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Splash
one Tanker!
We
are facing into the setting sun as we line up on
the runway. By looking to my right, I see my
colleague Danny Martin. I know that it is Danny
because we walked out to our aircraft together.
Because of the silver helmet and the tinted
visor his face is not visible and I know that he
has the same perspective of me. Side by side, we
are poised at the end of the runway. Over eight
thousand feet of asphalt extends in front of us
as we await clearance to go.
Through
the headphones inside my helmet, I hear Wing
Operations clear us for take-off. All of the
fidgeting with harnesses has long since been
carried out and we are ready to take to the air.
I acknowledge the transmission and raise my
gloved hand as a signal to Danny. Although I
cannot see into his cockpit, I can tell from the
way the nose of his aircraft dips that he is
running both of his engines up to full power. He
is aware that I am doing likewise. I press my
toes forward on the brakes and release the
parking brake. My raised right hand drops
smartly and I release the brakes. In perfect
harmony, both of our aircraft rock slightly then
bound forward. Check on the gauges. Both engines
delivering full power. Temperatures and
pressures good. Airspeed increasing. I glance to
my right. Danny is perfectly on station. There
is a distance of twenty feet between our
wingtips.
I feel the pressure of acceleration as we pass
the point where we are committed to fly even if
we have a failure of some description. To
attempt to stop now would result in a long and
embarrassing excursion off the far end of the
runway. The aircraft feels light and I know we
are ready to fly even without reference to the
airspeed indicator. From the corner of my eye, I
see Danny’s aircraft lift off the ground. I
ease the control column back and suddenly, the
rumble of the wheels on the runway ceases. I
snap the landing gear selector to the up
position and I hear the hydraulic jacks pull the
wheels up into the wells and close the doors.
Danny
and I have agreed that we will stay low after
take-off. We are twenty feet off the ground and
travelling at almost two hundred miles per hour
as we flash over the red and white caravan at
the end of the runway. I turn my head to the
right and point upwards. Danny raises his hand
in acknowledgement. Hard back on the stick and I
feel my body weight quadruple as we scream
upwards. The two Bristol Siddeley Sapphire
engines in the Javelin will stay at full power
until we have reached our first operating
altitude of twenty-four thousand feet. The climb
to that height will take us less than six
minutes. In the rear cockpit, John Waterstone my
navigator is warming up his radar gear in
preparation for the exercise we are tasked to
perform. The term ‘navigator’ is somewhat of
a misnomer. The man riding behind me is
responsible for finding our target, getting us
pointed in the correct direction when it is time
to go home and a myriad
of other tasks. They have a jaundiced view of
life. Navigators view pilots in the same way
that a film star views a chauffeur. We are
there, in their opinion, only to convey the four
missiles carried on the wings of our Gloster
Javelin to a position appropriate for firing at
a target. They only grudgingly acknowledge the
part we play in getting the aircraft into the
air and back down again.
At
the required height, I ease the control column
forward and reduce power to our cruise setting.
Even at this reduced power, our mount guzzles
fuel at an alarming rate. Our so-called
‘linger time’ is therefore severely limited.
However, protruding forward from the underside
of my left wing is a long piece of tubing,
approximately four inches in diameter. It
extends forward to a point where I can see the
forward end by looking down and to the left.
This device is an in-flight refuelling probe. By
linking this probe with a hose trailed behind a
tanker aircraft, we are able to receive fuel in
the air. One of our tasks today is to rendezvous
with an American Air Force tanker and take on
enough fuel to complete our second task.
Danny
falls in beside me again although he is now some
five hundred feet to my right. John has been
using his radar to find the tanker and now he
announces that the American is twenty miles
ahead of us. Slowly, we close the distance
until, at around five miles, I can see the big
aircraft against the darkening sky. The vapour
trails from his four engines point a white
pathway to our goal. It would be a very simple
matter for me to simply fly along the contrail
but John has other ideas. He gives me a series
of complicated course changes which I follow
obediently, knowing that from his cockpit, he
cannot actually see the tanker. I decide to play
him along by claiming that I cannot see the big
aircraft and ask him if he is absolutely certain
that we are going in the right direction. When I
tire of the sport, I admit to having visual
contact. He mutters darkly about bloody pilots
and childish games. It pleases me to irritate
him so because we are very good friends and I!
know that he will bear me no malice when we
land.
We
creep up behind the tanker. I have reduced our
closing speed to less than five miles per hour.
We are one hundred feet behind him. I make a
short radio transmission to tell him so, and he
tells me that the hose is coming out. A long
fuel hose unwinds from behind the aircraft. At
the end of the hose there is a conical device
known as the basket. It is my function to
manoeuvre the aircraft so as to engage the end
of the probe on my aircraft into this basket.
The closing speed must be very precise. Too
fast, and the probe will push the basket aside
and even possibly break the end off the probe.
Too slow, and the two will not latch and no fuel
can flow. I need to hit the basket dead centre
with a closing speed of precisely four miles per
hour. Buffeting around in the tanker’s
slipstream, this is not a simple task. I juggle
with the throttle and with the airbrakes to
maintain an honest direction and the correct
speed. The disturbed and turbulent air disturbed
by the tanker’s progress causes the basket to
oscillate violently. It is akin to threading a
needle wearing boxing gloves whilst riding a
monocycle. The ride in our aircraft is
uncomfortable and John complains bitterly. At
last, the deed is done, and we are locked to the
tanker.
The
connection is confirmed and the precious fuel
starts to flow at one hundred gallons per
minute. I have to draw three hundred gallons
from our benefactor. Three minutes is an
eternity in this situation. Exact position has
to be maintained or the connection will be
broken. Eventually, I tell the tanker crew that
we have taken sufficient for our needs. I thank
him most kindly and ask if he might care to
check our oil and wash the windshield. He laughs
and tells me you’re welcome buddy. Yew-all
have a nice day now. I reduce power and drop
away from the tanker.
John
and I watch as Danny sidles up to the rear of
the tanker rather like a thief in the night. I
note with some measure of satisfaction that he
makes three attempts at engaging the hose before
finally taking on his fuel. He will have to buy
me a drink in the mess for that terrible
display. When we have both drunk our fill, we
break away from the American, push the throttles
all the way forward to engage the afterburners
and climb hard to near our maximum height of
fifty thousand feet. From this giddy altitude,
the curvature of the earth is clearly visible
and the sky is a dense black. At this height
even in daytime the stars are visible but at
night the view is astounding. The whole sky is a
mass of pinpricks of light, each competing for
priority in the vision of the beholder. If a man
were committed to the contemplation of infinity
then this empty place would be the ideal
location for such a pursuit. Here, on the very
edge of space, many airmen have reconsidered
t!heir earthbound views on the existence of a
Supreme Being. The view of our home from up here
is of a beautiful, undisturbed planet. There is
little indication of the seething unrest, the
minor wars or the injustices with which we are
bombarded on a daily basis when on the surface.
I
snap out of my daydream as John’s voice gives
me a course to steer towards our target. The
target is some thirty thousand feet below us and
one hundred miles ahead of us. I order Danny
into line astern formation and we dive steeply.
The engines are throttled back to flight idle
and we have our dive brakes extended lest we
exceed the maximum speed of the airframe.
Because we are descending at almost free fall
velocity, we are almost weightless. We are
closing on our target very fast. Time to range
is four minutes, John advises me. I lift the
guard on the arming switch and set the missiles
alive. They are devious beings, the missiles.
Once armed, they will hunt out a heat source
emanating from their prey and fix it with a
beady electronic eye. I watch the indications on
my display as the missile looks around hungrily.
It settles and starts to emit the warning tone,
telling me that it has found a target and that
it is anxious to get to work.
I
wait until the tone builds to an anxious howl
before pressing the ‘commit’ button on the
control column. If the missile were real, it
would fire its rocket motors and scream off into
the darkness, following the guidance given by
its sensors. Escape from one of these creatures
of destruction is not generally possible
although several skilful pilots have been able
to achieve this. In our case, our missiles are
not live which is a blessing, since our target
is the benevolent tanker, now cast in the role
of an invading bomber. Since the range at which
we ‘launched’ the missile was within the
correct parameters and a solid ‘lock’ had
been obtained, I am able to assume that our
attack was successful. I tell John ‘Splash one
tanker!’ Danny lines up in turn and once again
the superiority of the guided missile over a
Boeing tanker is proven.
Our
tasks for the evening are completed. Ahead of us
lies the laborious de-briefing with the Squadron
Tasking Officer and the interminable reports
about everything from engine performance to
radar serviceability. Danny and I fly along the
runway at three hundred feet and close to four
hundred miles per hour before pulling up and
breaking for a tight right turn, a sedate run
downwind and a stream landing, one behind the
other. As we taxi back to the Squadron, I tell
Danny that he owes me a beer to compensate for
the terrible mess that he made of the refuelling.
He laughs and says that I owe him three beers
for the bloody awful awful landing.
It’s a pretty good life really, being a
warrior. Certainly beats working.
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