B.Umble Flys again-part 9.

Having ploughed a furrow through a hay field on Canvey Island in the Syndicate X-Air G-BYOR belonging to Mrs Karen Draper and having been ‘rescued’ by Mr Chris Draper (St Christopher) and turned my passenger Mike Lusted, a fellow syndicate member, into a ‘Smoker’ of cigarettes and also having been attended at the ‘Crash Site’ by the whole of the Essex Emergency Services Contingent, or so it seemed at the time, I felt a change was needed in my approach to this ‘thing’, this ‘Orrible Little Beast’ called ‘OR’.

The obvious change would have been to leave ‘OR’ exactly where she had dumped us and returned home by bus never to recover her, but at the time of our untimely arrival on Canvey Island I had relented mainly because as far as I could see there was no way out of the field in which we found ourselves other than by air and neither did I have my ‘bus pass’ with me.  Being a sentimental old fool my heart had softened towards her after St Christopher had flown in, in his ‘Raven 912’ and had managed to repair her sufficiently for me to get her home.

My passenger, Mike had flown home with St Christopher in the Raven and I had coaxed the ‘Orrible Little Beast’ up to more than two thousand feet before making a dash across the Estuary and thence back to the Banana Strip.

Mike then disappeared from view for a period of some weeks having found more pressing matters to attend to on his boat.

‘OR’ received a new fuel pump and was again airworthy or as airworthy as she was ever likely to be taking her strange sense of humour into account.  I had flown an air test in her over well known ground, been buzzed by a helicopter during this flight which at the time I thought, might be operated by a branch of the Essex Emergency Services out to ‘get’ me but had decided I was becoming paranoid but might now have to avoid Essex in it’s entirety.  This would be a shame really because I felt my  ‘Good Will Missions’ to Essex were at last bearing fruit having been told by the owner of a marvellous airfield near Harwich-Great Oakley-to ‘Come and See Us Again’ and further more had been welcomed and made to feel completely at home at a previously visited airfield of ‘alpine’ proportions called Nayland.  Things were looking up and while my flying and Nayland had frightened the living daylights out of Mike (?) at the time even he was prepared to revisit either of these lovely airfields again if they would have us.

Mike’s disappearance had left an empty seat in ‘OR’ and while I have absolutely no objection whatsoever in flying entirely on my own I prefer the company of another human being especially a human being who can make some sort of sense out of a map or even a ‘GPS’.  I have flown with animal companions in the past.  The Guard Room cat liked nothing more than to snuggle down inside my flying suit and hope for a longer duration flight than one circuit around Detling when I was gliding from there.  A friends’ dog barked incessantly until I started the engine of any aircraft flying from Croydon say, but once on the move he would be totally content staring out of the window perched uncomfortably upon my lap.  The discomfort was mine as well as his.  This particular canine companion did have one unsocial habit though; he would bite me if I were incautious enough to introduce a negative ‘g’ factor into the proceedings although his owner said that he was not intent on biting me just finding something to hang onto and if it happened to be some part of my anatomy-‘all well and good’!  This point of view was alright for the owner of the little mutt because neither the dog nor his wife would fly with him so he was able to avoid gnashing teeth and flying handbags or handbag.  His wife was not renowned for her sweet disposition in matters relating to aviation!

In order to fill the vacancy left by my erstwhile partner I put out a few tentative feelers through the good offices of our club CFI, Alan Cashin feeling that I should avoid advertising directly through the medium of the club notice board and therefore leaving myself open to public yet, undeserved ridicule-I thought undeserved-but there is no accounting for some people.

I felt that anyone foolhardy enough to come with me would have to be a stranger in the Banana Strip club possibly a new student looking for excitement, a man or woman of courage and fortitude in the face of adversity or totally and utterly naïve in all matters aeronautical.  I toyed with the idea of a potential suicide case but decided against that line of enquiry on the grounds that they might wish to take me with them came their time and I have enough trouble staying up there in ‘OR’ without the worry of a further and avoidable, outside influence.

One morning Alan introduced me formally to one of his students whom I had seen around the club and had christened ‘Biggles’ for various reasons.  The poor chap was older than I, I thought and totally defenceless-just the sort of chap I needed as a co-pilot/navigator.  It really would not matter to me if he could navigate with any accuracy or not as ‘OR’ would not know that she was being driven round by two complete navigational ignoramuses.

Where do you live?  I asked of ‘Biggles’.

‘Brentwood’ he told me.

Where is Brentwood? I asked.

He went into a fairly lengthy explanation winding up with the word ‘Essex’.

‘Essex’ I exclaimed ‘You’ve got the job!’

Alan Cashin looked pleased with himself at having arranged the meeting and with the result of the meeting.

A little later on I had a private chat with Alan who told me that ‘Biggles’ was a very good pupil and was progressing extremely well under his, Alan’s tutelage and would shortly be flying solo but his navigational skills needed further honing as he tended to lose sight of the target over areas with which he was unfamiliar and he did not appear to be familiar with any areas south of the Thames or Medway Estuaries.  This fact was regrettable seeing as how both rivers bound the Banana Strip before joining at a point a few short miles down stream.

‘Biggles’ was the man for me and as it transpired he was not older than I but younger, although only by a few months.  I could see the ‘headlines’ now:

‘Two Septuagenarians lost in Kent, force landed in Surrey, thinking they were in Essex!’  ‘Age Concern was called to the scene’.

‘Biggles’ is an ebullient, flamboyant character that ‘dresses’ the part of ‘AVIATOR’   He tends to wear full-length black leather trousers and Jodhpur boots when about to fly, the ensemble usually topped off by the wearing of a pilots’ shirt bedecked in insignia, badges and epaulettes.  He usually carries with him a small ‘GPS’, trailing wires behind him and a clipboard to which is attached a stopwatch and a folded map the map being enclosed in a plastic envelope.

 I found Alan Cashin.

‘Are you sure about this new arrangement? I asked him.

‘Couldn’t be better-‘Biggles’ and ‘Bumble’ said Alan before disappearing out of the club hut door.

‘Are we going anywhere today?’ Asked my newfound companion as he came into the club hut?

I’m going down to Maypole to see my brother-in law’ I told him ‘and from there I will saunter back here via who knows where?

‘Alan’ and in deference to the late Capt WE Johns, author of the Biggles books, I feel duty bound to give Alan Green his true name-Alan took out his map and various sheets of plain paper together with a ruler, protractor and writing implements sat down at the table and stated, ‘I’ll plot a course for you’.

I was a little taken aback by this statement.  I would not really know what to do with a course, as I tend to bumble along until I see ‘Reculver’ or the ‘Thanet Way’, Herne Bay or whatever/wherever and plop into Maypole.  Never occurred to me that one needed a course other than a general (easterly) direction.

I awaited the outcome of his deliberations as he drew lines on his map and then more lines on his sheets of paper, measuring all the lines as he went along with ruler and protractor.  Finally he had the answers for which he had been striving and went into a detailed route plan that seemed, to a simple soul like me, to be a double come treble dog leg.   I had never previously considered the Maypole trip to be that complicated.  We were to fly to a jumping off point, a crossing point, a prison, another crossing point and turn left then head for I hoped Maypole.  Not a bit of it, we had to find a railway/road crossing and a lake, an inlet, an outlet, a lord knows what?

‘Shall we just head in a roughly easterly direction?’ I asked, ‘kind of play it by ear?’

I now of course know better but at that time I was ignorant of all the ingredients required to navigate to Maypole.

We wandered out to ‘OR’ and tried to get in.  I am none too nimble and neither was my new navigator.  We struggled but finally won through-the ‘Creekies’ were aboard and ready to go.  How we would ever get out again was any ones guess?

Once airborne I asked Alan if he would give me his navigational instructions as we went along, just to see if it all worked out for him.  At the time I was busily engaged in clearing the Banana Strip circuit by flying the down wind leg for runway 24 and climbing ‘OR’ towards the gas tanks.  Progress in an upward direction was slow but I hoped to have something in the region of fifteen hundred feet before crossing into Sheppey.

My instructions came thick and fast.

‘Straight on here and fly to there, then to there and then cross the water there to the ‘Italian Boot’ and turn left….’ and each instruction was shown to me on the plastic covered map by a pointing finger.  I was becoming dazed.  I had a perfectly clear view of power station, river, Sheppey, Southend and all the other familiar local landmarks but I was seeing them as if in a peep show as map and pointing finger flashed momentarily in front of my eyes.  I was beginning to think that there was no known defence. 

I yanked ‘OR’ into a turn to the right.

‘You are too early, too early, you don’t have the height!’

I had achieved a reasonable nine hundred feet by this time but more detailed instructions were issued as the peep show continued.

‘Go to there, (flash of map and finger) to the left hand side of the new tanks, then right to the chimney, (another flash) then right to there, (yet another) then cross’ he instructed mentioning the ‘Italian Boot’ once more

Can life really be this complicated?  My less than adequate flying skills were being put to the test.  I wondered how ‘OR’ was feeling about the new situation with all these subtle and not so subtle course changes being introduced into her flying routine with her driver being constantly cut off from a view of the outside world?

The situation was bizarre.  I was sitting in ‘OR’ slowly climbing to our accustomed fifteen hundred feet over very familiar ground but apparently searching for an item of Italian footwear.  All I wanted to do was head down the coast a bit, plop into Maypole, see my brother-in-law, have a ‘cuppa’ and a chat and wander back to the Banana Strip. I did not wish to go to Maypole via the ‘blooming’ moon!

From the corner of my eye I saw Alan’s finger once more stab into his map; new instructions were about to be issued.

‘HOLD IT-HANG ON A MINUTE-STOP-DON’T MOVE A FINGER- PARTICULARLY THAT FINGER!’ I ordered.

‘When I asked you to give me your navigational instructions I had something slightly more simple in mind like ‘fly ‘09’ and see how it works out’.

I looked across at my navigator who gave the appearance of being a little crestfallen so I added something on the lines that I was very appreciative of his great attention to detail-but….

I need not have worried for within seconds the instructions were again coming through my headset.  I was told that we were about to cross to the ‘Italian Boot’ then I must turn a little bit left and aim at the prison where we would turn right to cross more water then left…. and so it went on but now Alan added a new and slightly more puzzling item into his instructions and comments which at first I did not understand.

‘There’ he announced, ‘ There is a big one and the wind is from our right, there’s one, bit small, there’s another and another-we are all right here’.

I had, by this time, turned down the volume control on my headset for reasons of self-protection so thought I may not have caught the whole import of his messages.

I increased the volume once more and was forced to ask of him,

‘Another what?’

‘Force landing field’ was his immediate reply.

My blood ran cold.

‘Don’t say those words again in front of ‘OR’ she needs no second bidding to put your theories to the test!’ I ordered in a state of panic.

I half expected the dreaded ‘OR’ cough and splutter routine to start at any moment but fortunately she continued in an orderly manner although I could not help noticing that our fuel levels were dropping at an alarming rate.  I checked and rechecked her consumption every few minutes but decided that we certainly had enough fuel to arrive safely at Maypole, land and then have sufficient to return at least half way back to the Banana Strip.  Fuel was always available at Maypole so no worries in that direction or so I thought.

Our twisting and turning flight continued the finger and map frequently being flashed before my eyes until I was giddy. 

I could now see Maypole ahead and slightly further to our left than would normally be the case but the airfield was clearly visible.

‘It is time you called Manston Radar-I’ll put the frequency into the radio for you’ Alan announced over the intercom.

‘You are going to call Manston aren’t you? Alan queried.

‘Certainly not!’  I answered ‘Lets keep our presence our little secret.’

I knew of course that our chances of actually being ‘readable’ to Manston Radar were very slight in deed due to the vagaries of ‘OR’s radio but you never quite knew if one might be heard so it was best left alone.

A conversation on the lines of ‘You have to’  ‘No I don’t’  ‘Yes you do’ then followed but I had the upper hand in that I had the transmission button on my side of ‘OR’.

‘Where are we?’ I asked of my navigator.  No reply.  ‘OR’s radio had finally been useful.  The conversation on the subject of Manston Radar had broken the minute navigational planning and route finding, finger stabbing and map flashing routine.   He did suggest that we should return to a known point some miles back and start again but I was not convinced by his argument.

We had passed Maypole and I was making an impromptu turn to our left and heading towards the coast in order to keep well clear of Manston-touch of the self-preservation creeping into the flight.  My navigator had become silent at this point and I was enjoying the silence but not for long.  My ears were suddenly assailed by a very loud voice explaining to all and sundry that he had just taken off from Lydd and would be flying a ‘photographic mission’ along the coast towards Ramsgate.

‘Where the hell did that come from?’ I shouted over the transmission.

‘Manston Radar!’ exclaimed Alan, triumphantly.

True enough, as it transpired.  Manston Radar acknowledged the call and further arrangements were made between the two parties for the conduct of the proposed ‘photographic mission’.

‘Your turn to call them’ shouted Alan over the tail end of their discussions.

‘TURN THAT RADIO OFF’ I commanded ‘TURN IT OFF-NOW’ I added and stretched across the cockpit and twiddled the knobs and pressed a few buttons at random.  Silence again reigned.

Alan’s hand, I guessed, was surreptitiously sliding along his leather trousers towards his knee and to the radio under cover of his plastic covered map and clipboard.

LEAVE IT!’ I told him wondering why everyone that flew with me felt insecure unless they could talk to the outside world?  His hand withdrew.

‘You should call them’ he said plaintively.

‘I don’t know anyone there’ I told him ‘the first time I flew from there was in the late forties in a Royal Air Force Dakota transport-the last time was in a Cessna 172 in the late fifties and I suspect all those people I knew then have now gone’.

Manston at the time of my first flight from there was operated by the RAF and the USAF (United States Air Force) and was a hive of military activity.

I circled around the twin towers of ‘Reculver’ while Alan tried to decide where we should head next but finally I took matters into my own hands and made a straight in approach from the Reculver Towers to Maypole and landed.

All this navigation had tired me out to say nothing of bemused me, bewildered me and confused me, and I shouldn’t wonder, further deafened me although I soon rallied once on the right end of a mug of tea.

My brother-in-law had given up waiting for me to arrive and had left for his home by car some twenty minutes before we had landed.

A beautifully prepared and rebuilt ‘Stampe’ was in the Maypole circuit being test flown for certification purposes the little bi-plane gleaming in the sunshine as it was piloted through a number of touch and goes.  The ‘Stampe’ finally rolled to a standstill after it’s last landing and taxyed to where we were standing.  A number of people gathered round the aircraft including Brian Mayo who had, over a period of time been solely responsible for the complete rebuild of the ‘Stampe’.  Such great skill and artistry should not go un-rewarded but so often does I’m afraid.  My navigator and I stood on the edge of the group in awe admiring the superb finish.

I had never piloted one of these aircraft although I had once upon a time flown as a passenger in one back in the 1950s and the experience is still indelibly etched upon my memory as the pilot was the then current world aerobatic champion elect and while I enjoyed aerobatics at a safe height my enjoyment was marred on that occasion by what I would call suicidally low manoeuvres usually upside down finishing in a negative ‘g’ pull up/push up into an outside loop.  It was the first time I had ‘blacked out’ and ‘reddened out’ in the same day, same month or same year.  For some days after this not to be repeated experience my eyes gave the appearance of two badly poached eggs, so blood shot were they.

I looked at ‘OR’ crouching there and compared her to the ‘Stampe’ and wished the dowdy, caterpillar ‘OR’ would hatch into a butterfly and rival the ‘Stampe’ for looks and performance but she just did not take the hint.

‘Time to go and we need fuel’ I told Alan.

We had taken so long to get to Maypole and ‘OR’ had been having one of her ‘funny turns’ and had been swallowing the stuff at a rate equivalent to a ‘Jumbo’ on max- cruise at low level that I deemed it necessary to fill her up.  I had placed a half bottle of oil in the glove compartment before leaving the Banana Strip as a ‘just in case’ measure and was thankful that I had done so.

The fuel bowser was readied and the nozzle inserted into the filler by Alan who was in charge of that part of the operation.  From my position under the wing and close to the filler, I stretched out my right arm reaching into the glove compartment, felt for and found the bottle of oil, whipped the cap off the bottle and started pouring it’s contents into the tank filler in unison with Alan’s fuel filling procedure reminding him that we needed only twenty-five litres.  The operation went very smoothly and we considered oil and petrol well mixed in the tanks but to make sure I gave ‘OR’ a really good shaking.  This is the part I like most-getting my own back so to speak!

‘Why did you put a full bottle of oil into the tank?’ Alan asked me.

‘Half a bottle you mean’ I said.

‘No you’ve put in a full bottle’ said Alan.

‘Can’t have done I only brought a half bottle with me’ I assured him.

‘That was a full bottle’ he reiterated.

We were getting nowhere in this conversation.  I opened the door again allowing Alan to hold it open for me and peered into the glove compartment.  I espied the top of an oil bottle and removed it from its hiding place-empty-I found on inspection-but I then located, by feel, some three more bottles only one of these bottles being exactly half full and almost certainly the one I had put in there before flight.

Horror upon horror; ‘OR’ now had nine litres of correctly mixed fuel and twenty five litres of double strength, in the oil sense, fuel in her tanks and I had the feeling that she would not only relish but almost certainly, grab the opportunity of dumping us into a remote Kentish field if we did not rectify the situation immediately before take off.

Alan and I tried to work out a formula that would bring us nearer to the required fifty to one oil/petrol mixture but there was not enough room in the tanks to add sufficient fuel-a further twenty-five litres-to achieve this feat.

I telephoned Alan Cashin and told him the sad tale and he agreed with me that it would be advisable to ‘Start Again’.  I had in the back of my mind the notion that too much oil in a two stroke mixture tends to cause over heating and while ‘OR’s temperature gauge has seldom registered a temperature worth recording, today I was sure, would be the day for such an event should I ignore the extra oil.

The old fuel was siphoned from the tanks, the tanks were then replenished with the correct mixture and we flew home to the Banana Strip without incident but still with a very high fuel consumption rate.

The journey home was far less exacting than the outward journey as Alan only had to keep reminding me to aim at the ‘right hand chimney’-Grain Power Station-the chimney being clearly visible immediately after our take off from Maypole and keep reporting his sightings of suitable fields should we have to return to earth earlier than anticipated.  I took a more direct route home than had been the case on the outward journey.

The whole fuel fiasco was entirely my own fault and I take all the blame–no excuses-I should have checked the offending bottle before becoming carried away and further more I should have been in sole charge of the whole operation including the filling from the bowser.  I have often been made to feel stupid by ‘OR’ but now I had proved to her that I was in deed stupid!

St Christopher (Draper) had a field day on our return declaring that I had again ‘Umbled’ it-whatever that means-and various people had a very good but kindly, laugh at my expense so I was somewhat surprised when Alan asked me where we should go next?

I went into a long explanation on the subject of my ‘Good Will Missions to Essex’ with Mike and how the last one had landed us on Canvey Island.  He was not to be put off.

‘Won’t happen to us if I’m with you‘ he said, probably in hope.

If only I had that confidence and conviction.

‘OK-see you next Thursday and we can work something out depending on the weather’ I said and left it at that, not really expecting him to put in an appearance.

Appear he did.

He was waiting for me when I walked into the club hut with map and ruler, protractor, sheets of plain paper and pencils ready to supply a course to steer into deepest darkest Essex.

I could not help thinking,

 ‘Oh Dear!’

B.Umble.

November 2004.