CHAPTER 6

STILL LEARNING AFTER ALL THOSE YEARS

Every pilot who’s flown a multi-crew type remembers the first navigator he was crewed with. And although I had flown Phantoms many years earlier, it’s my first Tornado nav I remember best. Wally Grout was an extremely pleasant chap with whom to share the cockpit, a calm and reassuring presence, and I like to think we made a good team. He had a good number of GR1 hours behind him by the time I met him and had many Gulf War One missions under his belt, so he had plenty of experience to fall back on. Although reading a couple of the stories he’s given us here, it’s perhaps as well that I didn’t, at the time, know all his history!

It wasn’t until many years later that I realised just how much use he thought he’d been to me. The venue was a bar, the occasion a reunion, and the time late at night. Wally was deep in conversation with another nav who’d been on the squadron at the time I’d joined, and I sidled up to join them. Blow me, they were arguing about which of the two of them had taught me more. There was nothing for it but to buy them both a beer.

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SQUADRON LEADER WALLY GROUT (RETD)

So there I was, just approaching my 40th birthday and all fired up to participate in my first Red Flag exercise in the States. After just four missions, my pilot and I were tasked as the lead crew for the package on 9 April 1990. I had spent my earlier years on the mighty Vulcan, having been posted from nav school as a navigator radar, and was lucky enough to be one of the first to cross over to the Tornado GR1 in January 1982. Red Flag was, at that time, a distant dream.

I was now on my second Tornado tour; I had 440 hours on type and, together with my pilot, was now to lead the planning and execution of a typically complex mission into the heart of Red Flag territory. I had come a long way.

Our mission was to penetrate the defences and drop two inert 1,000 lb bombs onto an airfield target using a loft manoeuvre. All Red Flag aircraft are fitted with a telemetry pod and, much like Formula One racing cars, are able to transmit information back to the HQ so that supervisors and spectators can watch the progress of the ‘war’ on a big screen in real time. After much head scratching and liaising, we finally completed the planning and briefing. Everyone within the package appeared happy with their relevant tasks.

We were airborne on time and proceeded to Caliente, our holding point for entry into the Red Flag area. Whilst orbiting, checking maps, timings and aircraft systems we detected a fault; fuel was not feeding from the wings into the fuselage tanks. This problem was not insignificant and, although the checklist gave advice and possible solutions, the fault could lead to serious fuel imbalance and possible mission abort.

We were approximately three minutes from our push time; just sufficient to go through the initial actions from the checklist. But we had no time to see if the problem was cured; the moment had come to enter the exercise area, descend to our operating height of 100 feet and concentrate on the routine of searching for threats, both visual and electronic, maintaining formation, avoiding known defences and staying alive. The aim was to penetrate to the target, get the bombs released and not get ‘shot down’.

The ingress went well, with appropriate reactions to the few threats detected. We completed the pre-target checks, found the initial point and performed the attack. Job done, bombs on target, time to recover. Once settled we did a routine op check. As we covered ‘fuel’ our heart rates increased. We had not cured the fuel transfer problem; both of us having been fully tied up with the mission, we’d not double-checked. It was now clear that we didn’t have enough usable fuel to get back to Nellis, even in a straight line.

The next few minutes seemed to last forever. From the map, Tonopah was our nearest diversion, and I gave my pilot the relevant track information. Simultaneously, we transmitted to Red Flag control that we were diverting with an emergency. In fact, with the telemetry pod ‘big brother’ probably knew already – but that call seemed to set the cat amongst the pigeons. Tonopah at that time was home to the USAF / Lockheed ‘skunk works’, a highly secret development site for the stealth bomber programme. We all knew about the F-117 but, as yet, it hadn’t been officially cleared for public consumption.

You can now imagine the reaction over the radio. “Why do you need to go there? You cannot go there. What exactly is wrong with your aircraft? Why can’t you go to Indian Springs?” (a less sensitive diversion airfield). We even had our detachment commander quizzing us. All the time fuel was reducing and we were getting closer to Tonopah. Between us we convinced all and sundry that our only alternative to Tonopah was an ejection over the desert. That shut them up, and we now got a period of relative quiet on the radio while we concentrated on getting our aircraft safely on the ground. We hadn’t really thought about what would happen after that.

Tonopah consists of a single, very long runway, numerous hardstandings and taxiways, several large, windowless hangars, and many support buildings. All of this in the middle of the Nevada desert miles from habitation. Unlike most air stations it had no on-base accommodation – which helped keep its secret programmes clear of unnecessary eyes and cameras.

In the usual cloudless blue sky and unlimited visibility we were cleared for landing. After touching down we were instructed to clear the runway, stop and shut down. We complied, made the seats safe and raised the canopy.

A 16 Squadron GR1 sports the ‘stealth’ zap of an F-117, having made a precautionary landing at the top-secret Tonopah Air Force Base.

What happened next is the stuff which makes Hollywood great. Several vehicles formed up in front of the aircraft, including one full of armed soldiers. Steps were brought and we climbed out. A USAF major greeted us; he confiscated the film cassettes from the HUD and the data recorder, told us that the aircraft would be looked after, and escorted us under armed guard to the operations centre. Good job that I didn’t on this occasion have the 35mm camera I usually carried with me or they really would have thought we were spying! He guided us to a windowless room with blank walls and minimal furniture. We sat down, wondering what would happen next. We both felt reasonably relaxed, apart from the armed guards – after all, we had saved the aircraft and felt justified in our actions.

The major then explained our predicament. Landing at a top-secret establishment in the USA is not an everyday occurrence and we were now going to be questioned – or, as it later turned out, interrogated. To quote Monty Python, “Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!” Our interlocutor asked all the standard questions: name; rank; squadron; nationality; why we landed at Tonopah. And some more personal: marital status; family background; and educational qualifications. All the while, two large military personnel armed with carbines stood by the door.

Having finished with his questions the major left the room. We sat, with our guards, wondering what next? I do remember muttering quietly to my pilot: “What the heck is this all about?” (or words to that effect). After a few minutes, another male entered the room, dressed casually in civilian clothing. No introduction, no name given, just more questions. It was almost a repeat of those we had already answered. However, erring on the side of, ‘let’s not make waves’, we both answered them. He was very keen to have our social security numbers, something akin to UK national insurance numbers. We politely told him we did not have those. It took quite a bit to get him to realise that we didn’t, in the UK, attach so much significance to those numbers. Instead, we gave him our RAF service numbers, which seemed to satisfy him.

He left and we sat chatting about our situation while the guards remained in the doorway. It was now time for my bladder to complain; a post-flight comfort call was needed. I told the guards I needed the ‘john’. The response took me by surprise; a guard would have to escort me – I assume to prevent me from running amok. He duly stood a few paces behind me as I took relief. I was escorted back to the room and we waited some more.

I then recall a further interrogator asking the same questions and getting the same responses. The major returned to tell us that our aircraft was now confiscated and that we would be flown back to Nellis in one of theirs. We would be told when we could have ours back, and we would be the only crew allowed to return to pick it up. He left us to puzzle why.

Soon we heard the sound of aircraft taxiing. We asked a guard if the F-117s were flying this afternoon, to which he shrugged. I said, “I suppose you have to wait until the surveillance satellites are clear before you fly the 117?” His response was standard USAF: “I do not know what you are talking about, sir.” Further questions elicited similar responses. We gave up. More aircraft noise from outside; more flying tonight? It was getting late in the afternoon.

Eventually our ‘friendly’ major returned with news that, for operational reasons, we would not be flying back to Nellis but it would be a road trip instead. We asked if the operational reason was the fact that they were flying the F-117. He gave a non-committal smile.

More waiting, but then we were told that transport was available and asked to get our kit together. The next move stunned us both; we had black cloth bags put over our heads. We were led out of the room and outside; we could hear the sound of jets but thought it better not to ask more questions. We were helped into the rear seats of a vehicle. As the doors closed, our guards in the front seats had a few words for us to digest. “Do not remove your blindfolds, we are live armed.” “OK,” we said; the understatement of the year.

We drove in silence for what seemed an age. The bags had not been tied under our chins and I made a conscious effort to get a handle on the direction of travel by looking down and using the shadows; it was now getting close to sunset and I estimated that we had been travelling west for the majority of the time. When we finally stopped and the guards told us to remove our blindfolds, I turned round and could just see a tiny speck in the distance, which I assumed was an F-117 in the circuit. We were at the main gate and the aircraft must have been about fifteen miles away. What a main street to an airfield!

For our journey back to Nellis we were given brown paper ‘sacks’ of sandwiches, crisps, chocolate and fruit juice – courtesy of the Tonopah fire department dinner lady. That was about the only friendly gesture we’d had all afternoon, and boy, was the food welcome.

In muttered conversation between us we wondered what the consequences of our actions might be. Had we got the checks right? Had we analysed the problem correctly? What else could we have done? How deep was the guano going to be? We concluded that there was little else we could have done, but we speculated on what our reception would be on returning to Nellis – and on when we would get our ‘toy’ back.

The welcome at Nellis was cool but not hostile. It came as rather a surprise to the RAF commander that we would be told when we could have our jet back. We hadn’t serviced the aircraft, but NATO air forces regularly exercised on each others’ aircraft so we assumed our ‘hosts’ had a capability. Furthermore, strange as it may seem, there was an RAF pilot on an exchange tour on the F-117 at that time. Indeed, digressing slightly, during the Iraq War an ex-Tornado pilot took an active part in operations, flying an F-117. But did we think we had got away with it?

Next day a telephone message told us to get over to the other side of Nellis airfield, where a USAF Beechcraft was waiting to take us to Tonopah. We were met by a very young USAF pilot; we boarded, made ourselves comfortable while the crew gave us a quick safety brief, and off we went. The pilot wanted to know why and how we had gone to Tonopah, and also asked if we needed anything doing to our aircraft.

As we approached the field the pilot informed us that we would have to be airborne in less than forty minutes after arrival. He couldn’t say why, but he let on that there would be jets out for flying. We were not allowed to see them but, as we broke into the circuit, he hinted that if we looked out of the starboard window we would get an extremely good view of two ‘invisible’ aircraft. Shame that I’d left my camera behind!

He dropped us close to our aircraft and, once again, armed guards watched us; our friendly major was on hand to see us off, repeating that we had forty minutes to get airborne. As we did an inspection we noted that the guys at Tonopah had a sense of humour after all, for the silhouette of a stealth fighter had been stencilled on each side of our tail fin. And in the cockpit, tucked under the windscreen, was a police parking ticket for illegal parking on US military soil. We had with us a couple of squadron prints, one for operations and one for the fire department. As we gave these to our major he presented us with a print of the F-117, even though it didn’t officially exist. Last time I had the chance to look, the print was still on the walls of the crewroom at Marham.

That’s not quite the end of the story. Having debriefed the engineers about our fuel problem, they did their investigation and found that the transfer valve was indeed not working. Hurrah, at least we got that bit right. However, in hindsight, that well known exact science, we should have monitored the fuel flow more closely and, if necessary, aborted the mission. But you know how it is – leading the pack, adrenaline rush, must complete the task, and all those other excuses for not giving up. All very well in peacetime to press on – but what about real war?

Before actually getting into combat I must mention the ‘phoney war’, which is what the build-up to Gulf War One seemed like. On 19 September 1990 four Tornado GR1 aircraft took off from RAF Brüggen en route to Muharraq, Bahrain. They had specially modified engines which could cope with the hot and sandy atmosphere of the desert, where the ingestion of fine sand particles combined with the heat of the engine had caused glass to build up on the surface of turbine blades. The cure was to install ‘single-crystal blades’, and the intention of this mission was to deliver four modified aircraft; the crews would stay overnight and return to Germany the following day with four of the originals. This would be routine business, with air-to-air tanker support.

And indeed the outbound, seven-hour flight was uneventful. The weather was clear; we had wonderful views of the Alps, Mount Etna and the Nile Valley, while the Red Sea was a beautiful shade of turquoise. As we descended into Bahrain at dusk the desert shone in myriad pastel colours. All was well with the world.

We received a warm welcome from the detachment personnel, and following the usual handover of aircraft to the ground crew we looked forward to a beer downtown in our hotel. However, instead of being shown to our transport we were led into an isolated room within the detachment HQ and told to wait. Puzzled looks all round. I should add here that our formation leader was a squadron commander from Brüggen.

The detachment executive officer arrived a few minutes later to explain that there had been a change of plan. We would not be going back tomorrow; we would be staying here for the foreseeable future. Reaction from us was as you would expect. Why? How long? We have no kit with us. Shock, horror – and all that! Before we had time to protest, the detachment commander, a group captain familiar to us from earlier Brüggen times, came in to explain the situation. The current squadron commander had a medical condition; he had effectively gone doolally. We were to stay in Bahrain as an operational formation of four crews while he was returned to Brüggen; the rest of his formation would take the four jets back to base.

You will well imagine the resulting comment, most of which is unprintable. After much protestation, followed by assurances that our personal kit would be flown out and that we would be relieved as soon as possible, we calmed down. But mayhem returned after we’d been left for half an hour with our thoughts. At that point we were told we would not be staying downtown in a luxury hotel; as there had been a change in the security state we would be staying on the airfield in temporary accommodation, and we were quickly shown to a portakabin. It contained cramped and unsavoury dormitories, with assorted old beds and cheap, self-assembly furniture. This palace was in very close proximity to the aircraft hardstandings, and had minimal sound insulation.

The enormity of what was happening was fast becoming a hell on earth, and to say we were not happy bunnies is a gross understatement. All thoughts of that cool beer in the hotel bar had vanished. We must have looked an extremely sad band of brothers as we herded back into the headquarters and contemplated our fate. By this time at least two hours had passed, and we were now resigned to having drawn the short straw by being on this formation. There was no option but to make the best of a bad situation.

The next announcement changed all that. In walked the ‘doolally’ squadron commander, face wreathed in smiles, followed by one of his pilots, a well-known practical joker. Yes the whole issue had been a spoof – and boy we had fallen for it hook, line and sinker. No, we were not staying in Bahrain; no, no-one had gone mad; yes we would be returning to Germany tomorrow; and yes, we were now going for a beer. Lots of protestations that “We knew all along it was a joke” followed – but our tormentors knew we hadn’t. Transport appeared and we were whisked off to a very nice five-star hotel. The order was given that we were to be ready in reception in half an hour for transport to a local restaurant. Just time for a quick shower and change before we headed off to partake of some very welcome and enjoyable beers and some excellent Tex-Mex food at Senòr Paco’s in Manama. There were plenty of laughs at our expense, but that sort of thing went with the job at the time. Some might call it childish, but such spoofs often helped to relieve tension. As we always said, “If you can’t take a joke you shouldn’t have joined!” The next morning, after a splendid breakfast looking out at the pool and the sunny blue sky, we flew back to wintry Germany and handed the jets to the engineers. But that’s another story.

Fast forward to January 1991 and to King Abdulaziz air base, also known as Dhahran international airport. We are now in Saudi Arabia and Operation Desert Storm is in full flow. Same squadron, different pilot. The base had two parallel runways separated by approximately half a mile; not unusual, as there is a lot of spare land in Saudi. The western runway was used by civilian traffic and the eastern by the RSAF’s Tornados and F-15s – and by the coalition. Dhahran was the hub for re-supply, and a constant stream of both military and civilian aircraft including C-141, C-5A, C-130, DC-8 and Boeing 747 arrived and departed around the clock.

All our war missions involved AAR, normally on the outward leg by Victors based in Bahrain and on return by either VC10 or TriStar. On this occasion, several missions into the war, we’d been operating at night. Our four Tornados had flown within a large package which included SEAD, fighters and EW support aircraft. Not all of those were based at Dhahran, while we were not the only bombers flying that night. The scene was set for an adventure, parts of which should never have happened – and all of which constitutes a salutary lesson for all aviators.

The mission had been successful with AAR as planned, penetration into Iraq without opposition, bombs released on target and little evidence of Iraqi AAA defences. Once we had crossed back into Saudi airspace we successfully located our tanker and took on more (contingency) fuel, following which we set course for home feeling very positive about the outcome of the mission. The medium-level transit back to Dhahran was routine. We were a little heavy for landing so, before we started our recovery, my pilot and I decided to get rid of some of our fuel. Now, over unpopulated territory, was a convenient point to do so, and we dumped to a level we considered safe for landing, with reserves for any subsequent emergencies.

Crucially, we hadn’t yet contacted Dhahran ATC, and you will no doubt guess what’s coming next. When we switched frequencies to Dhahran, the first message we received was to ‘hold off’ as the air base was at air raid warning red. Scud missiles were inbound. Our first thought was that maybe we had been a bit hasty with the fuel dump, but it still shouldn’t be a problem; fuel consumption was low up at altitude and we still had sufficient to hold off for the duration of the air raid.

The warning was eventually cancelled and we were now in position to get our jets on the ground. But there were, of course, several formations queuing to recover to the military runway. To compound the problem, fog had started to form along the coast and was drifting towards the base. Following instructions from ATC our formation joined the stream and positioned for an ILS approach. All went well initially, but as we descended towards our minimum approach height we were well and truly in thick cloud – the sea mist. We made a missed approach, as did everyone else, and set up for another try.

By now the radio chat was getting tense, with voices becoming somewhat agitated. I was concentrating on our options, with fuel looking perilously tight (shades of Tonopah?!) All aircraft missed their second approaches, and we were debating whether to declare an emergency for a diversion to Muharraq. But our discussions were cut short by the next radio transmission: “I can see the threshold of the western runway.” A second later, the voice from ATC changed from Arab-accented English to American and the instruction that will stay with me forever came across: “If you can see a runway you are cleared to land.” No call sign, no aircraft type; just a general call to all the aircraft in the circuit.

It now became even busier in our cockpit; I had the western threshold in sight, and my pilot told me to keep it visual and start a commentary on where it was in relation to us while he started visually plotting the aircraft ahead – with the aim of finding a space to position for a visual approach. At the same time I was constantly updating fuel and keeping tabs on where we were in relation to Muharraq, as it was still possible to do a ‘dirty dive’ there if we had to.

We were now on the downwind leg with the threshold in our ten o’clock position. I was still giving my commentary, and my pilot could see several F-15s lined up on final approach. He saw an opportunity and pushed into that queue of F-15s. My eyes were on stalks looking for other aircraft, my pilot now concentrating on getting the jet on the ground.

Only the approach lights and threshold were visible, with the rest of the runway completely obscured by thick fog. Now we had no fuel to divert or try again; this was our ‘do or eject’ moment. As the wheels hit the runway we disappeared into a soup of impenetrable fog, with only the faint glow of runway edge lights visible. We knew there was a stream of aircraft somewhere ahead of us but had no idea how close. We were both praying that they didn’t stop too quickly – and that the guy behind didn’t stop too slowly. Knowing there was little they could do, ATC stayed silent.

We found an exit and cleared the runway just as the fuel warning light came on; ouch, that was too close for comfort! We hadn’t operated from this runway before, so we taxied very cautiously using the Jeppeson plate (a printed diagram of the airfield). Miraculously, we found our parking slot and shut down. As I stepped onto the hardstanding I felt like getting on my knees and kissing terra firma – but, given that there were witnesses, I managed to resist the temptation.

The formation debrief was interesting. We admitted to our predicament but played down its seriousness. We explained that we hadn’t declared the problem in flight as there were already enough major factors keeping the formation leader busy. I think we got away with that explanation. Much discussion followed as to what we did, why we did it and the consequences.

Why had we dumped fuel? Had we been thinking of peacetime procedures? Had we been complacent? In hindsight (exact science again?) we should have kept all our fuel. So did we – did we all – learn a lesson? Well, I should say so; on all subsequent missions no fuel was dumped unless the crew was guaranteed a safe recovery and landing, even if that meant dumping on finals. After all, when you fight you have to make sure it’s the enemy you destroy, not yourself.