Air Safety

Well it came to pass, after a few months in this red hot squadron, that what little talents I had were to be tested to the fullest. Out of the blue, the squadron was tasked to deploy to Darwin at very short notice. Not only that, but the 12 Sabre aircraft and pilots were to go on strip alert prior to 1700 hours after arrival at Darwin. Now, it took very little time for us to realise that takeoff from our home base would have to be prior to dawn to achieve this alert time at Darwin. The Squadron hadn’t really thought of a deployment during the night, nor had they thought of the implications of night formation for any length of time. However, what the hell, we were all experienced weren’t we? Well . . . not quite- but someone will always look after the new boggie!

The day before we feverishly planned, made maps and were briefed on the details of the deployment and subsequent exercise at Darwin. I noted we all looked forward to an early call at 0300 hours with breakfast at 0330 hours, section briefings and Met at 0400 hours and the three sections of four aircraft taking off at 0500 hours, 0510 hours and 0520 hours respectively. Our track to Darwin would possibly take us to internationally known places such as Edinburgh, Woomera and The Alice’. At Darwin we would immediately go on strip alert and fly until dusk. Wow . . . at least a 17 hour working day plus, at the end of that (if we could believe the ‘old hands’), a rip snorter of a booze-up with the very friendly natives at Darwin that night. Talk about hot, 3 Sqn in North Africa had nothing on this operation!

Well, as you might presume, because of the early start, all the crews found it more convenient- nay, in the interests of Flying Safety – to live-in that night, so they could spend a few extra hours in the rack prior to 0300 hours. Now, as you may have already guessed, having all the squadron jocks in the Mess (bar?) at the same time is rather rare. This, added to the fact that they were not required to go home to their wives and children that night, added to the rather festive air which prevailed that evening. Well, what the hell, a few beers before dinner didn’t hurt anyone; besides, applying the eight hour bottle to throttle rule, we could safely drink to 2100 hours.

It was a good night, hundreds of missions (re)flown, aerial combat fought, songs sung, disagreements rehashed, the evening meal missed (‘bloody Bluntees – shut the dining room too early’), glasses broken and old jokes revamped and retold. It must be admitted, though, that the meagre supper was hungrily devoured at 2300 hours; however, this food appeared to give us all a ‘second wind’. ‘Eight hours bottle to throttle?- a guide for the wheels only mate- all these rules are bloody flexible- and besides we had something to eat. All you have to do tomorrow mate is to MMSOBGYTAST* . . . understand? Never you forget it. ‘ I never did!

Finally, thankfully, the bar closed at 0100 hours. And as my heroes half carried, half dragged me to bed, more wisdom and reassurance filtered through the air – a young bloke like you should be alright with two hours sleep-more, if you skip breakfast . . . besides you have no responsibilities- just stick to us like you know what to a blanket and you can’t get into trouble . . . Bed at last.

The good Lord was not kind; 0300 hours came on time, my God I am about to die. The pillow was like a magnet; my head like J Arthur Rank’s gong; I must get some more sleep; I can skip breakfast, I’ve gone without it before, besides I couldn’t face those pork chops and the extra half hour will help. ZZZZ.

0345 hours . . . ! Omigod 15 minutes to briefing- head feels the same, however stomach feels like it’s been to hell and back . . . please someone strike me dead. But those words of wisdom from two hours ago came to mind . . . on with the flying suit, socks and boots; visit the toilet to be sick, clean my teeth- feel better; and on the double to the crew room; I might just make it- hell stomach cramps again- I have to be sick again- still just might make briefing- alas arrive late. However my saviours offer me a real fighter pilot’s breakfast, two aspirins and a cup of black coffee- I accept. Somehow though, it doesn’t make me feel any better- I am beginning to lose some confidence in my guardians.

I was slotted as No. 4 in the second section due to launch at 0510, which was fortunate as this extra time allowed me to visit the toilet again. After manning the aircraft and strapping in with returning confidence, I found that I had left my map behind. Back went my airman to find it, stopping on the way to ask the Squadron operations officer whether he had seen my map – explaining that I was so ill I had forgotten it. The Ops O (feeling very poorly himself) muttered to the effect ‘serves himself right’, duly pointing the airman in the right direction – at last a map – ‘where the hell are we going anyway?’

At this stage 100% oxygen was a must (as it was explained last night in the Mess, 100% 02 fixed everyone up). It didn’t – I seemed to have lost yet a little more confidence in my ‘leaders’.

Now, what I haven’t mentioned and indeed-up until now I hadn’t noticed, was the weather. The Lord had truly blessed us with a ‘wonderful’ morning. Wind light and variable, patches of fog to 400′, light drizzle with the main cloud base at 600′- tops forecast to 40,000′. It then dawned upon me that very soon I would be engaged in a night formation heavy weight takeoff, followed immediately by an IFR climb to 40,000 feet. The thought made me feel sick-which I promptly was over the side of the aircraft right in front of the Senior Engineering Officer and WOE, plus several airmen. The WOE kindly asked me how I felt; I mustered up all the courage I could find and weakly replied, “Fine, just a touch of morning sickness . . . !” Being quite satisfied with that, he moved away mumbling something about knuckleheads. With that we started, taxied and launched- MMSOBGYTAST!

Well, I don’t remember very much of the takeoff and climb. I do remember periodically formatting on a set of lights that disappeared at odd times. I cannot recall any radio call (as I missed the frequency change) and I hadn’t switched on any navigational aids. Did I do my pre-takeoff checks?

We finally broke cloud at 38,000′ and settled into our cruise battle formation. All was well for some 30 minutes; however, a relapse of my physical condition was returning. Now, our squadron did not normally provide ‘sick bags’ in our single seat aircraft. Therefore, I had to quickly find a suitable container. Ha . . . ! My ‘G’ suit leg pockets were the answer (these were homemade pockets sewn separately to the legs of our British designed ‘G’ suits). The procedure which I pioneered was as follows: clutch control column with left hand; tear off right ‘G’ suit leg pocket with right hand; release right side of A13 mask with right hand whilst still holding pocket; let go of control column with left hand and at the same time grasp same with knees; with both hands, position bag and use without spilling a drop; after finished, dispose bag gently in map case; re-attach mask, whilst struggling against effects of hypoxia; and regain complete control of aircraft with right hand whilst maintaining formation.

This procedure was repeated three times during the otherwise uneventful trip to Woomera (once during a radio fuel check- now that was tricky); however, I found that once one became used to one’s suicidal tendencies prior to being ill, the procedure was a proven success.

The saga ends at this point really, not with my death, which I justly deserved, but with an otherwise uneventful journey to our destination. As luck would have it, the squadron was diverted from overhead Edinburgh (owing to poor weather) to Woomera where a generally uneventful landing was made. ‘G’ suit pockets were unceremoniously despatched over the side prior to entering the tarmac and ‘G’ suit pocket contents were collected from under the ejection seat and around the base of the control column. The rest of the story is history- we did make it to Darwin in one piece and we all flew once more at Darwin from alert status. The mission was accomplished- but not very much else.

I think the message is clear. The story is fact. I believe it could happen again and not necessarily only amongst the knucklehead ranks. I was most certainly not fit to fly the mission and, by the way, I know of two other pilots in the same deployment who suffered the same experience as me during that fateful flight; others were in a shaky state as well.

Why was it that we, who faced a demanding 17 hour flying day, were bent on self-destruction that night before the deployment? Why were we tasked for a 17 hour duty in the first place? Why did the executives of the squadron and base who were well aware of our condition allow us to press on? Was it the eternal battle of ‘the risk versus the objective?’, or was it lack of self conviction, ignorance or misplaced squadron pride? ‘Why indeed?’ to all of these questions- perhaps a book could be published answering them. If you were to face a similar circumstance today, what would you do as ‘the boggie’ or ‘old hand’ or even one of the executives? It’s an easy question, isn’t it- but would you really have the courage of your conviction? Think about it and also for all you ‘modern older hands’, think about this: were the ‘good old days’ – that good? D

* Glossary of terms for non-knucks: MMSOBGYTAST – Mustard, Mud, or Bust, Grit your Teeth and Stay There.