The Vulcan at Rongotai's Opening
Mar 7, 2016 12:21:46 GMT 12
Ian Warren, obiwan27, and 5 more like this
Post by Dave Homewood on Mar 7, 2016 12:21:46 GMT 12
Forum member Jonathan Pote has allowed me to post this article he wrote for The Aviation Historian magazine, on the history of that Vulcan that came to New Zealand and had the accident at Rongotai. This remains his copyright, as do the photos. He is keen for any feedback and thoughts.
Version for The Aviation Historian
The Avro Vulcan circumnavigation of 1959; near disaster at Wellington
Wellington, although the capital of New Zealand (and both the most southerly and most remote capital city in the world) is dwarfed by Auckland. A major reason for this is the cramped topography, set around a flooded volcanic depression open to the Cook Strait. The steep terrain (and the strong, turbulent winds of the Strait) meant that until the late 1950s there was no international airport. To rectify that, a hill of four million cubic yards surmounted by nearly two-hundred houses was levelled, clearing the northern approach whilst providing rock for the runway extension into the sea. The opening of Wellington International Airport on Saturday 26th October 1959 was thus planned to be a memorable occasion. At last the Capital City would have something more than a small landing ground and passengers need no longer suffer the two-hour drive from Paraparaumu, itself only served by internal air services. The airport would be a huge economic boost to the city. Memorable it was, but not in the way its organisers intended; Lockheed Lodestar ZK-BVE top dressing the new runway was the least of spectacles; when the day was over, an RNZAF Sunderland (NZ4113 ‘M’) lay hurriedly beached at Hobsonville near Auckland awaiting major repair after splitting its hull as it scraped the runway. This was not the only aircraft to strike the runway dangerously, as at Ohakea, the Royal New Zealand Air Force base well north of Wellington, an Avro Vulcan lay slewed off the runway and would not fly again that year. Avro Vulcan B Mk1 XH498 had nearly caused what would have been New Zealand’s greatest ever loss of life. The navigator aboard XH498 that fateful day was Wg Cdr Bryn Lewis, who returned to New Zealand recently after over fifty years and told his story at Ohakea.
Bryn had already had a most unusual career. As a teenager, he became a civilian meteorological observer attached to the RAF during the Second World War. Flying was what any teenager would wish to do (and Bryn managed the odd flight in Stirlings and Wellingtons) but as a meteorologist he was in a reserved occupation and debarred from call-up. His luck changed when the RAF decided to recruit its own met observers in late 1942. Bryn was amongst the first of only one hundred and eighty men ever awarded the ‘M’ brevet of meteorological air observers. At first the North Sea was his operational area, flying from Bircham Newton and Docking in obsolescent Handley Page Hampdens of 521 Squadron (coded ‘5O’). The ‘flying suitcase’, as it was nicknamed, had no room for an extra person, so he received basic training as an air gunner to replace the man he had ousted (The initial brevet worn by met observers was that of air-gunners, ‘AG’). Dangerous hours in poor weather over a cruel sea continued in Hudsons and Venturas. Every hour the aircraft had to be flown right down to the waves to record sea level barometric pressure; they had no radio altimeters to allow corrections to pressures recorded at a safer height. Moving to 519 Squadron (Hudsons and Venturas coded ‘Z9’) at RAF Wick in northern Scotland he flew ‘Recipe’ sorties that headed due north beyond the Arctic circle before climbing to a pressure altitude of 500 mB and flying back at that altitude for several hundred nautical miles to sample the polar front at both low and high altitude. He then transferred to 518 Squadron flying Halifaxes (coded ‘Y3’) out of Tiree in the Hebridean islands to cover the Atlantic out to 35 degrees west. These aircraft ranged as far out into the Atlantic as fuel allowed (700 nautical miles with minimal reserves) and a change of wind direction could leave them in mortal danger. The Halifaxes flew fully armed with depth charges to be able to attack U-boats sighted by chance but Bryn never saw the human enemy in his eight-hundred hour Coastal Command tour. He met a more dangerous foe, the weather, daily. Indeed,
casualties amongst that small band of aircrew meteorologists mirrored those of Bomber Command generally. However, on 3rd June 1944, it was the meteorological observations of 518 Squadron that predicted the storm of June 5th, and the improvement expected on June 6th. Meteorologist Group Captain Stagg recommended to General Eisenhower that Operation Overlord be delayed by twenty-four hours, thus changing almost certain failure into a hard-won success and defining the course of history.
To complete a ‘Bismuth’ patrol, the Halifax was flown at a pressure altitude of 950 mB (approximately 1500’) and 140 knots to ensure standardised observations. The route was approximately north-west out to 35 degrees west, then north-east until within one-hundred and fifty miles of Iceland and finally back to Tiree via St Kilda. An isolated but high island fifty miles out to sea, St Kilda provided an accurate ‘fix’ after hours over the Atlantic and thus made the final leg to base more accurate and safer. However it was a double edged sword; near the island summit are the significant remains of Sunderland ML858 on 302 FTU which crashed during an operational flying exercise on June 8th 1944: St Kilda was a planned turn point. Other meteorological routes were ‘Mercer’(also flown from Tiree due west before heading south-south-east and finally north west by west back to Tiree) ‘Epicure’ (flown from RAF Brawdy in Wales down through the Bay of Biscay to a point north of Portugal followed by a dog-leg in towards France and then home), ‘Sharon’ (flown from St Eval slightly south of west far out into the Atlantic, returning via the same route), ‘Allah’ (also flown from RAF St Eval in Cornwall north-west to almost intercept the ‘Mercer’ line with a dog-leg east of the outward track during the return) plus ‘Nocturnal’, ‘Rhombus’, ‘Recipe’, and ‘Magnum’ covering the North Sea and the Atlantic towards North Cape. The logic of heading for Portugal from Wales, but heading north-west from Cornwall on ‘Allah’ was to fly the entire sortie over the sea, theoretically safer in poor weather. Meteorological flights were never cancelled because of bad weather; if anything, they were even more vital during severe weather, and when 518 Squadron was awarded its badge post-war, the central motif was of a key grasped by a hand; they had held the key to the success of D-day. Every twenty nautical miles (about every ten minutes) a full set of meteorological observations was recorded by an observer in the nose position. Every hour whether day or night the aircraft descended to thirty feet or as low as they dared for five minutes to record sea level observations and pressure. At the limit of endurance (about seven hundred nautical miles out) they climbed to 500 mB pressure altitude (approximately 15 000’ and above most ‘weather’) pausing for a full set of readings at every 50 mB stage during the climb. Having comprehensive airborne weather reconnaissance across the Atlantic Ocean was of great value to the Allies. Germany had to rely on surfaced U-boats for observations, aided by a few Focke-Wulf Condor flights and an automatic weather station set up for a time on the coast of Canada. Whilst the Allies forecast D-day weather more accurately than the Germans, the latter got it right two years earlier for the crucial Unternehmen (Operation) Cerberus, the ‘Channel Dash’ of February 1942.
After the war, in a twist that only the RAF could manage, Bryn was commissioned as an accounting officer but was promptly retrained as a navigator despite the many experienced navigators being demobbed at the same time. The maritime environment was his world, so it was off to RAF Kinloss and the Coastal Command Lancasters of 120 Squadron, soon seeing the Avro Shackleton into service. In one interlude he was back on the Halifax again, flying Met 6s out of Gibraltar with 202 (Meteorological) Squadron. 518 Squadron was renumbered 202 Squadron at RAF Aldergrove post-war and was the last RAF Squadron to use the Halifax, Hastings Met 1s taking over from 1950. On
December 29th 1950, a Halifax Met 6 (ST798) flown by Squadron leader Cox DSO DFC, the Commanding Officer of 202 Squadron, crashed off Barra Head in the Western Isles with the loss of all eight crew. This was the RAF’s last Halifax loss and sadly the surviving aircraft were then broken up without thought of preservation. By now, meteorological observers had their own ‘M’ brevet, and served only with 202 Squadron on Hastings in Northern Ireland until 1964 (One of the Hastings Met 1s, TG517, was converted to T5 configuration and survives to this day at Newark Air museum). Post-war met observers had unique terms of service; being already fully trained for their rŏle, they joined as aircrew for two years, with an option to two further years service, being guaranteed continued employment with the Meteorological Service as civilians thereafter. Again the mysterious ways of the RAF decreed that as an experienced low and slow maritime navigator, Bryn should be sent to the high and fast V-bomber force despite needing a year’s retraining in Canberras during which the now Squadron Leader Lewis was deputy officer-commanding 12(B) Squadron. Finally in the Vulcan force, he was made navigator leader of 617 Squadron, ‘The Dam Busters’.
In 1958 The New Zealand Government requested the British Government to instruct the Royal Air Force to attend the opening of Wellington International Airport the following year. The RAF in turn saw a great opportunity to fly on around the World, the Service’s first circumnavigation, gaining much operational knowledge and favourable publicity in the process. No 1 Group RAF Bomber Command was given the task, 617 Squadron selected, and Bryn settled down to plan the epic flight. Engineering support was to be provided by eighty ground crew flying in a Bristol Britannia (XL638 ‘Sirius’), itself a new type in service. A Comet C2 and a Beverley (coded ‘P’) were also part of the detachment. RAF Akrotiri in Cyprus was the obvious first night stop, but then the route planning became difficult. The only available route in the late 1950s lay across Turkey and Persia to Karachi. Fine, except that this passed close to the Soviet border, and it was known that the Russians had an illegal twin to the Turkish beacon at Van, intended to deliberately to lure Western aircraft north into Soviet territory where they could be forced down for intelligence gathering. The Russian beacon, situated at Yerevan in Armenia, transmitted on the same frequency as the Turkish beacon at Van but with greater power and in 1958 lured a USAF C-130A Hercules on an electronic eavesdropping mission across the border. The Hercules was shot down by Soviet MiG 17s. On April 23rd 1959, just six months before the Vulcan‘s flight, Avro Tudor G-AGRH Zephyr had been similarly mislead, as recounted by Roger Carvell in issue two of The Aviation Historian. That aircraft crashed on Mount Sűphan, a four thousand metre Turkish peak, whilst headed for the Soviet border. There followed an undignified rush by an RAF Mountain Rescue team from Cyprus to reach the wreckage, not primarily to recover the dozen bodies but because Zephyr was carrying highly secret missile components to the range at Woomera in Australia and these could not be allowed to fall into Soviet hands. A route via Aden and Gan would seem to have been far safer, but Bryn was not given reasons, just instructions. On board with him in the lead aircraft (XH498) was Air Vice Marshal John Davis, AOC 1 Group. What a prize an intact (or even crashed) Vulcan and the AOC, who was fully briefed on NATO war plans, would have been for the Soviets! The Vulcans were flying singly, twenty minutes apart, and the last aircraft in the trail did indeed see two MiG 17s in the distance across the border.
Arrival in Karachi was not without incident. All pilots were ordered by the Squadron Commander to deploy their braking parachutes on landing so as to off-load the brakes in the hot climate. The pilot of the third Vulcan decided he could save the hassle of repacking the parachute and used brakes
alone. As he taxied to a halt beside the first two, close to the civil terminal building, the inevitable fire erupted in the undercarriage. Fortunately, a crew member was able to insist that dry powder was used by the emergency vehicles; foam could have caused the ceramic brakes to explode, rupturing the wing tanks and causing a conflagration of all three aircraft. This disobedience was undoubtedly a Court Martial offence, but the AOC had a simpler solution. The pilot had to stay with the crippled aircraft for a week, in the presence of his disappointed crew, until he ignominiously flew the repaired Vulcan home.
After a night at Karachi it was on to Butterworth in Malaya via Ceylon. India did not allow the nuclear capable (but not armed) aircraft to overfly so their route was over the sea to the west before turning north-east to RAF Negombo in Ceylon to refuel. A Vulcan was left at Butterworth despite the incident at Karachi; the plan called for just three Vulcans to reach New Zealand, the other two being spares, a wise precaution. The three landed at Darwin, a place of which Bryn does not have fond memories (“wooden huts on stilts, ninety degrees temperature and one hundred per cent humidity”) but next day flying at 45’000’, they easily broke the Darwin – Ohakea record. Few aircraft (and no jets) had ever flown the route.
In the days prior to the Wellington ceremony the three Vulcans (XH502 being another and XH497 possibly the third) ‘showed the flag’ as widely as possible the length and breadth of New Zealand. Bryn’s aircraft flew down the Southern Alps and over Aoraki/Mt Cook before descending to display at five hundred feet over Invercargill at the very southern tip of South Island before flying up the east coast at low level. The other Vulcans covered the west coast of South Island and much of the North Island, being seen by very many people.
As well as the RAF presence at Wellington, the USAF contributed two Hercules and a KB-50 refuelling an F-100 Super Sabre, an F-101 Voodoo and a Douglas B-66 whilst the RAAF sent several Canberras.
For the Wellington ceremony, the plan was for a ‘V’ of three Vulcans to sweep majestically across the City, and for one to land. Sadly, the weather had other ideas, and under low cloud just XH498 left Ohakea although all three were seen over the city on practice days. The mighty jet completed two touch-and-goes before lining up for a landing on the 1600 metre runway, notorious for the turbulence on its final approach. Bryn was unstrapped and out of his seat: To be prepared for a repeat of the Karachi incident, he was to exit the cockpit immediately the aircraft halted, holding a powder fire extinguisher to attack the first brake unit to burst into flames! Instead of the normal sound and feel of a positive landing, however, there was a very loud impact and the aircraft veered left. As with all Vulcan crew, Bryn knew well the Heathrow tragedy three years earlier. Then a Vulcan, returning from Operation Tasman (a visit to New Zealand and Australia with Air Chief Marshal Harry Broadhurst, Air Officer Commanding –in-Chief, RAF Bomber Command on board) had attempted to land at Heathrow in very bad weather. The aircraft was too low on approach and impacted a cabbage patch half a mile short of the runway. The undercarriage was forced up into the wings, severing the control runs and rupturing the fuel tanks. XA897 was now an unguided ballistic missile. The pilot ejected, and whilst the Air Chief Marshal bravely tried to control the stricken aircraft for some seconds longer, his choice was stark. He could not save the others as they had no ejection seats; he could either die with them or save himself alone. He ejected late, the
other five (there were two supernumery persons on board, a crew chief and an Avro representative) dying in the inferno.
In fact XH498 had struck the lip of the Wellington’s runway 34 with both main undercarriage bogies. The left one was forced back forty-five degrees, allowing the wing tip to drag on the runway. The damaged bogie also ruptured fuel lines within the undercarriage bay, fuel streaming out but mercifully not igniting (“or we would have beaten Concorde to it” as Bryn observes wryly). In reply to a tense query from the pilot, Squadron Leader AA (Tony) Smailes AFC, air traffic control urgently replied “Go around, go around” and fortunately the four Olympus turbojets responded rapidly. As Bryn struggled both to put his parachute back on and get strapped into his seat, he was very relieved to see that the aircraft was responding to control inputs from the pilots. XH498 was not mortally wounded, but clearly badly damaged. Extremely low on fuel (partly deliberately to ease the landing at Wellington, partly due to the leaks which showered the crowd with kerosene leaving the smell in the air for a long time, partly because the undercarriage could not be retracted and partly being unable to cross-feed fuel to the unaffected starboard engines), they headed for RNZAF Ohakea and its longer runway, eighty miles away. The crew of the RAF Transport Command Comet, witnessing the near disaster from the VIP stand, scrambled in an attempt to give the Vulcan an airborne inspection and damage report but were unable to catch up. The Comet crew ignored a request by Wg Cdr Bower (Officer Commanding 617 Squadron) to wait for him, but he passed an order for the Vulcan rear crew to bale out. This seemed perfectly sensible, as the pilots could then attempt a landing knowing that if things went awry, they could eject without leaving their compatriots to die. However, the undercarriage could not be retracted and thus the men would strike the nose leg as they exited the hatch into the slipstream under the cockpit. The pilot respected their decision to stay, and on finals into runway 27 at Ohakea jettisoned the cockpit canopy. This was always a prelude to firing the ejection seats but could be done separately, converting the aircraft to a ‘cabriolet’ configuration (with a 140 knot breeze on finals; crew head gear then was a cloth helmet and goggles). The touchdown at Ohakea, fuel virtually exhausted, was perfect, a gentle kiss of the runway. As the wings lost lift, the already damaged wing tip touched and XH498 gently slewed left onto the grass. All five occupants left via the open cockpit roof, running down the port wing. There was no fire. There were no recriminations from the AOC, who in fact ordered the crew to fly the display at Ohakea’s open day ‘to get back in the saddle’. Thus next day, in Vulcan XH502, they swept low in salute over their stricken mount.
Amazingly, viewed from today’s culture of health and safety, Peter Boyd was crouched on the runway lip at Wellington, and took the colour photograph during a prior ‘touch and go’ approach. He then moved slightly to his left to get a perfect head-on view next time and thus had the main bogies impact on either side of him, the powering-up Olympus engines showering him with gravel, the noise indescribable. Bill Howell, ‘Marshal One’ driving a Vauxhall Zephyr, was immediately sent by air traffic control with an RAF engineering officer to the impact point. They noted that the left bogie had impacted eighteen inches below the lip (that on the right just clipping the edge) and left a score mark visible for years afterwards many yards long along the runway. Debris they collected included parts of the maxaret brakes and of the wing tip navigation lights.
XH498 was repaired at Ohakea by a team from Avro, leaving for England on January 4th 1960. It remained in service until 19th October 1967, being converted to B1A status in 1962 by the addition of
electronic counter-measures equipment similar to that in the B2 versions. It became 7993M at RAF Finningley, most appropriately used as a crew escape trainer, but was later scrapped.
Had the pilot lost control at Wellington, the Vulcan would have veered left towards the dragging wing tip and collided with the static display (which included the Comet, Britannia, Beverley, an RNZAF Hastings, RAAF Canberras and two USAF Hercules), then the crowd. The resulting carnage does not bear thinking about.
On the 29th October, the two remaining Vulcans headed on via a night stops at Fiji and Christmas Island (then an RAF Base) to Honolulu, where an illegal cargo of New Zealand salmon was smuggled from the bomb bay to a freezer overnight, the same happening at Travis Air Force Base near San Francisco next day after a transit in which they reached 55,000’ to clear cumulo-nimbi. At Goose Bay in Labrador no such precautions were necessary as there was deep snow, but the problems were not over. As Bryn’s aircraft climbed out over the Atlantic next day, they heard the other Vulcan declare a ‘Mayday’ and request an immediate return. Concerned that a dangerously overweight landing was about to happen, they discovered on landing at RAF Scampton that the other aircraft had suffered hydraulic fluid freezing in the undercarriage bay; the salmon were certainly cold enough! As the undercarriage retracted, the doors were out of sequence and fouled the bogey. Unsure of the situation and unable to cross the Atlantic, the crew elected to land as soon as possible. There was no further damage, but that left just one Vulcan to complete the circumnavigation to plan.
The sole successful Vulcan (XH502) had flown 28 251 miles in fifty flying hours at an average of 565 MPH. Crossing the Atlantic, Bryn was able to guide the Vulcan into the jet stream giving a groundspeed of 720 MPH, almost Mach 1. The Vulcan normally flew at 0.84 Mach, but for the Atlantic crossing this was raised to 0.90 Mach. They crossed in 2 hours, 49 minutes and 30 seconds, smashing the record. Avro were appreciative of their efforts, but not very; each crew member received a copper tie pin with a Vulcan motif. The AOC, however, received a silver model of a Vulcan; rank has its privileges.
Much must have been learnt by the RAF, in particular that the ‘V-force’ did not yet have effective global reach. The Middle East had to be avoided if possible, so a route across the Indian Ocean via Gan in the Maldive islands was used until the British Armed Forces withdrew from east of Suez. Now if the RAF wishes to reach the Far East or Australasia in times of tension, the route is via America.
Jonathan Pote
(Footnote: It has been announced that 617 Squadron will become the first Joint Strike Fighter squadron in the RAF, in a few years time)
See: aviation-safety.net/wikibase/wiki.php?id=59726
www.avrovulcan.org.uk/other_photographers/498_ohakea_1.htm
Bryn’s talk – additional facts
First RAF 4 jet circumnavigation
Scampton - Cyprus 4 and half hours, RON
Turkey/Iran/Karachi RON
India Ceylon Butterworth RON
Butterworth – Darwin RON
Two weeks NZ
Fiji/Christmas island RON
Honolulu RON
Travis San Fran RON
Goose Bay RON
Scampton
5 a/c, 20 mins apart, so 1h 20 stream
3 hours wake up to airborne
AVM was ex-SASO Bomber command, so aware of NATO nuclear plans and a rich prize for Russia if captured.
Darwin – “wooden huts on stilts’, 100% humid, 90 degrees”
Darwin-Ohakea 45 000’ Record
Wellington – 6 minute slot. AVM and OC617 on ground. 2 rollers, then land
“Bale out rear crew” Navs to stay, AEOp undecided.
U/C down nose leg behind exit door
Canopy off, soft helmets, goggles
“out, Out” as soon as stopped
AVM diplomatic calls, fishing
29 Oct – off to Fiji RON
RAF C’Mas Island RON – tents, waves lapping on shore
55 000’ over Cu nims to Travis, San Fran
Americans ignorant of RAF aircraft
Across Atlantic – AOC unhappy re fuel, but 120 MPH jetstream meant shorter crossing time.
720 MPH ground speed
518 Squadron – flew ‘Mercer’ patrols 700 nM out into Atlantic, then added ‘Bismuth’to close the UK-Iceland gap with a triangular course. Home via St Kilda. 518 picked up the front that delayed D-day. Aircraft coded Y3.
Sortie was flown at 950mB altitude, about 1500’ and at 140 kts
At the farthest point a climb to 500mB was made, checking all observations at 50 mB intervals
Every hour the aircraft went down to 30’ or as low as they felt safe to record sea level pressures
Every 20 nautical (about every 10 minutes) miles a full set of readings were taken
Version for The Aviation Historian
The Avro Vulcan circumnavigation of 1959; near disaster at Wellington
Wellington, although the capital of New Zealand (and both the most southerly and most remote capital city in the world) is dwarfed by Auckland. A major reason for this is the cramped topography, set around a flooded volcanic depression open to the Cook Strait. The steep terrain (and the strong, turbulent winds of the Strait) meant that until the late 1950s there was no international airport. To rectify that, a hill of four million cubic yards surmounted by nearly two-hundred houses was levelled, clearing the northern approach whilst providing rock for the runway extension into the sea. The opening of Wellington International Airport on Saturday 26th October 1959 was thus planned to be a memorable occasion. At last the Capital City would have something more than a small landing ground and passengers need no longer suffer the two-hour drive from Paraparaumu, itself only served by internal air services. The airport would be a huge economic boost to the city. Memorable it was, but not in the way its organisers intended; Lockheed Lodestar ZK-BVE top dressing the new runway was the least of spectacles; when the day was over, an RNZAF Sunderland (NZ4113 ‘M’) lay hurriedly beached at Hobsonville near Auckland awaiting major repair after splitting its hull as it scraped the runway. This was not the only aircraft to strike the runway dangerously, as at Ohakea, the Royal New Zealand Air Force base well north of Wellington, an Avro Vulcan lay slewed off the runway and would not fly again that year. Avro Vulcan B Mk1 XH498 had nearly caused what would have been New Zealand’s greatest ever loss of life. The navigator aboard XH498 that fateful day was Wg Cdr Bryn Lewis, who returned to New Zealand recently after over fifty years and told his story at Ohakea.
Bryn had already had a most unusual career. As a teenager, he became a civilian meteorological observer attached to the RAF during the Second World War. Flying was what any teenager would wish to do (and Bryn managed the odd flight in Stirlings and Wellingtons) but as a meteorologist he was in a reserved occupation and debarred from call-up. His luck changed when the RAF decided to recruit its own met observers in late 1942. Bryn was amongst the first of only one hundred and eighty men ever awarded the ‘M’ brevet of meteorological air observers. At first the North Sea was his operational area, flying from Bircham Newton and Docking in obsolescent Handley Page Hampdens of 521 Squadron (coded ‘5O’). The ‘flying suitcase’, as it was nicknamed, had no room for an extra person, so he received basic training as an air gunner to replace the man he had ousted (The initial brevet worn by met observers was that of air-gunners, ‘AG’). Dangerous hours in poor weather over a cruel sea continued in Hudsons and Venturas. Every hour the aircraft had to be flown right down to the waves to record sea level barometric pressure; they had no radio altimeters to allow corrections to pressures recorded at a safer height. Moving to 519 Squadron (Hudsons and Venturas coded ‘Z9’) at RAF Wick in northern Scotland he flew ‘Recipe’ sorties that headed due north beyond the Arctic circle before climbing to a pressure altitude of 500 mB and flying back at that altitude for several hundred nautical miles to sample the polar front at both low and high altitude. He then transferred to 518 Squadron flying Halifaxes (coded ‘Y3’) out of Tiree in the Hebridean islands to cover the Atlantic out to 35 degrees west. These aircraft ranged as far out into the Atlantic as fuel allowed (700 nautical miles with minimal reserves) and a change of wind direction could leave them in mortal danger. The Halifaxes flew fully armed with depth charges to be able to attack U-boats sighted by chance but Bryn never saw the human enemy in his eight-hundred hour Coastal Command tour. He met a more dangerous foe, the weather, daily. Indeed,
casualties amongst that small band of aircrew meteorologists mirrored those of Bomber Command generally. However, on 3rd June 1944, it was the meteorological observations of 518 Squadron that predicted the storm of June 5th, and the improvement expected on June 6th. Meteorologist Group Captain Stagg recommended to General Eisenhower that Operation Overlord be delayed by twenty-four hours, thus changing almost certain failure into a hard-won success and defining the course of history.
To complete a ‘Bismuth’ patrol, the Halifax was flown at a pressure altitude of 950 mB (approximately 1500’) and 140 knots to ensure standardised observations. The route was approximately north-west out to 35 degrees west, then north-east until within one-hundred and fifty miles of Iceland and finally back to Tiree via St Kilda. An isolated but high island fifty miles out to sea, St Kilda provided an accurate ‘fix’ after hours over the Atlantic and thus made the final leg to base more accurate and safer. However it was a double edged sword; near the island summit are the significant remains of Sunderland ML858 on 302 FTU which crashed during an operational flying exercise on June 8th 1944: St Kilda was a planned turn point. Other meteorological routes were ‘Mercer’(also flown from Tiree due west before heading south-south-east and finally north west by west back to Tiree) ‘Epicure’ (flown from RAF Brawdy in Wales down through the Bay of Biscay to a point north of Portugal followed by a dog-leg in towards France and then home), ‘Sharon’ (flown from St Eval slightly south of west far out into the Atlantic, returning via the same route), ‘Allah’ (also flown from RAF St Eval in Cornwall north-west to almost intercept the ‘Mercer’ line with a dog-leg east of the outward track during the return) plus ‘Nocturnal’, ‘Rhombus’, ‘Recipe’, and ‘Magnum’ covering the North Sea and the Atlantic towards North Cape. The logic of heading for Portugal from Wales, but heading north-west from Cornwall on ‘Allah’ was to fly the entire sortie over the sea, theoretically safer in poor weather. Meteorological flights were never cancelled because of bad weather; if anything, they were even more vital during severe weather, and when 518 Squadron was awarded its badge post-war, the central motif was of a key grasped by a hand; they had held the key to the success of D-day. Every twenty nautical miles (about every ten minutes) a full set of meteorological observations was recorded by an observer in the nose position. Every hour whether day or night the aircraft descended to thirty feet or as low as they dared for five minutes to record sea level observations and pressure. At the limit of endurance (about seven hundred nautical miles out) they climbed to 500 mB pressure altitude (approximately 15 000’ and above most ‘weather’) pausing for a full set of readings at every 50 mB stage during the climb. Having comprehensive airborne weather reconnaissance across the Atlantic Ocean was of great value to the Allies. Germany had to rely on surfaced U-boats for observations, aided by a few Focke-Wulf Condor flights and an automatic weather station set up for a time on the coast of Canada. Whilst the Allies forecast D-day weather more accurately than the Germans, the latter got it right two years earlier for the crucial Unternehmen (Operation) Cerberus, the ‘Channel Dash’ of February 1942.
After the war, in a twist that only the RAF could manage, Bryn was commissioned as an accounting officer but was promptly retrained as a navigator despite the many experienced navigators being demobbed at the same time. The maritime environment was his world, so it was off to RAF Kinloss and the Coastal Command Lancasters of 120 Squadron, soon seeing the Avro Shackleton into service. In one interlude he was back on the Halifax again, flying Met 6s out of Gibraltar with 202 (Meteorological) Squadron. 518 Squadron was renumbered 202 Squadron at RAF Aldergrove post-war and was the last RAF Squadron to use the Halifax, Hastings Met 1s taking over from 1950. On
December 29th 1950, a Halifax Met 6 (ST798) flown by Squadron leader Cox DSO DFC, the Commanding Officer of 202 Squadron, crashed off Barra Head in the Western Isles with the loss of all eight crew. This was the RAF’s last Halifax loss and sadly the surviving aircraft were then broken up without thought of preservation. By now, meteorological observers had their own ‘M’ brevet, and served only with 202 Squadron on Hastings in Northern Ireland until 1964 (One of the Hastings Met 1s, TG517, was converted to T5 configuration and survives to this day at Newark Air museum). Post-war met observers had unique terms of service; being already fully trained for their rŏle, they joined as aircrew for two years, with an option to two further years service, being guaranteed continued employment with the Meteorological Service as civilians thereafter. Again the mysterious ways of the RAF decreed that as an experienced low and slow maritime navigator, Bryn should be sent to the high and fast V-bomber force despite needing a year’s retraining in Canberras during which the now Squadron Leader Lewis was deputy officer-commanding 12(B) Squadron. Finally in the Vulcan force, he was made navigator leader of 617 Squadron, ‘The Dam Busters’.
In 1958 The New Zealand Government requested the British Government to instruct the Royal Air Force to attend the opening of Wellington International Airport the following year. The RAF in turn saw a great opportunity to fly on around the World, the Service’s first circumnavigation, gaining much operational knowledge and favourable publicity in the process. No 1 Group RAF Bomber Command was given the task, 617 Squadron selected, and Bryn settled down to plan the epic flight. Engineering support was to be provided by eighty ground crew flying in a Bristol Britannia (XL638 ‘Sirius’), itself a new type in service. A Comet C2 and a Beverley (coded ‘P’) were also part of the detachment. RAF Akrotiri in Cyprus was the obvious first night stop, but then the route planning became difficult. The only available route in the late 1950s lay across Turkey and Persia to Karachi. Fine, except that this passed close to the Soviet border, and it was known that the Russians had an illegal twin to the Turkish beacon at Van, intended to deliberately to lure Western aircraft north into Soviet territory where they could be forced down for intelligence gathering. The Russian beacon, situated at Yerevan in Armenia, transmitted on the same frequency as the Turkish beacon at Van but with greater power and in 1958 lured a USAF C-130A Hercules on an electronic eavesdropping mission across the border. The Hercules was shot down by Soviet MiG 17s. On April 23rd 1959, just six months before the Vulcan‘s flight, Avro Tudor G-AGRH Zephyr had been similarly mislead, as recounted by Roger Carvell in issue two of The Aviation Historian. That aircraft crashed on Mount Sűphan, a four thousand metre Turkish peak, whilst headed for the Soviet border. There followed an undignified rush by an RAF Mountain Rescue team from Cyprus to reach the wreckage, not primarily to recover the dozen bodies but because Zephyr was carrying highly secret missile components to the range at Woomera in Australia and these could not be allowed to fall into Soviet hands. A route via Aden and Gan would seem to have been far safer, but Bryn was not given reasons, just instructions. On board with him in the lead aircraft (XH498) was Air Vice Marshal John Davis, AOC 1 Group. What a prize an intact (or even crashed) Vulcan and the AOC, who was fully briefed on NATO war plans, would have been for the Soviets! The Vulcans were flying singly, twenty minutes apart, and the last aircraft in the trail did indeed see two MiG 17s in the distance across the border.
Arrival in Karachi was not without incident. All pilots were ordered by the Squadron Commander to deploy their braking parachutes on landing so as to off-load the brakes in the hot climate. The pilot of the third Vulcan decided he could save the hassle of repacking the parachute and used brakes
alone. As he taxied to a halt beside the first two, close to the civil terminal building, the inevitable fire erupted in the undercarriage. Fortunately, a crew member was able to insist that dry powder was used by the emergency vehicles; foam could have caused the ceramic brakes to explode, rupturing the wing tanks and causing a conflagration of all three aircraft. This disobedience was undoubtedly a Court Martial offence, but the AOC had a simpler solution. The pilot had to stay with the crippled aircraft for a week, in the presence of his disappointed crew, until he ignominiously flew the repaired Vulcan home.
After a night at Karachi it was on to Butterworth in Malaya via Ceylon. India did not allow the nuclear capable (but not armed) aircraft to overfly so their route was over the sea to the west before turning north-east to RAF Negombo in Ceylon to refuel. A Vulcan was left at Butterworth despite the incident at Karachi; the plan called for just three Vulcans to reach New Zealand, the other two being spares, a wise precaution. The three landed at Darwin, a place of which Bryn does not have fond memories (“wooden huts on stilts, ninety degrees temperature and one hundred per cent humidity”) but next day flying at 45’000’, they easily broke the Darwin – Ohakea record. Few aircraft (and no jets) had ever flown the route.
In the days prior to the Wellington ceremony the three Vulcans (XH502 being another and XH497 possibly the third) ‘showed the flag’ as widely as possible the length and breadth of New Zealand. Bryn’s aircraft flew down the Southern Alps and over Aoraki/Mt Cook before descending to display at five hundred feet over Invercargill at the very southern tip of South Island before flying up the east coast at low level. The other Vulcans covered the west coast of South Island and much of the North Island, being seen by very many people.
As well as the RAF presence at Wellington, the USAF contributed two Hercules and a KB-50 refuelling an F-100 Super Sabre, an F-101 Voodoo and a Douglas B-66 whilst the RAAF sent several Canberras.
For the Wellington ceremony, the plan was for a ‘V’ of three Vulcans to sweep majestically across the City, and for one to land. Sadly, the weather had other ideas, and under low cloud just XH498 left Ohakea although all three were seen over the city on practice days. The mighty jet completed two touch-and-goes before lining up for a landing on the 1600 metre runway, notorious for the turbulence on its final approach. Bryn was unstrapped and out of his seat: To be prepared for a repeat of the Karachi incident, he was to exit the cockpit immediately the aircraft halted, holding a powder fire extinguisher to attack the first brake unit to burst into flames! Instead of the normal sound and feel of a positive landing, however, there was a very loud impact and the aircraft veered left. As with all Vulcan crew, Bryn knew well the Heathrow tragedy three years earlier. Then a Vulcan, returning from Operation Tasman (a visit to New Zealand and Australia with Air Chief Marshal Harry Broadhurst, Air Officer Commanding –in-Chief, RAF Bomber Command on board) had attempted to land at Heathrow in very bad weather. The aircraft was too low on approach and impacted a cabbage patch half a mile short of the runway. The undercarriage was forced up into the wings, severing the control runs and rupturing the fuel tanks. XA897 was now an unguided ballistic missile. The pilot ejected, and whilst the Air Chief Marshal bravely tried to control the stricken aircraft for some seconds longer, his choice was stark. He could not save the others as they had no ejection seats; he could either die with them or save himself alone. He ejected late, the
other five (there were two supernumery persons on board, a crew chief and an Avro representative) dying in the inferno.
In fact XH498 had struck the lip of the Wellington’s runway 34 with both main undercarriage bogies. The left one was forced back forty-five degrees, allowing the wing tip to drag on the runway. The damaged bogie also ruptured fuel lines within the undercarriage bay, fuel streaming out but mercifully not igniting (“or we would have beaten Concorde to it” as Bryn observes wryly). In reply to a tense query from the pilot, Squadron Leader AA (Tony) Smailes AFC, air traffic control urgently replied “Go around, go around” and fortunately the four Olympus turbojets responded rapidly. As Bryn struggled both to put his parachute back on and get strapped into his seat, he was very relieved to see that the aircraft was responding to control inputs from the pilots. XH498 was not mortally wounded, but clearly badly damaged. Extremely low on fuel (partly deliberately to ease the landing at Wellington, partly due to the leaks which showered the crowd with kerosene leaving the smell in the air for a long time, partly because the undercarriage could not be retracted and partly being unable to cross-feed fuel to the unaffected starboard engines), they headed for RNZAF Ohakea and its longer runway, eighty miles away. The crew of the RAF Transport Command Comet, witnessing the near disaster from the VIP stand, scrambled in an attempt to give the Vulcan an airborne inspection and damage report but were unable to catch up. The Comet crew ignored a request by Wg Cdr Bower (Officer Commanding 617 Squadron) to wait for him, but he passed an order for the Vulcan rear crew to bale out. This seemed perfectly sensible, as the pilots could then attempt a landing knowing that if things went awry, they could eject without leaving their compatriots to die. However, the undercarriage could not be retracted and thus the men would strike the nose leg as they exited the hatch into the slipstream under the cockpit. The pilot respected their decision to stay, and on finals into runway 27 at Ohakea jettisoned the cockpit canopy. This was always a prelude to firing the ejection seats but could be done separately, converting the aircraft to a ‘cabriolet’ configuration (with a 140 knot breeze on finals; crew head gear then was a cloth helmet and goggles). The touchdown at Ohakea, fuel virtually exhausted, was perfect, a gentle kiss of the runway. As the wings lost lift, the already damaged wing tip touched and XH498 gently slewed left onto the grass. All five occupants left via the open cockpit roof, running down the port wing. There was no fire. There were no recriminations from the AOC, who in fact ordered the crew to fly the display at Ohakea’s open day ‘to get back in the saddle’. Thus next day, in Vulcan XH502, they swept low in salute over their stricken mount.
Amazingly, viewed from today’s culture of health and safety, Peter Boyd was crouched on the runway lip at Wellington, and took the colour photograph during a prior ‘touch and go’ approach. He then moved slightly to his left to get a perfect head-on view next time and thus had the main bogies impact on either side of him, the powering-up Olympus engines showering him with gravel, the noise indescribable. Bill Howell, ‘Marshal One’ driving a Vauxhall Zephyr, was immediately sent by air traffic control with an RAF engineering officer to the impact point. They noted that the left bogie had impacted eighteen inches below the lip (that on the right just clipping the edge) and left a score mark visible for years afterwards many yards long along the runway. Debris they collected included parts of the maxaret brakes and of the wing tip navigation lights.
XH498 was repaired at Ohakea by a team from Avro, leaving for England on January 4th 1960. It remained in service until 19th October 1967, being converted to B1A status in 1962 by the addition of
electronic counter-measures equipment similar to that in the B2 versions. It became 7993M at RAF Finningley, most appropriately used as a crew escape trainer, but was later scrapped.
Had the pilot lost control at Wellington, the Vulcan would have veered left towards the dragging wing tip and collided with the static display (which included the Comet, Britannia, Beverley, an RNZAF Hastings, RAAF Canberras and two USAF Hercules), then the crowd. The resulting carnage does not bear thinking about.
On the 29th October, the two remaining Vulcans headed on via a night stops at Fiji and Christmas Island (then an RAF Base) to Honolulu, where an illegal cargo of New Zealand salmon was smuggled from the bomb bay to a freezer overnight, the same happening at Travis Air Force Base near San Francisco next day after a transit in which they reached 55,000’ to clear cumulo-nimbi. At Goose Bay in Labrador no such precautions were necessary as there was deep snow, but the problems were not over. As Bryn’s aircraft climbed out over the Atlantic next day, they heard the other Vulcan declare a ‘Mayday’ and request an immediate return. Concerned that a dangerously overweight landing was about to happen, they discovered on landing at RAF Scampton that the other aircraft had suffered hydraulic fluid freezing in the undercarriage bay; the salmon were certainly cold enough! As the undercarriage retracted, the doors were out of sequence and fouled the bogey. Unsure of the situation and unable to cross the Atlantic, the crew elected to land as soon as possible. There was no further damage, but that left just one Vulcan to complete the circumnavigation to plan.
The sole successful Vulcan (XH502) had flown 28 251 miles in fifty flying hours at an average of 565 MPH. Crossing the Atlantic, Bryn was able to guide the Vulcan into the jet stream giving a groundspeed of 720 MPH, almost Mach 1. The Vulcan normally flew at 0.84 Mach, but for the Atlantic crossing this was raised to 0.90 Mach. They crossed in 2 hours, 49 minutes and 30 seconds, smashing the record. Avro were appreciative of their efforts, but not very; each crew member received a copper tie pin with a Vulcan motif. The AOC, however, received a silver model of a Vulcan; rank has its privileges.
Much must have been learnt by the RAF, in particular that the ‘V-force’ did not yet have effective global reach. The Middle East had to be avoided if possible, so a route across the Indian Ocean via Gan in the Maldive islands was used until the British Armed Forces withdrew from east of Suez. Now if the RAF wishes to reach the Far East or Australasia in times of tension, the route is via America.
Jonathan Pote
(Footnote: It has been announced that 617 Squadron will become the first Joint Strike Fighter squadron in the RAF, in a few years time)
See: aviation-safety.net/wikibase/wiki.php?id=59726
www.avrovulcan.org.uk/other_photographers/498_ohakea_1.htm
Bryn’s talk – additional facts
First RAF 4 jet circumnavigation
Scampton - Cyprus 4 and half hours, RON
Turkey/Iran/Karachi RON
India Ceylon Butterworth RON
Butterworth – Darwin RON
Two weeks NZ
Fiji/Christmas island RON
Honolulu RON
Travis San Fran RON
Goose Bay RON
Scampton
5 a/c, 20 mins apart, so 1h 20 stream
3 hours wake up to airborne
AVM was ex-SASO Bomber command, so aware of NATO nuclear plans and a rich prize for Russia if captured.
Darwin – “wooden huts on stilts’, 100% humid, 90 degrees”
Darwin-Ohakea 45 000’ Record
Wellington – 6 minute slot. AVM and OC617 on ground. 2 rollers, then land
“Bale out rear crew” Navs to stay, AEOp undecided.
U/C down nose leg behind exit door
Canopy off, soft helmets, goggles
“out, Out” as soon as stopped
AVM diplomatic calls, fishing
29 Oct – off to Fiji RON
RAF C’Mas Island RON – tents, waves lapping on shore
55 000’ over Cu nims to Travis, San Fran
Americans ignorant of RAF aircraft
Across Atlantic – AOC unhappy re fuel, but 120 MPH jetstream meant shorter crossing time.
720 MPH ground speed
518 Squadron – flew ‘Mercer’ patrols 700 nM out into Atlantic, then added ‘Bismuth’to close the UK-Iceland gap with a triangular course. Home via St Kilda. 518 picked up the front that delayed D-day. Aircraft coded Y3.
Sortie was flown at 950mB altitude, about 1500’ and at 140 kts
At the farthest point a climb to 500mB was made, checking all observations at 50 mB intervals
Every hour the aircraft went down to 30’ or as low as they felt safe to record sea level pressures
Every 20 nautical (about every 10 minutes) miles a full set of readings were taken
