CHAPTER 1

TO BE, OR NOT TO BE

‘Mother Riley’s Cardboard Aeroplane’ and ‘Must Refurbish Canberra Again’ were phrases commonly coined to represent ‘MRCA’. There seemed to be more than a degree of scepticism around the RAF as the Tornado was prepared for service entry. This was to some extent understandable. Vulcan people would not have regarded it a worthy successor to their mighty jet; not least, it possessed only a fraction of the range and payload. Buccaneer crews were very much attached to their steeds, and fiercely loyal to the ethos of the fleet. And yet the Tornado was to replace both types.

And even when, by the late 1970s, the Tornado was approaching service acceptance, RAF people could have been forgiven if they weren’t rushing to place bets on its entry into service. After all, many of them had grown weary of seeing exciting projects being derailed by changes of the political mind. TSR2 – cancelled as its test phase was about to accelerate; F-111 – the order cancelled before the first airframe had been delivered; P1154, the supersonic Harrier – cancelled before metal had been cut; likewise with the Anglo-French Variable Geometry machine (AFVG). The last had foundered partly due to difficulties in reconciling the plans of two different nations. Even though the international concept had subsequently been proven with the successful delivery of the Jaguar, Puma and Gazelle, there still remained a suspicion that the Anglo-German-Italian Tornado could yet founder.

Amidst the doubt, though, there were those who remained optimistic. Members of the international project staffs and testing teams were already seeing at first hand the immense potential of the new aircraft, and were determined to bring it to fruition. Among them was Dick Bogg, a friend of many years’ standing who, through a later series of command postings, became a stalwart of the Tornado world.

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AIR COMMODORE DICK BOGG (RETD)

In the summer of 1971 I was at Boscombe Down working as a trials officer flying the navigation and weapon aiming system trials on the Phantom FGR2. One Wednesday afternoon, as I climbed out of the Phantom, I was asked to report to my wing commander who announced calmly, “Tomorrow, you are to attend an interview in London for a job with the MRCA.” There was not a deal of choice in the matter, but I had to ask him, “What’s MRCA?” He explained that I was on the short list for an avionics test appointment in the flight-test department of the international project office in Munich for the new, secret Multi-Role Combat Aircraft, still on the drawing board but having recently entered the development phase. In the space of five minutes I learned that it was being progressed jointly by West Germany, Italy and the United Kingdom (Belgium, Canada and the Netherlands having already pulled out) as a single replacement for ageing F-104 Starfighters, Vulcans, Canberras and Buccaneers. The new aircraft would have all manner of state-of-the-art sophistication and was already being nicknamed ‘the all-electric jet’. It was Europe’s biggest ever military project and was set to topple American dominance in the field; thus the political and industrial stakes were high.

Next afternoon I reported to the MoD in Whitehall for my interview with the head of the programme’s systems engineering division. There were two other candidates, one civilian, one military. It was unusual for an RAF flight lieutenant to undergo such a job interview and I found it somewhat daunting. There was a general chat, followed by probing questions on navigation and weapon aiming system testing, statistics and suchlike. It made for an interesting forty-five minutes, following which I was asked to report straight back to work.

I arrived back at Boscombe at 5.30pm, whereupon my boss immediately told me that I’d got the job; I was to start work in Munich on Monday! I was to leave the RAF on loan to NATO, essentially becoming a ‘civilian’ on contract. All very odd. Also, I couldn’t believe that a selection had been made, approved by the MoD and agreed by the RAF’s personnel department – all in the space of two hours. Although I managed to negotiate a short delay, it was still a whirlwind departure from the RAF, and I soon found myself living in a Munich hotel. The day I arrived was the start of Oktoberfest – timing impeccable!

I was to work for the NATO MRCA Development and Production Management Agency (NAMMA), and in the city the next morning I began my first ever day of work in civilian clothes. My new boss was a German civil servant flight test engineer. There was also another German in the flight-test section and we would be getting a young Italian air force captain in due course. I renewed acquaintanceship with my earlier interviewer, Mr Wason Turner, and was taken to meet the GM and his deputy. The former was a Luftwaffe two-star general while the latter was an RAF air commodore, both also on loan.

NAMMA shared an office block with Radio Free Europe, the broadcaster to east European countries; there were many stony-faced characters in the vicinity, and it seemed incongruous, at the height of the Cold War, for the government agency supervising the most secret NATO programme of the period to be sharing a building with RFE. Security was important, but one day when the DGM was holding a meeting in his office the door burst open and in rushed a German major. He clicked his heels and shouted that there was a bomb scare – the DGM would have to evacuate his office. With true British phlegm, the DGM looked over his half-moon glasses at his colleagues, responding with: “I don’t think we need to worry about a bomb, do you gentlemen?” The meeting continued.

In my arrival interviews I was told repeatedly that the job of NAMMA staff was to be impartial, to evaluate on the basis of presented facts, even if conclusions ran counter to national prejudices. This was a challenging concept, but I soon learned that it was the only way to secure credibility, and most NAMMA people were able to play a straight bat. There were also, of course, national representatives who would fight for national interests – and it often appeared that our boxing ring had more than four corners.

It became evident that, although the development phase had been approved, in the longer term the MRCA project was still at a rather uncertain stage. I soon learned to be optimistic, reflecting the style of the GM, who gave weekly pep talks to the whole staff so that everyone from telephonist to senior officer knew of the programme’s trials and tribulations.

Whatever the politics, and they were considerable, NAMMA was charged with managing the programme and for interfacing with the numerous contractors. Our intermediary was Panavia, the manufacturing consortium formed in March 1969 between Aeritalia, British Aircraft Corporation and Messerschmitt-Bölkow-Blohm. It was a real step forward that NAMMA occupied the same building as Panavia – the face-to-face contact with our opposite numbers was invaluable. There was no question that MRCA represented the most ambitious international collaborative programme ever. There were bound to be risks, turmoil, argument and frustration, but the dedicated NAMMA and Panavia teams would do much to bolster national cohesion and resolve as this brave concept progressed.

The next day I was taken to the MBB factory on the outskirts of Munich to see the MRCA itself – although the most advanced item at that time was a full-scale wooden mock-up. Amidst tight security I entered a guarded section of the factory to view the new design. I was struck by the huge, ugly fin, like a vast shark’s; I was told it was necessary for low-level, high-speed stability, but I immediately thought that its size would make it a dead giveaway, visible for miles.

With so many types to be replaced by the MRCA, sceptics dubbed it the multi-role ‘compromise’ aircraft. While the aim was to produce a single model for all roles (strike/attack, counter air, interdiction, reconnaissance, air defence, close air support) the four participating air arms (the German navy was involved, too) had their own particular requirements. There were fierce debates on whether a single-seat variant could be produced, mainly for the IAF, while the Marineflieger stuck out for a long time for a different radar for its aircraft. Gradually, other national differences emerged, some quite understandable (weapons, and electronic warfare equipment, for example) but others, such as on radios, seemingly ludicrously damaging to commonality. In the end a single airframe shape had been chosen – although, much later, the UK ‘stretched’ its interceptor. That would, by the way, become the ADV (air defence variant), while the generic attack model was known as the IDS (interdictor/strike).

The aircraft would be powered by two Turbo-Union RB199 turbofans. These new engines (also products of a tri-national consortium) were designed for high fuel efficiency, hence long range at transonic speeds, and also provided high thrust with reheat for take-off and combat manoeuvring. But the most striking design aspect of MRCA was its wing. To meet the conflicting requirements of low-speed control and high-speed efficiency, a variable-geometry arrangement was adopted, with wings pivoting from 25° to 67°.

To permit low-level penetration in all weathers, the aircraft would be equipped with an automatic terrain-following system using a separate radar antenna in the nose to detect ground obstructions ahead, coupled to an autopilot that would maintain a constant ground clearance height. For the first time, European air forces would have the same operational capability whatever the time of day and regardless of weather – a crucial element of the dream. There would be a triplex fly-by-wire flight control system giving redundancy and great safety, and offering smooth handling at all weights and at any speed and altitude. Additionally, one of the most comprehensive avionics suites seen on any combat aircraft would be fitted; there would be radar, doppler, inertial, laser, low-light television (later cancelled) and TACAN, all controlled by a digital main computer. I simply could not believe the specified figures, and couldn’t wait to see those accuracies confirmed in practice.

All very exciting, but I didn’t have long to familiarise myself with the basic concepts because, in my second week, there was a meeting of the international FTG (flight test group), of which I was to be the secretary. I was somewhat daunted by this group’s august composition. There were members from the national air staffs, project offices and flight test centres. In addition, there was strong representation from Panavia, MBB, BAC and Aeritalia. All in all, a full conference room.

There appeared to be two main topics for my introductory three-day meeting. The first was to discuss the draft flight test programme for the yet-to-be-built aircraft. There would be nine prototypes for Panavia (a reduction from the ten originally planned), plus six pre-series aircraft for national testing; the programmes for all fifteen had to be balanced and harmonised. The fundamental principle of the MRCA programme was work sharing, based on the numbers each country initially aimed to buy. The Germans would take 420 aircraft, the British 420 and the Italians 100. Those numbers would eventually change slightly, but the agreed work-sharing arrangement was set at 42½%, 42½%, 15%. This arrangement was applied to all aspects of the programme, including equipment orders and involvement in the flight test programme. Regarding the latter, the FTG had to devise a programme that divided testing of both prototype and pre-series aircraft as nearly as possible according to the agreed ratios.

The meeting’s second task was to tackle the Oktoberfest. Even with our huge numbers we wouldn’t significantly alter the amount of beer consumed – but at least we could try! We agreed that, as good personal relationships go a long way to easing professional frictions in the conference room, it was important to bring together government and contractor representatives in a social environment. Panavia had reserved a large booth in one of the enormous beer tents, but the amount of noise our large party made, even in reheat, was drowned by the cacophony of the essential German oompah band and 2,000 other guests.

Notwithstanding the doubts surrounding the MRCA programme, two events that first autumn gave cause for optimism. First, the contract was awarded for the aircraft’s radar. This was, perhaps, the most lucrative equipment contract of all and had been contested fiercely by all participants, with American companies also bidding. Rightly, the participating nations would prefer to buy German, British or Italian, and the eventual selection of the American Texas Instruments radar was a difficult decision. But with that selection made the programme began to look more secure.

Another positive was the first staff outing, when the GM took the whole NAMMA team to the MBB factory in Augsburg. The purpose of the visit was to see the first piece of metal being cut. Work had just started on the manufacture of the wing centre-box section, the enormously strong structure that would hold the wings to the fuselage. The centre-box was hewn from a single piece of metal on an enormous milling machine, and it was extraordinary to witness its transformation from a simple chunk of metal into the heart of a flying prototype.

Just as critical to the success of the project would be the engine, which was a new design and, unusually for a fighter type, would have reverse thrust for retardation after landing. The first engines had already been run by Turbo-Union and I visited the company’s test facilities to see one of the first reheat runs – very impressive. Later, the engine would be tested beneath a Vulcan test bed flown by Rolls-Royce.

A good example of the role of NAMMA came while the Italians were still considering the single-seat option. After taking advice from Panavia, it became clear that the cost increment of developing the variant would be exorbitant, and NAMMA was left with the task of advising the board of directors of this. There was much heated argument; the Italians would have a problem if only two-seaters were built, for they had no navigators! The day the board was discussing this I returned to my office after lunch to find two Italian generals and an air marshal sitting on my desk. Air Marshal Sir Douglas Lowe, himself a navigator, spoke first: “Dick, I want you to tell the generals about navigators,” – then he left. The Italians had lost their single-seater and now had to learn, fast, what navs did, how they trained, where and for how long. It was the first time I had had such a captive audience of generals and we talked earnestly for two hours. Years later I was delighted to see that the IAF had adopted many of the suggestions we discussed that day.

In the RAF I had been used to being nobbled for various secondary duties, but as a ‘civilian’ I hadn’t expected to do work that seemed well outside my bailiwick. However, procurement of flight test instrumentation for the pre-series aircraft (sensors, thermocouples, strain gauges and all sorts of other transducers) turned out to be a fascinating subject, and I was helped by experts from all the nations. Over a nine-month period I chaired many meetings to select the appropriate instrumentation for each aircraft, but I recall one in particular. My secretary shared an office with a German girl whose father owned a vineyard on the Mosel, and she announced that she would be bringing wine to taste one evening. I tendered my apologies as I would be in the UK, and she said she’d save some for me. The next day, during a break in the FTI meeting, I was staggered to see ten small glasses of wine lined up on my desk. So I sampled a mouthful of each in about two minutes flat and selected two that appeared to taste the best; more decisions were taken that afternoon than we’d made at the previous ten meetings!

Test instrumentation was often discussed within the FTG. Panavia intended to use telemetry to send test parameters direct to a ground station to allow engineers to observe results as they occurred. This was a well-known technique used worldwide, but for some reason there was opposition from elements within the FTG. I was surprised, for I could see the benefits that should derive, particularly in safety, and greater efficiency in utilisation of expensive test flight time. The opposition stemmed, it turned out, from an incident during the early Jaguar development programme, which some put down to poor use of telemetry. But that was years ago and, now we would use telemetry for MRCA testing.

After I had been at NAMMA for about a year I received an official-looking communication; it was one of the first of the RAF’s famous ‘blue letters’, and told me that I was to be promoted to squadron leader. This was unexpected, particularly as I was officially ‘out of the air force’ during my Munich tour. I was a civilian, being promoted by the RAF! I went to Wason Turner with the letter. He was delighted, naturally, and talked immediately to the air commodore who gruffly wondered why he hadn’t been told. “He’ll have to go,” he said; “I’m not having a squadron leader holding down a flight lieutenant’s post.” Turner said he didn’t wish to lose me, and came up with an imaginative solution that would satisfy everyone. If he could secure national approval he would get my post in NAMMA upgraded – after all, he reasoned, the flight test programme was becoming more important with time. And by chance, he concluded, he had the ideal candidate for the ‘upgraded’ job. Sold! So I stayed.

I had joined NAMMA when it had about ninety people, but as confidence in the project strengthened so too did the staff numbers, reaching about 190 two years later. One office, which a Luftwaffe lieutenant colonel shared with an RAF squadron leader, threw up a remarkable coincidence. These two were veterans of the Second World War. To begin with, the atmosphere between them was somewhat stilted, particularly when it emerged that one had been a Messerschmitt pilot and the other had flown Spitfires. The ice only really thawed when the chaps discovered that they might have taken part in the same campaign, leading to an examination of logbooks and the inevitable recollection of certain flights – together with descriptive manoeuvres with hands, as only fighter pilots can. They had almost certainly been in combat against each other. Clearly both lousy shots – but they’d lived to tell the tale and, henceforth, became extremely close pals.

I wasn’t directly involved with avionics equipment procurement, but had a close interest in its, at times, acrimonious selection process. Indeed my FTI procurement was simplicity itself compared to the cut-throat selection of avionics, which had to conform, as closely as possible, to the magic 42½%, 42½%, 15% work-share agreement. Sometimes national preferences did not always make the best operational or programme sense. For very good operational reasons, the German navy insisted on a different radar, but this would be an expensive addition for only 112 aircraft; integration with the rest of the systems had to be assured and separate flight tests would be needed. This was doubly awkward because the Marineflieger wanted its production aircraft first. This was the tail wagging the dog, particularly as most of the performance characteristics of ‘their’ radar were virtually identical to the air force radar. In the end common sense prevailed and they accepted the same radar as the rest of the programme; collaboration meant compromise in some areas.

From an early stage the nations had formed a committee to discuss with NAMMA and Panavia the layout of the cockpits, including location of instruments and switches. This was clearly a most important group of aviators and their work was vital to achieving satisfactory ergonomics, leading later to harmonisation of switchology and procedures, including navigation and attack sequences. Much of this work later proved to have been on the mark, although my personal and minor criticism was the lack of foot-operated radio transmit and mute buttons (à la Buccaneer) in the rear cockpit.

One day a colleague and I had to go to the MBB complex on the outskirts of Munich, home of the avionics engineering management team. We were frequent visitors there and were always required to sign in before entering. On this day, we were surprised to find a huge queue in the entrance lobby, so we joined the end of the line. As we got closer we saw everyone taking off their jackets and rolling up their sleeves, so we did likewise, shortly receiving an atomised spray in the upper arm. We were then asked which department we worked for, and said we did not work there at all but had merely come for a meeting. Consternation – we had been given routine flu jabs! We thanked them and proceeded to our meeting, protected for the forthcoming winter.

As equipments were gradually decided, vital checks had to be made on the aircraft’s weight and centre of gravity. NAMMA employed a man whose sole job was to perform these calculations, which were vital to the eventual performance of the aircraft. But it hardly seemed full-time work and I often wondered what the weights man did when he was not weighing – until a wag said “Oh, he just sits and waits!”

Definition of the avionics system was carried out by a separate, tri-national consortium, and following each selection Panavia would get down to integrating the component into the system. Individual testing by contractors was followed by sub-system rig testing before units ever saw the real aircraft. It was fascinating to see this performed, gradually increasing the level of integration until a whole MRCA avionics system was available. Flight-standard units would be subjected to rigorous flight testing, not in an MRCA but in an interim test vehicle. The choice of this avionics ‘hack’ had been the source of great controversy; the UK had proposed the Buccaneer, with Germany offering the Starfighter. NAMMA strongly favoured the Buccaneer because it was large enough to accommodate all of the MRCA’s extensive equipment and the necessary FTI (much of it carried on the Buccaneer’s rotating bomb-door). The Starfighter was clearly too small, but the argument raged for months, finally centring on the cost of the project. The presence within NAMMA of a former RAF engineering officer with Buccaneer experience, whose arguments were decisive, led to the Buccaneer being selected – but only after the number of hacks was reduced from three to two. These, loaned by the RAF, would be converted to MRCA standard by Marshall of Cambridge, who would design a layout to incorporate as much of the MRCA avionics as space would allow while leaving intact the Buccaneer’s normal flight control and flight instrumentation system.

Incorporating MRCA’s sophisticated digital flight control system was out of the question, which meant that the hack would not be able to investigate MRCA’s automatic terrain following, although manual terrain following would not be a problem. Nevertheless, there was lots of useful work which would yield important trials information prior to final installation on MRCA itself.

When the hack contract was eventually signed, Sir Arthur Marshall gave a celebratory party. A couple of our members were staying in a little pub nearby. After the party, we were taken to ‘The Green Man’ at around midnight only to find it locked with no lights on and no bell. Silently (I doubt!) we walked around the building to discover only a single window ajar, but that was on the first floor. To people trained for their initiative, there seemed to be only one solution – the smallest man would be pushed through the window and he would then come downstairs and open the main door. So, our lightest (not me) was hoisted up in a remarkable show of strength and balance, disappearing into the first floor room. As he later recalled, he was immediately struck with fear on finding himself in someone’s bedroom, with a person asleep in bed. The only thing to do was to tiptoe quietly out of the room, but when he arrived at the bedroom door it was locked. He saw the key on the bedside table and quietly let himself out. Phew!

After all the political wrangling, the hack programme was up against the time stops. If it got behind that of MRCA itself there was no point in having a hack, since MRCA could perform the tests itself. However, this would have denied the avionics programme the opportunity to evaluate equipment performance early and to make any necessary changes prior to the more expensive and even more time-critical MRCA prototype programme.

An odd aspect of my NAMMA tour was that all members belonged to ‘the staff association’, a NATO-wide civilian organisation that equated to union membership – a bit odd for a military man, and I never thought much about it until we were called out on strike! I can’t remember what the problem was except that it was not one specifically at NAMMA, but the NATO ‘union’ called out all civilian staff on a one-day strike and that embraced us. The RAF officers decided on a pow-wow with our new air commodore, Roger Topp (who had led the celebrated Black Arrows aerobatic team – which, famously, had looped twenty-two Hunters at Farnborough) and we decided to quietly ignore the strike call. I don’t think this stance was particularly troublesome to the (real) civilian members of staff, but membership of the staff association took another twist later. Under NATO regulations, all members of staff voted for representatives to attend union meetings in Brussels. Following the election I found to my embarrassment that I was now one of NAMMA’ s representatives. Now this did give me a problem, since this was tantamount to being a ‘shop steward’, which definitely ran counter to my military principles. I discussed this with the air commodore, who decided that it could be awkward if I declined – after all, I was serving under a contract and it would not send the right message if an RAF member thought he was different to everyone else. But our diplomatic DGM agreed that, conveniently, I would always be ‘unavailable’ whenever meetings were called in Brussels.

Throughout the first two years the pace of progress was fantastic; we could see that real aircraft were being built and that everyone wanted the project to succeed. In a programme of that magnitude and cost there were bound to be problems, but collaboration was there to stay. During that time there was one man who kept his head more than others and who kept the programme on an even keel; it was without question Wason Turner, the chief of the system engineering division. His engineering knowledge, his skill at defusing problems and his ability to convince doubters were outstanding.

Turner’s deputy was an Italian, General Enzo Bianchi, a rotund gentleman with a charming accent who was loved by everyone for his scatterbrain style. One day at Rome airport, his driver was carrying his suitcase when the general bumped into a chum. They nattered for a while and then went their own ways – but with Bianchi asking his driver “Tell me, was I going or coming?” He was no fool, though; he understood far more than he let on and his questions always hit the nail on the head.

When Wason Turner left NAMMA I decided that we must mark his departure in some formal way. Throwing caution and expense to the wind, we booked a posh restaurant and I asked General Bianchi to say a few polite words to mark the departure. But he declined, saying that his English wasn’t up to the mark. Despite my protestations, he was adamant. But farewell words really should come from the deputy, so I persevered, even getting quite angry with him. Eventually he agreed, but he was nervous and we settled on his speaking for no more than five minutes. In case of any last-minute awkwardness I lined up a back-up speaker.

The evening was a relaxed affair, with Bianchi being characteristically mischievous in trying to speak at completely the wrong time. But finally I gave him the nod to say his few words before we adjourned to the bar, whereupon he staggered us all by delivering one of the most amusing after-dinner speeches I have ever heard. He spoke for almost half an hour about Wason’s contribution to the programme in a most clever way, demonstrating a level of English comprehension none of us suspected him to possess. It was brilliant.

Several years later, as a fledgling Tornado squadron commander, I was able to invite Wason Turner to Brüggen, as the then newest squadron was officially inaugurated with the latest-build standard aircraft. I think he enjoyed the occasion as much as I did, particularly as I was able to recount his remarkable contribution to the early programme.

As well as MRCA, another construction programme was going on in Munich throughout my first two years. To prepare for the 1972 Olympic Games the city was undergoing a facelift, including to its underground railway. The shopping centre, about half a mile long, was completely dug up, a huge hole appearing ready to drop in the new railway. There was muddy chaos for months, but in true German style it was all completed in time for the games. Built too were a new Olympic stadium and tower, the former with a distinctive modernistic glass roof and the latter, with a high-speed lift to the top, offering spectacular views across the city and the distant Alps. The period of the games was fantastic, although sadly overshadowed by the terrorist killing of Israeli athletes.

There was more international sport in Munich, for in 1974 the football World Cup was staged there. After the competition, the Olympic stadium became home to the famous Bayern Munich soccer team, but there were two other well known football clubs in the city, the first being Munich 1860. The other comprised a team of international stars from NAMMA! We played most weeks throughout the year, and although the football might not have been world class, everyone enjoyed the matches enormously. Once we played a team from the Royal Bavarian Ballet, which we thought would be a walkover. But we were staggered by their fitness, and they walloped us. We also played against the retired professionals of Munich 1860 who were about to depart on a tour of South America, where they would give demonstration matches, usually prior to league or international fixtures. Since they were normally paid for their appearances, Munich 1860 were anxious that we did not try to make money out of our game – we were not to charge spectators to watch. Of course our throngs of spectators normally amounted to about twenty; we explained that we played football for fun, not money, so the game went ahead. And what a performance it turned out to be. All the 1860 players had to have played for the first team and be over thirty-five. Four were in their fifties, one was sixty, and two of them had played in the 1936 German national team! The underlying skill of these chaps was a sight to witness and in the last ten minutes they simply turned up the pressure and strode to an easy 6–3 win. It was great fun. We might have lost the football, but in the subsequent drinking, which I was pleased they eagerly accepted, we won handsomely. What a great experience, and it was good for international relations.

Elsewhere, though, interesting international hurdles had to be overcome. Under the terms of the work-sharing agreement, MBB would build the centre fuselage, Aeritalia the wings and BAC the nose and tail sections. These companies would build those parts for all 950 of the aircraft (as I mentioned earlier, numbers changed throughout the project) and then ship their pieces to the other factories to be joined together, Meccano style. This technique called for great precision all round. There was no scope for error in measurements, no mistakes over imperial and metric measure – the latter would be used exclusively, even by BAC (several years before metrication became mandatory in the UK).

The component parts were shipped around Europe, despite political hurdles placed in the way. For example the Italian wings had to go via France to Germany because neutral Austria and Switzerland would not allow military machinery to cross their borders. By this stage of the game there was little that could stop the programme, and everyone was working at fever pitch to get the first prototype into the air. The pressure was on; would the dream be realised?

At that time my boss told me that, before he had joined NAMMA, he had worked on the international Kestrel vertical take-off programme and that participants had painted a special roundel on each aircraft. So we drew a tri-national air force roundel with 120-degree segments in each of the national air force colours. It looked good, and we suggested that the idea be adopted with the ‘home’ nation’s segment uppermost; this was agreed for each of the nine prototypes.

These were all rapidly taking shape, each with its own specific series of tasks allocated to it, with the whole being integrated into the overall test programme. The allocated tests, in turn, led to a definition of the equipment and instrumentation for that particular prototype. Much equipment would not be available from the manufacturers for the first aircraft. Some early equipments would be to a lower standard than the final versions, so care had to be taken to ensure that items incorporated were both essential to and suitable for the tests.

The first three prototypes would be concentrating on handling and performance testing, and it had been decided that the full avionics suite would not be fitted to these aircraft. It had been assumed that the full system would be installed on subsequent aircraft regardless of the tests allocated to each, but equipment availability and expense later led some to question this approach. Specifically, the first Italian prototype, P05, was planned to be fitted with the full avionics system, even though some were arguing for a minimum avionics fit. While this debate was going on I visited Aeritalia in Turin looking at FTI, and it was clear that the build was going ahead assuming full avionics, and this led to a detailed discussion in the FTG. I saw the reasoning behind a reduced fit, but by then had learned a great deal about the MRCA’ s avionics system. Few people realised at that time that ‘integrated’ was the operative word, and it was not a matter of simply removing an item of equipment just because the tests on the aircraft did not merit it. Rather, virtually a whole avionics system was necessary simply to fly the aircraft – basic flight instrumentation was derived from only the full avionics suite. The Italians got their way – which was another example of NAMMA’ s impartiality.

The official roll-out at Manching, 8 April 1974. The aircraft is still without ejection seats. (Photo reproduced by permission of Panavia Aircraft GmbH)

The world, aviation enthusiasts and spies alike, wished to see the aircraft and make their own judgements as to its performance. While the prototypes remained in the factories, security was simple to safeguard, but as soon as the stage was reached when aircraft needed to be out of doors, it was more of a problem.

It had been decided that the first prototype would be flown in Germany at MBB’s Manching airfield. However, it was being assembled in the Ottobrunn factory, 90km south of Manching, and the only way to move it was by road. So at the appropriate moment the component parts of P01 were moved in secret, somewhat ignominiously covered by tarpaulins, during the night of 12 December 1973, to be finally assembled at Manching in preparation for ground tests and first flight.

Traditionally, all aircraft have a formal roll-out ceremony, when the new machine is presented to the governments, service chiefs, the press and the world. For MRCA, that came at Manching on 8 April 1974. P01, registration number D9591, looked magnificent in its red and white livery and sporting the new roundel. Sadly no ejection seats were fitted so the cockpits looked a bit odd – during tow-out, the brakeman sat on a wooden crate! Thereafter, the pressure was on to make the first flight and to demonstrate the aircraft at international airshows.

But progress was hampered by engine problems. There had been a much publicised first flight date of December 1973, but six months later MRCA had still not got off the ground. Indeed, modified engines did not arrive at Manching until July 1974. There was still public and political opposition in some quarters and the last thing that was needed was this lengthy delay, but that’s the way of development programmes.

Being a member of the flight test team gave me inside information on the extensive on-aircraft system tests and taxi tests, all building confidence prior to first flight. I was aware when these were being carried out, and it was during final engine ground tests that I took my wife to Manching where, from outside the security fence, we could see the aircraft. She had suffered the long hours and the dramas too, but had no idea what MRCA looked like. Now was a fine chance for her to gain a sneak preview; standing atop the car, she could see the aircraft. Unfortunately one of the engines failed while she was watching; thereafter, I tried never to let her see the aircraft again prior to first flight.

Finally, though, things looked more encouraging, and the well-prepared plan to call together senior government and service chiefs for the first flight was initiated. At the appointed time, all the highly paid VIPs arrived and were wined and dined by Panavia – only to have their hopes dashed as another snag caused a postponement. So the VIPs departed and Panavia worked furiously to get the aircraft ready again. The distinguished guests reconvened on 14 August 1974. At the eleventh hour a gearbox change caused frustration all round, some of the VIPs getting a little fed up despite the gin and tonic.

There had been great debate and rivalry about who would crew the first flight, but finally, later that afternoon, Paul Millett (BAC) and Nils Meister (MBB) climbed aboard. There was nothing but relief as the MRCA finally took to the air. It was the most beautiful sight I have seen, the only maiden flight I ever witnessed. It was perfect and, at that moment, the dream had been realised. Shakespeare’s question was indeed answered, for MRCA was indeed ‘to be’ – and a huge party followed. Simultaneously I established another dream – to fly the MRCA myself.

The other prototypes were taking shape in all three countries and, in parallel with the aircraft build, there was separate production and testing of equipment to be fitted to those aircraft. I was most interested in the avionics; some units had been flown in the Buccaneer hacks, and all had been subjected to integration tests on complex avionics rigs at Warton and Munich. This latter series of tests gave us the first real chance to play with the equipment and its switches and to evaluate its performance prior to installation in MRCA.

Airborne at last. The prototype MRCA takes off from Manching on 14 August 1974. (Photo reproduced by permission of Panavia Aircraft GmbH)

Space was found, on the first flight, for a small number of commemorative, signed, first-day covers.

Returning to the first Italian prototype, PO5, its first flight was delayed by engine snags, eventually taking place in December 1975. Sadly, this aircraft crashed after only nine flights following a problem with a pitch control computer. The damage was so severe that there was doubt whether it would be cost-effective to rebuild it. But the other nations did not wish to give up one of their prototypes so, despite the lack of decision, the Italians got on and rebuilt it. It was not, however, until March 1978 that it flew again.

In the meantime, the second Italian prototype, P09, flew in February 1977. I later came across this aircraft at Decimomannu (Sardinia) in October 1979 while I was a flight commander on a Buccaneer squadron. I took the opportunity to visit the flight test team and persuaded them to let me show squadron members around. It happened that the Aeritalia navigator was sick, and I was asked to fly a few test flights with their test pilot; “You can remember how to switch it on, Dick – they’re simple tests!” I assumed this was the Italian sense of humour again, but just imagine the subsequent furore if I had flown and something had gone wrong – front-line Buccaneer navigator flying a Panavia prototype aircraft operated by Aeritalia in Italy. It doesn’t bear thinking about.

In the earlier equipment-selection process, compromise could not always be reached and the result was a loss of interoperability and commonality between the participants. Critically, weapons carriage was to become a bugbear. An early option had been conformal (aerodynamic) carriage of weapons but this approach was rightly discounted as being too expensive. The alternative was the normal and well-proven method of hanging bombs beneath the aircraft from weapons carriers. Extraordinarily, the nations could not agree on the method of suspension, and two different and incompatible methods were adopted. This meant, for example, that RAF bombs could not be hung onto a German aircraft without modification to the lug carriage system. This approach undermined the fundamental principle of interoperability and had to be addressed urgently to adopt a suitable fix. Issues such as this led inevitably to increased cost, delay and additional flight-testing.

At the end of my contract I ‘rejoined’ the RAF, moving to the MoD in London to set up a new MRCA office to oversee the operational introduction into RAF service. Central to this was the preparation of a formal concept of operations to be prepared within one year by a three-man team led by a group captain. We had to work extremely hard during this period, with the job being a fascinating insight into the future shape, size and disposition of what was to become the backbone of the RAF’s front-line offensive capability. It was reassuring to find much later that our recommendations had been implemented just about in full.

During that year I realised that two significant things had been overlooked. First, no one had thought through how the avionics system would be programmed with flight-plan data. A tape recorder had been built into the system to allow data to be fed in by tape, but no thought had been given as to how the tape would be prepared. New mission-planning devices were being proposed by several companies so we asked industry to produce a planning tool whose output was a magnetic tape that could be inserted directly into the aircraft’s computer system. This oversight was so basic and the need for a solution so urgent that I wrote a technical specification, had it approved, and got a contract awarded after a competition, all in the space of about nine months – supersonic speed for the MoD!

Nor had anyone considered auto-TF training by front-line crews. When I asked about this I was told that there was not a problem and that MRCA would use the UK’s existing and extensive low-flying system. But when I inquired about training at night and in poor weather, there was a stony silence. Many thought this was not necessary; because the aircraft was capable of such flying all by itself, the only difference between good weather, daytime flying and the opposite extreme was a simple switch in the cockpit! I argued that nothing could be further from reality, citing USAF experience with the F-111, where psychological pressures had proved intense when night fell or the weather deteriorated. Aircrews feel ‘uncomfortable’ close to the ground when they cannot see features and obstructions. The RAF was buying an all-weather aircraft and, I argued, crews must be permitted to train in poor weather, at night, at low level.

I needed to strengthen the case, and arranged a brief conversion course on the F-111 to gather further evidence. Training with the Americans at Upper Heyford in Oxfordshire, I was to see auto-TF at first hand, using a system similar to that installed in MRCA. The subsequent flight demonstration was eye-watering, as I was shown just how close the TF system would take an aircraft to vertical cliff faces or towers without reacting to them. I could see why there was a psychological hurdle to overcome.

I argued that we should open up part of our low-flying system for bad-weather TF flying and at night. The flight safety and air traffic control implications would need urgent study and this was initiated after I left the MoD, but I was later delighted to find that my recommendations had been accepted in full, even exceeded. In addition, Goose Bay in Canada was later used for extensive in-cloud TF flying for operational squadrons.

Two other significant events occurred during my short time in the MoD. The first, of great interest to many people, was the selection of a name for the MRCA. During its conception and development the participating nations had sought a name but had not been able to establish the common solution preferable in a collaborative programme. During my year in London, proposals were sought and NAMMA wrote a paper. Our office suggested ‘Panther’, and there were several others. In the end, the board of directors agreed on ‘Tornado’, the only name submitted that meant the same in all three languages. In fact it was a most apt name for such a potent weapons system. The second was the UK’s announcement that it would build the F2 stretched fighter version with a considerably different avionics fit.

A total of 165 aircraft would be procured from within the originally announced number of UK Tornados to be purchased.

Collaboration might not have yielded the cheapest programme, although it certainly bought economy of scale. Some of the development problems, as I have noted, seemed purely political, and there were rivalries also between the participating services. Some were so severe that under conventional circumstances, the programme might have been cancelled, and it is true that, at one time or another, each of the participants would have cancelled a national programme. So the tri-national memorandum of understanding provided a certain stability, for one nation could not withdraw unilaterally.

The aircraft would enter service with all four air forces (German air, German navy, Italian and RAF), and of course there was a fierce export campaign; the Royal Saudi Air Force came on-board within the massively important Al Yamamah project. The big money was in production – so the final build of 977 Tornados represented an astronomic achievement for European industry and showed real competition for the US. Further vindication of the decision to collaborate.

It was an immense privilege to have been there at such an early stage. And the icing on my cake came in later flying the Tornado as both squadron and station commander. It was also wonderful to take an aircraft to Manching for a day in 1984 to participate in the annual Panavia/NAMMA day out and to renew acquaintance with so many friends, including my old boss, then chief flight test engineer for MBB. So I was lucky enough to be able to confirm at first hand that the original dreams of the early 1970s had come to pass. But the Tornado remaining the backbone of the RAF’s offensive capability until nearly 2020 – an in-service life of almost forty years? No, that’s something I could never have imagined in 1971 when I joined the project.