the interception. Later, I learnt that the Camel had strayed by mistake across the East/West German border. At the time, though, as the interception had taken me too far north for a return to base, I elected to divert to Hanover airport for a refuel. I found the set-up at Hanover to be efficient and helpful, and I noted, too, that my fully-armed Lightning with its striking royal blue paintwork caused quite a stir.
Not long after this Battle Flight interception, 92 Squadron became involved in a NATO air defence exercise. I recall a particular sortie to intercept a highspeed, high-altitude target which turned out to be a Luftwaffe F104 Starfighter (an aircraft, incidentally, which had been introduced into service at about the same time as the Lightning but which had remained in operational service with some air forces for over fifteen years longer than the Lightning in the Royal Air Force – some justification, perhaps, for my strongly-held views against writing off our Lightnings prematurely). The high fuel consumption involved with the interception of this F104 meant that my flight time for the sortie amounted to a grand total of twenty-four minutes.
Another short flight loomed when, towards the end of the air defence exercise, I was scrambled to intercept a target at ‘40,000 feet plus’. I hastened through the start-up and take-off procedures after which, having been cleared by air traffic control, I commenced a climb towards the target. Just as I passed through an altitude of around 14,000 feet my attention was drawn to the cockpit warning panel as ‘clang – clang – clang’ reverberated within my headset earpieces. A glance at the warning panel revealed that I had suffered a ‘FIRE 1’ – fire in number one engine. At once, I throttled back both engines to reduce speed and carry out emergency drills, including operation of the number one engine fire extinguisher. Fortunately this worked and after a short delay the fire warning light dimmed before going out.
I’d put out an emergency ‘PAN’ call to which the controller had responded that the airfield approach was clear and that fire services had been alerted. My subsequent approach and landing proceeded without further problems except that, after landing and shut down when I was assisted with cockpit evacuation by fire crews, I felt the need to sit down on a nearby grassy stretch. At that point, the Geilenkirchen fire officer came up to me to offer a lift back to the squadron buildings. “Thanks, Rick,” I said gratefully, but when I attempted to stand up my legs just gave way. At once, the fire officer, instead of making a fuss, calmly helped me to sit down again before he, too, sat down next to me on the grass. The two of us remained there for a good fifteen or twenty minutes quietly chatting away while the perspicacious and kindly fire officer gave my system a chance to recover from the effects of delayed shock.
A shock to my system came in another form when it was time for me to leave 92 Squadron. I felt lost. As the commanding officer of a Lightning squadron, my life had seemed about as good as it could get and I’d been in a quandary about what I should do next. Rescue came from a somewhat unexpected quarter when Air Vice-Marshal Neil Cameron (later Marshal of the Royal Air Force Baron Cameron of Balhousie, chief of defence staff) asked me to join his newly-formed defence policy staff.
After three-and-a half years in this job, which had given me a new interest when I’d developed expertise in nuclear defence policy, I was posted to Royal Air Force Coltishall, Norfolk as station commander. I managed to achieve around ten to fifteen flying hours a month at Coltishall where I enjoyed flying the so-called ‘Loony Lightning’. This form of modified Lightning had been stripped of its radar and fitted instead with a Luneburg lens, a spherically symmetrical device with a metallic surface. The Loony Lightnings with their improved radar reflective properties assisted students to learn the art of intercept geometry.
After Coltishall I’d been saddened to lose my last links with the Lightning. In a future job as the air officer commanding of 38 Group I was able to fly a number of different aircraft types, but not the Lightning. This remained a matter of regret because for me, without doubt, the Lightning had always been (and always would be) by far my favourite aircraft to fly. That may have been on my mind when the young officer sidled up to my desk to ask for a signature. A number of factors now fuelled my intransigence and mood of intense exasperation as I persisted with my refusal to sign away valuable Mk 2 and Mk 2A Lightnings.
An intriguing series of visitors began to visit me in my office. A squadron leader, followed by a wing commander then a group captain all traipsed into the office one by one, all with long faces and all determined to persuade me to sign. Eventually an air commodore entered. “Boss,” he said, “you really must sign this file. We don’t have any choice.” I begged to differ.
It was later in the day when the matter reached the ministry’s higher echelons. A squawk box on my desk sprang abruptly into life; a small light indicated that the vice-chief of the air staff himself now demanded my immediate attention.
I flicked a switch. “Sir?” I said.
“You’re playing silly buggers,” he said. There was more than a touch of irritation in his voice. I imagined a face drawn and pale, the skin almost grey, the eyes focussed somewhere out in front. Firmly and politely I tried to put my case – a mix of operational, sentimental and practical reasons.
“The decision’s already been made,” growled the vice-chief of the air staff. “Your signature is a mere formality.” In the ensuing moments of silence I could picture squabbling seagulls wheel and scream before they disappeared in the mist. A few shadowy figures appeared to rise out of the mists then fade away again like so many lost souls.
“I’m sorry, sir,” I said eventually. Into the awkward recesses of my mind there penetrated a slow, delayed echo of his voice as the vice-chief of the air staff concluded our conversation.
“You’re still refusing to sign?” he said.
“Yes.”
At this, I was aware of a click when, without further ado, the vice-chief of the air staff switched off his squawk box. It seemed that, regretfully, I’d forgone any possible aspirations to become the ministry’s next ‘employee of the month’. There was something deadening and robotic about the whole affair. I’d probably have to carry the scars of my decision, but at least I could feel that a certain sense of honour had been retained.
Some time later I learned that the vice-chief of the air staff had himself signed the required paperwork. My career went on to include that of deputy air officer commanding Royal Air Force Strike Command, then deputy commander-in-chief of Allied Forces Northern Europe before I retired from the service in 1989. Since that time, I have served as president internationally of the Royal Air Force Association, prime minister’s trustee on the board of the Imperial War Museum and – the best thing since retirement – vice-chairman of the Commonwealth War Graves Commission.
Nowadays, as I am in what might be termed ‘deep retirement’, I act as a part-time guide at the thirteenth-century Salisbury Cathedral in Wiltshire. On duty there every Tuesday morning, I’d be delighted to meet anyone who wishes to approach me to ‘talk Lightnings’. I have the greatest respect for the Lightning boys. I feel proud to have been one of them. I’m glad that I refused to sign that odious piece of paper.