Trials and Errors

by Mike Brooke

  Having settled in I then had to fly three check flights in the Canberra T4, Buccaneer and the Hunter T7, plus a familiarisation flight in the co-pilot’s seat of the Andover. This illustrated that common EFS practice was not to stick rigidly to our flight boundaries and that we would be called on to help out with manning other aircraft types when the need arose. This applied to all the ‘back-seat’ crew as well.

  By the new year of 1976 I was a fully paid up and certified member of Weapons Flight. So bring on the weapons! But because I had only flown a handful of hours on the Buccaneer it was decreed, quite wisely, that before I could start dropping things from it I needed a bit more training. This included an arrested landing at Boscombe Down. The experience was nothing like as exciting as I had thought it might be. I flew a normal circuit, with all the changing of hands and high levels of visual and mental activity that I described earlier, plus the selection of the switch to drop the hook; its green light came on when it was fully deployed. So that meant calling, ‘Finals, four greens.’

  All I had to do now was to aim to touch down a couple of hundred yards before the arrestor cable. I felt and heard the rumble from the aft end of the aircraft a micro-second or two before the wheels hit. I throttled back, lowered the nose and kept my toes well clear of the brakes. Then there was a definite retardation, but not as strong as I had imagined. I put my feet firmly on the floor so that I would not brake, which could cause the arrestor cable to tangle. If this happened I would have to send a crate of beer to the fire section, who had the job of rewinding it! At the end of the travel there was a slightly disconcerting small backwards movement – again it was important not to brake or the aircraft might tip onto its tail (although the hook itself should stop that). The fire crew were, by now, fully in charge and one of them signalled for me to raise the hook. And that was it, all over – no problem! On top of that I also had to fly a Buccaneer sortie in the dark and take a trip up to the main place that I would be dropping things from Mr Blackburn’s bomber – RAE West Freugh. But more on that later.

  But before I would be sent to Bonnie Scotland I would have to earn my stripes on other trials. The first of these would turn out to be our ‘bread and butter’ work over the next couple of years: the Stingray torpedo project. Our dark blue brethren call torpedoes ‘fish’, hence the piscatorial nomenclature of this chapter of my tale. Our role in this was to take a ‘fish’ to Cornwall and drop it into the sea on a range near the Lizard peninsula. So, early one morning I walked out to Canberra B(I)6 WT 309, sitting waiting for me in an eye-catching red and white livery. In the back would be one of the navigators, on this occasion Vic Avery, and an RAE FTO, on this occasion Mr Peter Lear. Peter worked in the Air Armaments Department of the RAE and was the senior FTO for the Stingray project. His deputy in this endeavour was no other than Mrs Mavis Lear, his wife. They were a well-matched pair of short, middle-aged people who would have looked equally at home in boots and anoraks as members of the local Ramblers’ Association.

  Over the next three years I would take my turn in spending a day out at the seaside on what would become a very familiar pattern of work. Fly one of the two Canberra B(I)6s, WT 308 or WT 309, loaded with a torpedo to the range, drop it and then land at nearby RNAS Culdrose, where another torpedo would be loaded. A quick fifteen-minute flight would get that one wet and then, if there were more ready, it was back to Culdrose to be reloaded. It was unusual to drop more than four in one day. But after the last one had been dispatched it was back to Farnborough.

  The FTOs liked not to fly too high so a transit at between 6,000 and 10,000ft was the norm. When Mavis was down the back it was common for her to pass this time knitting, usually socks or gloves for Peter. On one occasion, on a lovely summer’s day, I had chosen to fly at the lower end of our usual altitude band. After a while I heard Mavis ask me: ‘Mike, do you think that we could climb up a bit?’

  ‘Certainly,’ I responded. ‘How high do you want to go?’

  ‘Oh, just until we get above this turbulence,’ she said, ‘I keep dropping stitches in the bumps.’

  These trials were undoubtedly important. What we were doing was expanding the dropping envelope for the torpedo, progressively dropping them from higher altitudes and speeds. The ‘fish’ at this stage were not ‘runners’; they were recovered to examine their structural integrity. It was hardly demanding work, but I didn’t have to write a report within ten days and it was always, as Wallace and Gromit would have it, a grand day out. The drop conditions were relatively easy to achieve: speeds in the range of 150–180kt and heights from 500 to 1,000ft.

  However, on one my early outings to Cornwall as I floated past Boscombe Down I looked down at the airfield and wondered why I had been put through all that brain-burning work the previous year just to be back in a Canberra again; by now I had over 1,500 hours on type. On that first Stingray test sortie, on 21 January 1976, I dropped a weapon from a Canberra for the first time since my final flight on No. 16 Squadron at RAF Laarbruch on 20 April 1967. On that occasion it had been at low-level in the dark and I had released the Mark 106 practice bomb on my navigator’s call, as he had been using the very accurate Decca Navigator to achieve the correct release-point. And there was another irony; the torpedoes were also dropped on instruction, but this time from the Range Officer. This remote control would be common to most of our weapons trials – hence the rather paradoxical lack of aiming systems in any of our aircraft.

  14 DROPPING BOMBS

  Apart from delivering prototype and developmental torpedoes to their watery fates we only occasionally dropped anything else from our two venerable Canberras, although my logbook shows that we did occasionally drop 1,000lb parachute-retarded bombs on Larkhill Range in Wiltshire, but I cannot remember why! There was also something called the LSPTV, which stood for Low Speed Parachute Test Vehicle; this we occasionally dispatched earthwards at RAE’s bit of Larkhill Range. My logbook also reminds me that we occasionally dropped Marine Marker Buoys and even fired SNEB (French: Société Nouvelle des Etablissements Edgar Brandt) air-to-ground rockets, but the latter not frequently enough for me!

  The rest of the weapons R&D was carried out using our Buccaneers, invariably flying on the ranges at West Freugh. Two of these range areas were on land, to the south-east of the main runway at West Freugh, and the other was in the watery expanse of Luce Bay, the arm of water stretching south-east to the end of the Mull of Galloway. The land targets were open areas and not specific points within them. One was a grass rectangle a few hundred yards long and half as wide; this was known as the Soft Target. The other was another rectangle that had been excavated and then filled and resurfaced to mimic a runway surface; this was known as the Hard Target. One army officer once asked, in all seriousness, whether it was called that because it was difficult to hit!

  The airfield at West Freugh, south-west of Stranraer on the Galloway peninsula, had been built on the site of a First World War Naval Airship Station. In 1937 it was reactivated as a training base and retained that role throughout the Second World War. The original triangular pattern of runways was modified in the 1950s when the RAE started its flying operations there. One runway was put out of use, the short north-west/south-east runway was retained and the north-east/south-west runway was extended to give it a length of 6,000ft. Sadly, the prevailing local winds tended to follow the north-west-south-east orientation of Loch Ryan and Luce Bay so West Freugh was renowned for its strong crosswinds for aircraft that had to use the main runway. In those conditions it was normal for Buccaneer landings to engage the Rotary Hydraulic Arrestor Gear (RHAG); the airfield was never too busy and the fire crews seemed to greatly enjoy having their days enlivened by having to go out onto the airfield to release the ‘Banana’ and reset the RHAG. Hence the need for me to experience one earlier on Boscombe Down’s long runway before I was launched to ‘the Freugh’.

  The three special-build Buccaneer S2Bs, used solely by C Flight, spent most of their time at West Freugh. They were paint
ed in a rather bizarre and very distinctive dark green, yellow and white colour scheme. This was apparently scientifically designed to give both maximum visibility on the high-speed cameras and the pattern was of known dimensions so enabling accurate post-flight analysis of distances travelled by weapons in any particular time. The distinctive trio came off the production line at Brough in succession, so they were given consecutive military registrations: XW 986, 987 and 988. These ‘specials’ had no radar in the nose; this was replaced with a test instrumentation and telemetry package. The in-flight refuelling capability had been removed and there were stations for no less than thirty-two cameras on the airframe. Four of these could be carried on special pylons near the wingtips. The whole photographic shebang was controlled by the back-seater from a specially installed panel in his cockpit. Sitting in the front one did not notice much difference from the operational jet, except that there was no refuelling probe getting in the way and no bombsight; I thought that a bit strange for a weapons testing aircraft.

  At West Freugh, along with all the scientific civil servants, ground crew, air traffic control and range personnel, was a resident Buccaneer crew. These two lived locally and they were there to carry out all the routine flights that repeated weapons development trials demand. At the time that I was on EFS they were two Specialist Aircrew squadron leaders, pilot Bob Newell and navigator Jim Boyd. We test pilots would only be required to fly trials sorties when something new was being flown, a significant envelope expansion was required or when the carriage, release or jettison of a new or experimental weapon was being tested. Also one of us would go to West Freugh when Bob went on leave. Two of the three C Flight Buccaneers were continually based at West Freugh, the third would often be at Farnborough for deeper servicing or to provide continuation training to keep the four Buccaneer-qualified test pilots current.

  More often than not our time at West Freugh meant going there and staying for a few days, often a full working week. That meant staying in a local hotel or B&B. When I made my first such trip I stayed in the hotel in Stranraer that the other pilots used. It was hardly salubrious. I remember that the very Scottish and rather Spartan bar had a bare light bulb hanging down from the ceiling. When this was illuminated drinks were at half-price. Also in true Scottish style it didn’t come on often or stay illuminated for long! When I got back to Farnborough I expressed my disappointment in the nominated hostelry and said that I would branch out on my own on my next sojourn up north.

  The next time I arrived at West Freugh I found another Buccaneer there. This turned out to be from HSA, at HOSM. It was crewed by the CTP, Don Headley and his FTO, Nick. It was still less than a year since I had first met Don during our ETPS visit there and it was good to renew our acquaintance. We were both in Bonnie Scotland to carry out trials on the ranges, but the weather forecast for the week was not good. In fact it had already precluded any flying on that Monday afternoon.

  We got to chatting and drinking coffee, as aircrew do, and the topic of where I was staying cropped up. I told Don the saga of my previous stay in the ‘red light’ district of downtown Stranraer and said that I was going to try to find somewhere else. I asked him if he knew of anywhere. He told me that the company aircrew always stayed at the Crown Hotel in Portpatrick, a picturesque harbour town about 10 miles west of the airfield. I then told Don and Nick that I had enquired about official transport to my overnight accommodation and had been told that it would only be provided to Stranraer and nowhere else. When I had asked the man on the phone why, he gave me the usual civil service answer – ‘Because it is.’ Don said that I was not to worry about that because good old HSA allowed them to hire a car and that it had already been delivered for their use. He invited me to go with them; he said that there was sure to be a room at this time of year and in this weather. And sure enough there was.

  Every day of that week the weather was dire, with at various times low cloud, fog, driving rain and howling winds – right across the main runway as usual! So we drove in and out each day hoping against hope that the Met Man had got it wrong. Each evening was spent convivially in the Crown Hotel where good food and fine ales were in plentiful supply. My room was charming and cosy. However, one night I was woken by a tremendous hammering on the window. I was on the first floor so I was surprised. Then it happened again. I arose and drew back the curtains just in time to see a wall of water heading my way! A ferocious storm had blown up and was driving huge waves into the harbour – only yards from the hotel – which had nowhere to go than across the road and over the Crown. The weather finally lifted on Friday afternoon, just sufficiently for us each to get airborne and wend our way home! Before I went again I spoke to senior management at West Freugh who agreed to change the transport policy to include Portpatrick as an appropriate destination. Result!

  When we did fly weapons trials at West Freugh they could come in a variety of forms. The most common were those concerned with the development and refinement of that terrible battlefield armament – the cluster bomb – officially known as BL 755. These bombs were designed for use against armoured and soft-skinned vehicles. The main body of the weapon contained a large number (I’ve forgotten how many) of bomblets that had high-explosive, shaped charges so as to release a supersonic streak of white hot metal that would make holes in most things. The development work that we were involved with was mainly concerned with increasing the speed and lowering the height at which the bombs could be released. This would have the effect of reducing the exposure of the delivery aircraft to enemy anti-aircraft fire. But, in turn, this meant reducing the time intervals for the bomblets to be released from the cluster weapon itself.

  One of the many problems induced by this was collisions between bomblets during their short flight. If they hit each other in such a way as to activate the explosive a high-speed shot of liquid steel could hazard the aircraft or other bomblets. And too many of these premature explosions would reduce the overall effectiveness of the bombs. One day I was at West Freugh to carry out one of these tests, which had been designated ‘high-risk’. We got airborne, carried out a couple of ‘dummy rums’ so that all the folk with the high-speed cameras could get their eye in and then went round for the ‘live’ run. The way that the weapon release was activated, to make sure that it happened at exactly the right spot, was via a ‘magic eye’ in the underside of the aircraft sensing when we passed over a narrow infrared beam. All I had to do was to make sure that the speed and height were correct for the particular release condition and that the Master Arm switch was on. We had four bombs on board and would be dropping them as two pairs over the Soft Target. All went well and after landing we went to see the boffins. The senior man, Johnny Aldridge, immediately invited us to view some of the high-speed film. ‘Particularly this bit,’ he said mysteriously. However, I soon saw to what he was directing my attention. A collision had occurred just after the first set of bomblets had emerged from the bomb and then a bright yellow-white line appeared on the screen. By pausing the film one could clearly see that the trajectory of the shaped charge had passed just under the tailplane. Had it hit the latter we may have instantly lost control and at 480kt and 200ft that would not have been amusing. I was glad that we did not have to fly another one of those sorties that week. It was later decreed that we had exceeded the desired limits of speed and height, which were both altered to give less chance of a repeat.

  One day, in 1977, I was sitting at my desk at Farnborough, minding my own business, when my boss, Rich Rhodes, strolled in with a pink folder and dropped it in front of me. It was a classified file on the JP 233 project. Initially known as the Low Altitude Airfield Attack System or LAAAS, this was a concept initiated by Hunting Aviation Ltd and then taken up as a Joint Project (hence the ‘JP’) between the UK and USA. ‘There’s a meeting in Building T55 at 10 a.m. this morning and I’d like you to attend. Report back what you learn,’ he said.

  ‘OK, Boss.’

  ‘And make sure you take your pass – that pl
ace is where all the secret stuff happens.’

  I went along, clutching my pass and a notepad, was allowed in and found a seat in the conference room. The presentation told us that the JP 233 was a multi-mode weapon, which would be carried in pods and included two types of munitions, each of which would be retarded by a small parachute. One was a 26kg penetration device that would create deep craters in hard surfaces and the other was an anti-personnel mine, preset to explode at random intervals. The thinking behind this complex weapon system was that it would deny the use of an enemy’s airfields by making big holes all over the runways and taxiways and then deterring folk from going out to fill them in. I listened attentively to the technical stuff and began to wonder how on earth we were going to test the individual bomblets before we put them in what appeared to be huge pods and sorted out the release mechanisms, which included an explosive ejection device for each munition.

  Eventually the time came for questions. I had noticed that there had been scant attention to the fact that the aircraft delivering this awesome weapon had to fly straight and level across an enemy airfield at low altitude for the considerable amount of time it would take for all of the thirty cratering bomblets and the more than 200 mines to leave the pods. Up went my hand. One of the presenting team spotted it.