TOPSY-TURVY
ROGER COLEBROOK’S FLIGHT INSTRUMENT PROBLEMS
The process started slowly, insidiously, which was perhaps why I didn’t realise at first. It was dark and overcast beyond the southern coast of Cyprus on that April night in 1968. Above my Lightning’s position over the sea, layers of cloud meant that I lacked the benefit of background moon and stars to aid orientation. In spite of this, I soon settled into my search pattern, pressed my head against the radar display’s rubber hood and adjusted my pistol-grip hand controller with its complex collection of a dozen or so buttons, thumbwheels and switches used to manage the Lightning’s radar system. When settled at a height of 1,500 feet in level flight, I flicked, instinctively, the ‘attitude hold’ mode of the Lightning’s rudimentary autopilot. Use of this facility was restricted to heights above 5,000 feet but my high workload caused a momentary lapse of memory and on a night like this I needed all the help I could get.
Line up of 56(F) Squadron Lightnings.
As I stared at the small radar screen, I began to make out what I thought might be a target to the right. I made another minor adjustment on the hand controller and continued to gaze at the screen.
Gradually, however, the radar picture began to change. The screen’s sea returns now slowly, subtly assumed an unusual slant; the picture started to look distinctly odd. My initial reaction was that I’d been subjected to radar ‘jamming’ – our 56(F) Squadron pilots had been briefed to anticipate electronic counter measures during the exercise. I concentrated intently as I strived to interpret the radar. I might even have become transfixed. As my balance organs began to doubt the visual information fed to my eyes and brain, I sensed an alarming disconnect between mind and reality. My uneasiness grew; my pulse quickened. It was as if a fine tremolo of trumpets and violins had started suddenly to sound like cats, a yard full of them, all yowling danger…danger…danger. In an instant, I snapped my head away from the radar hood. My heart raced; I hesitated momentarily as I tried to work out what was happening but a glance at the altimeter revealed that I was just seconds from disaster. My corrective action was immediate and violent.
It was about a year before this incident that rumours of 56(F) Squadron’s possible permanent deployment to Cyprus in the spring of 1967 eventually translated into reality. I’d joined the squadron in February of that year and soon became caught up in the widespread air of excitement as postings officers from HQ visited us, futures were discussed, and information was circulated about our new base at Akrotiri on the southern tip of the island. In my own case, however, I had reservations. When summonsed to my flight commander’s office to discuss the issue, I entered politely and offered my best military salute along with a pleasant, goofy smile. “Looks as if we’re all lined up for plum postings, young Roger,” my flight commander said cheerily.
I gazed at my flight commander. He was well aware that Yusha, my five-stone family dog, relied on me for a home. When I was flying, Yusha usually slept under a table until I returned. Normally well-behaved, the dog, though, could be protective if provoked. One time, for instance, an instructor at my advanced flying course at RAF Valley, a rather unpleasant individual, had tried to berate me for something or other when I noticed that his high-pitched voice had changed abruptly to a strangled yelp, his face had contorted and he’d dropped to his knees. It was then when I saw that Yusha had grabbed the instructor by the seat of his trousers and dragged him to the floor.
An ominous pause ensued. My flight commander’s cheery expression changed to an irritated scowl. “Well that’s just too bad, Roger,” he said eventually in reaction to my misgivings. “Like it or not, you’re bloody well going and that’s that.” At this, I was summarily dismissed from the flight commander’s presence.
After this, I tried to ‘think positive’. Apart from the benefits of the Cypriot climate, I reckoned that the tenuous Middle East situation would be bound to ensure a stimulating operational environment for our squadron. We couldn’t have known, of course, that our move in April 1967 was just two months before the outbreak of the Six-Day Arab-Israeli war.
The squadron’s marathon move had gone well for most, although we heard later of a slight contretemps between the squadron’s commanding officer and our new qualified flying instructor who together flew the two-seat Lightning T5 to Cyprus. The CO had acquired a novel device, a kneepad arrangement, filled with customised charts and checklists. Designed especially for the trip, the CO was mighty proud of his new contraption. Regretfully, however, the device was a bit too bulky for the cramped confines of a Lightning cockpit. As a result, the good wing commander, unable to strap his pride-and-joy to his knee, had been obliged to place the thing between the Lightning T5’s two ejection seats. This had worked reasonably well until an hour or two into the trip when the flying instructor had decided to adjust the height of his seat. A graunching noise, heard even above the background racket within the Lightning’s cockpit, had been accompanied by the CO’s expression of horror when, in an instant, his new-fangled but now-mangled gadget was rendered useless – as useless, indeed, as some had declared all along.
As the squadron settled in to its new situation, we soon began to appreciate just how stark was the disparity between our current Middle East environment and that of our former base at Wattisham in leafy, sleepy Suffolk. As the Cypriot noonday heat could become quite overpowering, often we would aim to start a day’s work early in the morning and finish by lunchtime. Sometimes, first thing, I would look out from the squadron set-up to admire our new surroundings. Terrain around Akrotiri itself was flat but to the north the peak of Mount Olympus at 6,400 feet would offer, on a clear day, a spectacular navigational aid for us newly-arrived pilots. From Fassouri plantation, just north of Akrotiri, the sweet smell of orange blossom would drift across the airfield to provide an incongruous blend with the airfield’s whiff of high octane aviation fuel.
I liked to look up into the sky and listen to the faint, far-off pounding of the sea upon the beaches. Intermixed with the shrill hubbub of spring bird-song, the assortment of sounds produced a strange, intoxicating atmosphere. In contrast to nature’s best, the black surface of the runway stood out as a dark scar set between sandy-coloured grasses. The east-west runway, which pointed towards tourist beaches and the waters of the Mediterranean Sea, would shimmer in the noon sun; heat haze would hang languidly over the airfield. Sometimes, on the hottest of days, we could feel the burning air touch the inside of our lungs. The sun would bear down on shoulders and backs; our shirts would offer scant protection as perspiration trickled down from necks, over chests to be collected by waist-belts.
We had been in Cyprus a mere matter of weeks when it became obvious that Arab-Israeli posturing was about to develop into full-scale war. Egypt had started to amass troops and tanks in the Sinai; Syria and Jordan had sent troops in large numbers to reinforce border areas; the population of Israel had begun to dig fortifications and to make preparations to evacuate children to Europe. Later, we would learn that Israeli air force pilots had been extensively schooled about their planned targets in Egypt. Furthermore, the pilots had been made to memorise every detail of these targets as well as rehearsing, in total secrecy, attack profiles on dummy runways.
On the morning of 5th June 1967, coincident with civil defence sirens sounding across Israel, all but twelve of the Israeli air force’s nearly two hundred operational jet aircraft launched a mass attack against Egyptian airfields. The Israeli pilots flew low across the sea to avoid radar detection, the Egyptian air defence infrastructure was poor and the Egyptian aircraft, partly due to the efforts of a double agent, had been left in the open making them vulnerable to air attack. The outcome was dramatic; it was estimated later that over 300 Egyptian aircraft had been destroyed and around 100 Egyptian pilots killed; in a bold stroke, Israel had gained air superiority for the period of the war.
From my own point of view, as I’d been with the squadron for such a short period and my status was non-operational, I was not allowed to fly other than on training sorties. Nonetheless, I’d been on duty for other squadron tasks that morning and witnessed the scene when one of our operational pilots was scrambled to intercept an aircraft of unknown origin to the south of Cyprus heading towards Israel. The intruder had been reported to be at low level and a judicious approach was required. Our man had closed up stealthily from astern to identify a Nord Noratlas N-2501D with Israeli markings; Israel had purchased 16 of these aircraft before the war. It turned out that the Noratlas was being used to provide survival support for Israeli air force crews who may have had to ditch in the sea after their pre-emptive raids against Egypt. As the role of the Lightnings in Cyprus was restricted to protection of the sovereign base areas on the island, our man had taken no action other than to report back details of his interception. Over the next days our squadron pilots carried out a large number of unusual interceptions and we were warned about the possibility of defectors from Israel’s neighbours wishing to seek the safe haven of Akrotiri.
Later in the year, some months after the conclusion of the Arab-Israeli conflict, I became involved in unusual interceptions of a different kind. By that stage I had been declared operational and, along with other squadron pilots, I’d been scrambled on a number of occasions to intercept aircraft of the Turkish air force which, in support of Turkey’s contested claims over parts of Cyprus, had begun to send flights over the island’s northern areas. Our Lightnings would intercept such flights although our rules of engagement dictated that we could engage the intruders only if they fired at us first, or if they attacked ground targets. As the Turkish pilots were notoriously bad at lookout, we would enjoy opportunities to stalk them and to see how much time elapsed before our presence was discovered. Several of our pilots would report how they’d been able to remain in a close line astern position undetected for a considerable period. Once discovered, however, some amazing tail-chases would ensue against, in the main, RF 84-F Thunderflash photo-reconnaissance aircraft and Lockheed F104 Starfighters.
One time, I was chasing a low-level RF 84-F flying due north from Kyrenia when I suddenly spotted something abnormal-looking on the horizon. At first I thought it was the distant coastline but as I flew closer I could discern a large fleet of naval ships. My God, I thought, that’s the Turkish invasion fleet on its way to Cyprus. The RF 84-F, presumably in radio contact with the fleet, had overflown with impunity but I decided that, with my own prospects likely to be distinctly less promising, I should veer away. I then held a safe distance and noted as many details as I could before dashing back to base to make an urgent report. The intelligence team told me that they’d been monitoring the fleet for several days but, in the end, it was not until 1974 that the Turks finally decided to invade Cyprus.
Although tit-for-tat Arab/Israeli raids following the Six-Day War had continued into 1968, most of these flights were too distant for our Lightnings to become involved. Our training schedule, therefore, continued as training schedules are inclined to do, including the inevitable round of pre-planned exercises. One of these, the peculiarly-named Exercise Crayon, was an air defence exercise designed to last for several days in April 1968. The exercise planners had concentrated on a hypothetical threat from low-flying targets.
When, at around midnight, I was scrambled to take up my allocated slot in the fighter combat air patrol pattern, I was well aware of the need to be mindful of adjacent fighters. The squadron had devised a system which offered optimum coverage of as large an area as possible by using the combined radars of a number of Lightnings. Each individual Lightning pilot, therefore, had to maintain accurate orientation within the overall patrol pattern. This requirement, however, added further to the already-complicated parameters under which we operated.
As I now persisted with necessary time, distance, wind and other calculations to hold my position, I ruminated on the woeful limitations of the Lightning’s radar at low level. At high altitude, I would hope to detect a medium-sized target at a range of 25 or more miles, but at low level over a calm sea the detection distance was reduced to about ten miles, sometimes as little as two miles if the sea state was rough. Over land, ground returns rendered the radar virtually useless at low level.
To assist during an interception, my radar screen displayed a gyro-operated artificial horizon. It was this system, or perhaps I should say the failure of this system, which was about to lead me into trouble. In the course of ongoing positional calculations I thought that I spotted a faint ‘blip’ on the right-hand edge of my radar screen. With a judicious adjustment of the hand controller I tried to enhance the clarity of the blip. I became mentally immersed in the information on the radar screen – to the point, perhaps, that I was too focussed and was slow to appreciate the implications when my radar picture began to display unusual signs.
The hazard was compounded as I put the problem down initially to the dark art of electronic counter measures. Maybe at that point I relaxed my guard a little. Eventually, however, sensory conflicts and illusions started to niggle at my subconscious mind.
Abruptly, I snapped my head away from the radar hood. Reality struck without mercy. Shocked, I hesitated for a moment or two. My flight instruments revealed contradictory data; I had just seconds in which to separate true from false. I suddenly realised that the main artificial horizon, which was linked to the display on the radar screen, was askew compared to the indications on the standby artificial horizon. In the pitch-black conditions I relied entirely on my flight instruments for orientation. By now I was convinced that I needed to ignore the main instrument and to concentrate instead on the small, awkwardly-placed standby artificial horizon. The latter, along with the altimeter, were together trying to scream the full extent of danger.
By this stage the Lightning was in a steep dive with 70 degrees of right bank and the altimeter was winding down below 400 feet as I plummeted towards the sea. At once, I slammed the Lightning’s control stick to the left and pulled back to the limit of 6g. The aircraft reacted immediately, although I reckoned that the altimeter ‘bottomed-out’ at 200 feet. Within seconds, though, I had zoom-climbed the Lightning to an altitude of 5,000 feet. My heartbeat racing, I advised the controller that my aircraft was unserviceable and that I would return to base at once. “That’s copied,” he said nonchalantly.
I flew back to Akrotiri at a safe altitude and landed without further incident. However, while I completed the necessary paperwork, I was unable to rid my mind of ghosts from the past. During my Hawker Hunter training course at RAF Chivenor, Devon, a colleague had been lost in similar circumstances. Hunters and Lightnings carried no ‘black box’ data recorders, but the Hunter pilot had crashed not into the sea but into a farmer’s field. By piecing together the aircraft’s scattered fragments, accident investigators could work out that spatial disorientation had been the root cause of the young pilot’s tragic death. As I remembered this, I knew that that night I had been toying with the stuff of disaster.
When, eventually, I finished form-filling, I felt the need to wander outside. Earlier cloud layers had dispersed by now and I could observe a slim, small moon. A mass of stars wheeled up into the sky. I could barely make out the line of distant hills, but I recalled how, at dusk, the last traces of spring sunshine had provided a colourful backdrop to the contours of Mount Olympus. At present, however, all remained dark while I pondered and breathed the cool, unforgiving night air.