Rowland White
VULCAN 607
The Epic Story of the Most Remarkable British Air Attack Since WWII
For Lucy
Author’s Note
Everything that follows is, to the best of my knowledge, a true and accurate account of what happened. I’ve not had to join the dots to make the story work. Inevitably memories fade, and in interviewing so many people for the book I’ve been presented with sometimes contradictory accounts. On the rare occasions when this has happened, I’ve done my best to establish a consensus. I’ve drawn on a variety of different sources and this is reflected in the dialogue in the book. Where it appears in quotation marks it’s either what I’ve been told was said, or what’s been reported in previous accounts or records, published and unpublished. Where speech is in italics – often the call-and-response checks that accompany any military flying – it represents genuine dialogue that has been taken from another source to add richness to a scene. I hope it can be argued, with a degree of certainty, that it’s what would have been said. Finally, where internal thoughts are included in italics, they are accurate recordings of what participants told me they were thinking at the time.
I hope I’ve written a book that does justice to those who took part. Needless to say, any mistakes are my own.
R.W.
Nant-y-Feinen
March 2006
Acknowledgements
I owe a huge debt of gratitude to large numbers of people without whom I could not have even entertained the idea of writing this book. Martin Withers, 607’s Captain, was the first to commit himself to the project. Had he not done so – and so enthusiastically – it would never have happened. Marshal of the Royal Air Force Sir Michael Beetham was also quick to offer his encouragement and Sir Michael’s support proved crucial. His involvement underpinned the book’s credibility at a very early stage, then facilitated my visit to the Falkland Islands and Ascension Island and a place on a recent RAF air-refuelling sortie.
Apart from Martin, I spoke to a large number of the aircrew who took part. All were open, welcoming and generous with their time and hospitality – sometimes enduring repeated visits and long follow-up phone calls. The list is a long one: Peter Taylor; Hugh Prior; Bob Wright; Dick Russell; John Reeve; James Vinales; Mick Cooper; Barry Masefield (who also kindly arranged for me to join him and the rest of the crew of Wellesbourne Mountford’s Vulcan while it was taxied); Don Dibbens; Alastair Montgomery; Neil McDougall; Bob Tuxford; Ernie Wallis; Alan Bowman; Barry Neal (particular thanks are due here for the guided tour around Victor ‘Lusty Lindy’); Paul Foot; Simon Hamilton.
Help wasn’t limited to those who actually flew the Vulcan and Victors, however. Simon Baldwin was an enthusiastic supporter and great host whose work on the manuscript was kind and invaluable. John Laycock’s guided tour of a Vulcan cockpit and invitation to both the 44 (R) and V-force reunion were hugely appreciated. Jeremy Price and Air Chief Marshal Sir Michael Knight could not have been more friendly or supportive. Air Marshal Sir John Curtiss, Air Vice-Marshal George Chesworth and Keith Filbey were also kind enough to cast their minds back to answer my questions. I’m also extremely grateful to Sir John Nott for making time to see me.
A number of people dedicated to preserving both working examples and memories of the Vulcan and Victor also helped my cause: Felicity Irwin and Dr Robert Pleming of Vulcan to the Sky; Derek and Mark at Wellesbourne Mountford for allowing me aboard their beautifully preserved Vulcan, XM655 on two separate occasions; Richard Clarkson and Dave Griffiths of the Vulcan Restoration Trust; and Bill O’Sullivan of the Newark Air Museum who kindly opened up the cockpit of the museum’s resident Vulcan to me.
Particular thanks should go to David Thomas, Mike Pollit, Barry Masefield (again…), Andy Marson and Al McDicken, who crewed XM655 during the two ground runs I sat in on.
Still with the RAF, but slightly further removed from the action, Air Vice-Marshal Nigel Baldwin and Wing Commander Jeff Jefford of the RAF Historical Branch were helpful in getting the ball rolling and subsequently. Squadron Leader Andy Sinclair, Kate Sesaver and Ken Johnston made smooth arrangements for me to fly with 101 Squadron and to the Falkland Islands. I’m grateful to the crew of VC10 Tartan 41, Squadron Leader Andy Kellett, Flight Lieutenant Marc Rodriguez, Squadron Leader Hugh Davies and Master Air Engineer Rick Gomez. And on my flight south to the Falklands I was very privileged to fly as a guest of Air Marshal Sir Glen Torpy and Captain David Swain, RN. At RAF Waddington, I’d like to thank both Station Commander Group Captain Jeremy Fradgley and Wing Commander Tom Whittingham – who was kind enough to show me round.
Still with the UK armed forces, I’m grateful to Rear-Admiral Roger Lane-Nott for shining a light on HMS Splendid’s contribution to the war. Lieutenant General Sir Hew Pike and Major General Julian Thompson were also kind enough to help me. I’d also like to record the names of firemen I regret not having had the opportunity to meet: Ken Hayr, Gordon Graham, Chris Lockman, Dave Stenhouse and Pete Standing. All have sadly passed away. The first four all died in flying accidents – an acute reminder of the dangers faced by aircrews.
I was to benefit from an unusual perspective on events when Lieutenant Colonel William Bryden, USAF, took the time and trouble to talk to me.
After arriving on the Falkland Islands themselves, I could not have been made to feel more welcome. Sukey Cameron, the Falkland Islands government representative in the UK, helped point me in the right direction before I left. When I landed at Mount Pleasant, Captain Ben Taylor made sure I was well looked after (despite having left my wallet in the back of a taxi at RAF Brize Norton…). After that, Maria Strange, Jane Cameron and Jenny Cockwell, editor of Penguin News, were generous with their time and consideration. So too were all those I interviewed: Gerald Cheek; John Smith; Hilda Parry; Peter Biggs; Leona Vidal; Liz Elliot; Joe King and Don Bonner. In addition, I should thank Carl Stroud, manager of the excellent Malvina House Hotel, who also helped me manage without cards and cash.
I’d like to thank as well Martin Rappalini, who strove to put me in touch with Argentine Air Force personnel, and Comodoro Héctor Rusticcini, who was kind enough to take the time to answer my questions.
Closer to home there are many people to thank. James Holland was one of the first people I spoke to about writing this book, and he was a source of encouragement from that point on. Harrie Evans, too, was an early confidant and supporter, and a chance to compare notes was always welcome. Lalla Hitchings, who transcribed hours and hours of interviews, relieved me of an overwhelming burden and was instrumental in making the whole thing possible. Ana-Maria Rivera was kind enough to translate Spanish to English and vice versa. Tom Weldon also has to be mentioned for a leap of faith he made ten years ago that changed everything.
When my agent, Mark Lucas, agreed to take the book on, I felt I must be doing something right. His enthusiasm has been reassuring and his input considered and welcome. The same is true of my editor Bill Scott-Kerr. Bill’s been a joy to work with and his faith in the book has been a source of great encouragement. My copy editor, Mark Handsley, has been careful and flexible. I’m grateful to him. And at Transworld I’d like to thank Laura Gammell, Vivien Garrett, Simon Thorogood and everyone in the design department, marketing team and sales force who has worked so hard on the book’s behalf.
A special mention needs to go to my parents, who gave me every opportunity. On occasions I’ve given them cause to question the wisdom of that.
Lastly, I want to thank my amazing wife, Lucy. Over the last couple of years I’ve been absent, preoccupied and short of time – either no fun to be around or not around at all. I don’t know how you’ve put up with me, but the truth is I couldn’t have done it without you, hon.
Maps
Black B
uck 1
Ascension Island
Anti-Aircraft Defences around Stanley Airfield
Operation Black Buck Refuelling Plan
Prologue
Down in Flames
At Farnborough in September 1952, a prototype, then called the Avro 698, in the hands of Roly Falk, put on a flying display that remains in my memory more vividly than any other. The aircraft was new, having first flown only two days before the show opened. It was, like so many other British aircraft at the time, highly secret. It was a dramatic new shape that even people totally disinterested in aviation knew was called a delta. It was impressively large; Avro announced its skin plating would cover a football pitch. It was painted glossy white overall, making it look like the sail of a fantastic yacht. Above all, Falk did not take his amazing vehicle gently past the crowds, but thundered round in tight turns, with a white vortex writhing from the wingtip only just clear of the ground.
Bill Gunston, Aeroplane Monthly, October 1980
8 January 1971
Looming cloud ahead meant that any further low-level flying would have to be abandoned. Flight Lieutenant Bob Alcock told the rest of his five-man Vulcan crew they were scrubbing it and smoothly increased the power to 85 per cent. He raised the nose and the big delta began its climb above the weather.
A moment later, a massive explosion rocked the bomber. Metal fatigue had caused the failure of a turbine blade in the number 1 engine. The blade jammed in the spinning engine until the catastrophic vibration ruptured the engine casing. Unharnessed, the whole turbine broke up. Debris ripped through the wing like gunfire. As the bomber absorbed the impact it lurched violently to the left. A catalogue of devastation unfolded in an instant.
Flight Lieutenant Jim Vinales flinched at the force of the blast, his whole body jerking with the shock of it. His first, instinctive, thought was that they must have hit the ground. But that couldn’t be right – they were all still alive.
From the Captain’s seat, Alcock and his co-pilot, Flying Officer Peter Hoskins, watched the rpm on the number 1 engine unwind as the jet pipe temperature rose rapidly. Then the fire-warning light in the centre of the control panel blinked on. Red. He shut it down and pressed the ‘Fire’ button. In the back of the crew cabin, Air Electronics Officer Jim Power switched off and isolated the engine’s alternator and scanned the back of the jet for damage using his rear-view periscope. The big bomber continued to climb on the three remaining engines. When the fire-warning light went out it appeared the problem had been contained. Relaxing a little, Jim Vinales and Flying Officer Rodger Barker, the Navigator Radar to his left, exchanged a glance that acknowledged the unfamiliarity of it all. What’s going on?, their faces asked, while at the same time confirming that they were in it together. There was no panic. They’d lost an engine, but the Vulcan was blessed with surplus power. They could maintain the climb to altitude on three engines. What they didn’t know was that the destruction caused by the shattered number 1 engine hadn’t yet properly revealed itself.
It didn’t take long. Alcock noticed the jet pipe temperature on the number 2 engine rising alarmingly, followed quickly by its own fire-warning light. ‘Fire in the number 2 engine,’ he shouted to the crew. It was time to ‘drop the rat’ – the Ram Air Turbine that would help provide electrical power once the second engine and its alternator shut down. He reached forward and pulled the yellow and black handle.
With that, angry swarms of warning lights lit up around the cockpit and Vinales’ navigation gear froze solid as all non-essential electrics shut down. They could do without it. When it boiled down to it, what mattered most was keeping the flow to the powered flight controls. Without them, the bomber was out of control. And for the time being at least, while he needed bootfuls of right rudder to keep her straight, Alcock did still have control.
Then the number 2 engine fire-warning light went out too. It was a brief respite, but barely more than an opportunity to declare an emergency. As they flew south over Northumberland towards Newcastle, Vinales passed a plot of their position to the Captain. Alcock thumbed the transmit button on the control column. ‘Mayday, Mayday, Mayday,’ he began.
With the fire-warning lights out, they weren’t out of the woods, but they did have some breathing space. Vinales and Barker looked at each other again, relieved that the situation, while serious, was no longer quite so acute. Then, to his right, Vinales noticed something catch Power’s eye. While the AEO had been working through the detailed checks laid out on his flight reference cards, he’d caught a flicker in his rear-view periscope.
‘Fire’s not out!’ he shouted through the intercom. ‘Fire’s not out!’ As he watched the flames lick and burn underneath the jet’s big delta wing, the number 2 fire-warning light came on again.
They were going to have to bail out.
Air Traffic Control responded to the ‘Mayday’, suggesting they try to put the burning bomber down at Ouston, a small airfield west of Newcastle. No good, Alcock told them. He was going to try to make it south to the Master Diversion Airfield, RAF Leeming, near Thirsk. Only a frontline station had the kind of emergency facilities that might be able to cope with their arrival.
It was becoming clear, though, that even that was too far. As the jet climbed to 9,000 feet, it was beginning to handle raggedly. Alcock knew he had to save the lives of those on board. But only he and his co-pilot had ejection seats. Instead, the backseaters had swivelling seats with inflatable ‘assister cushions’. Pulling the yellow and black handle didn’t fire the men clear of the aircraft, but merely helped them up and forward out of their seats. They were going to have to jump.
‘Prepare to abandon aircraft,’ Alcock ordered. Vinales, sitting in the middle, was pinioned until the men on either side of him vacated their chairs. Rodger Barker moved first. His chair swivelled to the right to release him and he clambered down to crouch at the front of the crew hatch on the floor of the bomber’s cabin. Vinales pulled the cabin depressurization handle.
‘Ready,’ each of the three backseaters called out in turn.
‘Static line,’ instructed the Captain. ‘Jump! Jump!’ From next to the crew hatch, Barker turned and pulled at the lever that opened the door. At the same time, Vinales hit the switch at the Nav Plotter’s station that operated the door electrically. Failsafe. The parachutes, attached with a static line to the roof of the Vulcan’s cabin, would open automatically.
As the two pneumatic rams pushed the door out into the slipstream, a cloud of dust ballooned up into the cockpit. Barker raised his knees up to his chest, clutched his arms around his ankles and vanished from view out of the 3-foot by 6-foot hole in the cockpit floor.
Jim Power was the next to go. Vinales looked at the AEO to his right – he seemed to be struggling with his oxygen mask, unable to free it. Vinales saw the concern in his eyes and quickly moved to help. As he reached out to tear it off, the mask came clear and Power too clambered down over the jump seat to the sill of the open crew hatch. He curled into a tight ball before sliding down the crew door and out towards the Cheviot Hills 9,000 feet below.
With Power gone, Vinales pushed his seat back on its runners. Unlike Power and Barker he didn’t trigger the assister cushion. Received wisdom among the Nav Plotters held that it would only wedge you under the chart table and trap your legs. Vinales wasn’t going to test the theory. He unstrapped, got up and climbed down towards the front of the door. A well-rehearsed escape drill. Second nature. He tucked up tight and let go, plunging quickly along the smooth metal door into the sky below.
As Vinales dropped out into the slipstream, from the corner of his eye he caught sight of the two pneumatic rams flashing past on either side of him. Then the elemental roar of the two remaining engines, straining on full power to keep the doomed bomber in the air, overwhelmed him. It was horrendous – an over-amped, thunderous howl that kept any immediate thought of safety at bay.
The parachute jerked open two seconds later and forced his chin down on to his chest
. The lines were snarled. It might have spooked him, but Vinales was fortunate. An experienced sports parachutist, he knew there was no real cause for concern. He just had to ride it out and let the twisted risers unwind. But there was a downside to his confidence. He knew he’d never have chosen to jump for fun with a 25-knot wind coursing over rock-strewn hills below. He’d be lucky, he thought, to escape with only a broken leg.
As the receding sound of the burning Vulcan shrank to a low rumble, he struggled to catch sight of it. He strained to look over his shoulder as the parachute lines uncoiled, but a last glimpse of the dying jet carrying away the two pilots eluded him.
They’ve got ejection seats, he thought, they’ll live. He was more concerned now with his own predicament, because if the fates were against him when he hit the ground, he might not. And, with the way the day had gone so far, it was hard to say whether luck was on his side or not…
PART ONE
An Ungentlemanly Act
This was a colony which could never be independent, for it never could be able to maintain itself. The necessary supplies were annually sent from England, at an expense which the admiralty began to think would not quickly be repaid. But shame of deserting a project, and unwillingness to contend with a projector that meant well, continued the garrison, and supplied it with a regular remittance of stores and provision. That of which we were most weary ourselves, we did not expect any one to envy; and, therefore, supposed that we should be permitted to reside in Falkland’s island, the undisputed lords of tempest-beaten barrenness.
Thoughts on the Late Transactions Respecting Falkland’s Islands, Samuel Johnson, 1771
Chapter 1
Vulcan 607 Page 1