Propellerhead

Barsham was plainly a forgotten backwater of the RAF, and we had the place pretty much to ourselves. The grid of Nissen huts with their rounded roofs of moulding and mossy asbestos or rusting corrugated iron, Sean told us, provided accommodation for RAF technical staff and training facilities (for such indispensable tasks, I later learnt, as Maintenance Schedule Writing and Spares Forecasting). Despite the fibreglass Spitfire on its plinth at the entrance, there was almost no RAF flying. For all but the last couple of weeks of July, when overspill student pilots from the University Air Squadrons came over from Cranfield to train in the quiet Norfolk skies, the old brick control tower remained locked and empty. The rest of the year the huge expanse of grass (Barsham was reputedly the largest grass airfield in Europe) was shared between the local glider club, the ‘Norwich and Eastern’ and the fat hares which hid amongst the clumps of clover and daisies.

The glider club operated mainly at weekends, when the field was divided in half by white plastic markers and a big yellow winch on a lorry hauled gliders into the air on one side of the airfield. Meanwhile the aero club, a very sleepy operation, used the other half sporadically running a motley pair of tatty blue-and-white Cessnas. There were a couple of school instructors, recognisable by their white shirts with epaulettes and dark blue trousers, and there was Carter. I never did learn whether Carter was his Christian name or surname. He was fat, with a kind face, and had a fat son called Keith who looked absurdly like him and occasionally manned the radio. Sean paid them no respect. The occasional roar of one of their engines, usually merely to taxi a plane from one position to another, represented the principal excitement of the day. Apart from this the only sounds to break the stillness were the crunch and rumble of the hangar doors morning and evening, the hiss and static of the radio in the Portakabin on the occasions that it was switched on, and the scream of the microlighters’ two-strokes. When this faded, as it did soon after take-off, there was just the skylarks, the bells of the round-towered church on the north of the airfield and the occasional distant sound of hammering.

I had never taken a holiday like this. The combination of the weather, the rustic setting, a scheduled activity to give the day some (but not too much) structure, and enough country air and exertion (heaving ten-ton hangar doors, full jerry cans and the Thruster) to stoke ravenous appetites made it seem a world away from advertising, deadlines and the bars and traffic of Wardour Street.

Salsingham, too, had a curiously soul-soothing quality; partly, no doubt, because the place was so extensive. Apart from the two wings (both larger than most large detached houses), there were stables and kennels, and workshops and barns, and the park with its overgrown lake and boathouse. There was a sleepy somnambulance about the place, as if, when the clock in the pediment on the west wing stopped (at three minutes to two), all influence from the outside world had ceased at the same moment. The flat, right at the top of the house, was spartan but ideal. There was a small kitchen in one of the corner towers, a couple of bedrooms and a sitting room with a view over the lake, behind which the sun set as the ducks came in.

We saw little of the Watsons. Mrs Watson communicated with us mainly by note—irritated ones ticking us off (for bad parking or leaving doors open) alternating with invitations to supper. Occasionally we would encounter Mr Watson, in many ways a Caractacus Potts figure, driving his disintegrating orange Daihatsu, with its flapping rear doors, or carrying a spanner and a roll of electric cable. After helping to round up some escaped cattle, moving some heavy furniture, treating the obstinately opaque green waters of the pool, transferring a car battery and erecting an electric fence, we learnt to dive for cover at his approach. Life at Salsingham, it became clear, was one long, losing battle against an incoming tide of accumulating tasks. Mr Watson had a bumbling, absent-minded manner. He never showed the slightest recognition when he came across us and he never used our names, but as long as he regarded us as a source of assistance, rather than trespassers, I supposed it must be all right.

Now that I was familiar with the basic controls, all lessons took the same form: circuits, circuits and more circuits. The circuit, the core element of instruction in all flying, is an imaginary, rectangular cube of air over an airfield, about 1,000 feet high, and a quarter of a mile or more in its other dimensions, the orientation of which varies daily, sometimes even hourly, to allow for taking off—as nearly as possible—into wind. The direction (left-hand or right-hand) tends to be dictated by local topography. At Barsham it depended on the activities, or not, of the glider club, and we always had to avoid the village, the RAF buildings, two houses to the north of the airfield containing litigious locals and, for safety’s sake, low approaches over the gravel pit on the north-east side in case of an untimely engine failure.

Circuits allowed relentless practising of all the essential aspects of control of the aircraft: taxiing, take-off, climbing, levelling off, turning, cruising, following a heading, plotting the approach to land, descending and landing. If it sounds busy, it was: indeed, there seemed to be such an absurd amount to think about that I was always neglecting something. ‘Glance at the instruments,’ Sean would say. ‘Don’t gaze at them,’ as I became transfixed by, say, the needle of the altimeter, or the rev counter, or the air speed indicator, trying to get it to stay in exactly the right position. A helicopter pilot once told me that the kind of person who made a good flyer was someone who, while driving, could wash/wipe the windscreen, re-tune the radio and overtake simultaneously, without letting this in any way interrupt his conversation. I now saw what he meant. In simple ‘straight and level’ flight I had, simultaneously, to:

 Keep the nose level so I wasn’t losing or gaining height.

 Stick to within 4-5° of a given compass heading.

 Maintain a gentle but continuous pressure on the left rudder pedal to counter the torque of the propeller and the effect of the slipstream it put over the right wing on to the fin, so that the ball remained central in the slip indicator.

 Keep a roving eye on the engine temperature, rev counter, altimeter, and air speed gauges—not to mention regular checks of the fuel level.

 Look out, continuously, for birds and other aircraft, and—most importantly—a suitable field for landing in case of engine failure.

This before I contemplated a manoeuvre. Fortunately, we did not have a radio, so I was spared having to keep the ‘tower’ informed of my actions in the dense and impenetrable jargon of radio-telephony.

The result was that it was never until the end of each lesson that I seemed to get the hang of it, only to find that the hour had pinged by and time was up.

Around the Tuesday a change came over Richard. It was just after he had taken his Air Law exam. Richard, like Lester, had a considerable head start on Dan and me. Having only recently acquired his Private Pilot’s Licence in Africa, the Civil Aviation Authority had declared that to be fully ‘legal’ he need only complete a cross-country flight in a Cessna to validate this licence, and then be ‘checked out’ in the Thruster. The one thing he had to do first, however, was sit and pass his UK Air Law exam, something I, too, had to do before I could go solo.

Accordingly, we had both been desultorily cramming the air law statutes detailed in CAP 85: A Guide to Aviation Law, Flight Rules and Procedures for Applicants for the Private Pilot’s Licence. CAP 85 was not a racy read. In fact, in both its tone and content it reminded me unpleasantly of my short and lacklustre legal career. It was full of sentences like ‘Pilots flying beneath TCA or SRA should use the QNH of an aerodrome situated beneath that area when flying below transition altitude.’ However, if we were to get our licences, then learn CAP 85 we must. So, at spare moments, we had taken to quizzing each other on such essential questions for the single-engined, non-radio daylight pilot as:

What sign does an aircraft marshaller make to indicate to you to open up your starboard engine?

What Secondary Surveillance Radar code on mode ‘C’ should be used by an aircraft in the event of two-way radio failure?

In level cruise, at the same altitude, at night, what does an anti-collision light together with a green and a white navigation light closing on you on a steady relative bearing of 330° indicate?

Committing the statutes to memory temporarily levelled our relative flying experience, though inevitably Richard was well ahead. The rules of aviation in the UK were not dissimilar to those in Africa and by Monday evening he had felt ready to sit the paper in Sean’s office. Naturally, when I saw him afterwards, I asked how it had gone.

‘How did what go?’

‘You know—the exam. Air Law.’

‘Oh that? Messed up a couple of questions.’

‘Bad luck. Do you have to do it again?’

‘No. You only have to get 70 per cent to pass.’

‘You got more than 70 per cent? What did you get?’

‘98 per cent. Stupid mistakes too.’

Gone was the shared ‘novices-at-this-absurd-activity-together’ attitude of before. Nor, over the rest of the evening and the following day, did it return. Outwardly, he was the same as ever, good-humoured, friendly, affable. Only when it came to matters of aviation was his tone altered. It had acquired a didactic note. Where previously he had responded to a casually inane remark about the Thruster being like a tennis ball to land with a sympathetic nod, a murmur of agreement and, perhaps, a close shave that he had had that morning, now he responded seriously, taking the opportunity to dispense some advice that might help me deal with my difficulty. It wasn’t that I minded, or that I didn’t think it was justified—I was happy to receive all the help I could. But we were no longer equals and, for the first time, I felt the chilly draught of my inexperience and the catching up that had to be done.

Having passed the exam, Tuesday afternoon was scheduled for Richard’s qualifying cross-country flight in one of the club Cessnas. He had been checked out in the morning by one of the club instructors, and by the time we went to lunch his superiority had reached a peak. The Thruster and microlighting generally now sounded a very poor relation indeed alongside the ‘necessarily more rigorous’ disciplines of ‘general aviation’. As, after lunch, he prepared his route, drawing lines, measuring angles, confidently turning the dial of his flight calculator as he filled out his flight plan, his involved and excluding air of competence made me feel my inferiority keenly.

‘Good luck,’ I said, as I went off for my lesson.

‘See you later, Antony.’

It was about five o’clock, after an extended lesson with Sean, that I next saw Richard. As I entered the clubhouse, there was the sound of raised voices. ‘What the fuck did you think you were doing?’ one shouted angrily. ‘Think how this makes the club look. “Leave it,’ said another. ‘This is for the CAA.’ Three figures with epaulettes on their shoulders were taking it in turns to berate an unhappy-looking fourth person—Richard.

Piecing together what happened afterwards, it seemed that Richard had filed his flight plan and checked out for departure in accordance with standard procedures. Taking off, he struck north-west. Unfortunately, it seemed that he had omitted to check the club notice-board for information about local events, or, once airborne, to change his radio from the Barsham local frequency to the area frequency, Norwich Control or RAF Marham. Oblivious, he had entered the Marham Military Air Traffic Zone panhandle, crossing the approach to the main runway as a pair of Tornadoes were on final approach to land. The RAF, anxious to know who was trespassing in their air space without contacting them at such a time, put out calls on both their own frequency and the Norwich frequency. They were unable to raise Richard, who was by this time circling overhead at Sandringham, an opportunity, he told me, that seemed too good to miss—but unaware that, with the flag indicating royalty in residence, this was prohibited, purple air space. Tiring of this, and still oblivious to the now considerable ground-efforts to contact him, Richard continued round the coast towards Great Yarmouth.

Further trauma was to follow as he crossed the approach to the main runway of Norwich International Airport. Had he called, as he was supposed to, to check Temporary Restricted Airspace, he would have been aware of the Red Arrows coming over that afternoon. As it was, he was overhead as the famous jets, in close formation, were arriving at 1,000 feet across the North Sea. When their on-board radar indicated conflicting traffic, they aborted their approach, but, again, went unnoticed by Richard. Attempts to contact the unidentified Cessna from the ground now became something of an aviation priority in East Anglia, as Norwich air traffic control worked through all the likely frequencies without success. The Cessna’s markings were finally reported visually by another plane to Norwich. They identified the plane as belonging to the Norwich and East of England Aero Club, whom they contacted by phone.

Richard, meanwhile—well-pleased with how easily his cross-country was passing off—now turned west for his homeward leg. Unfortunately he opted to do so at 1,200 feet in the busy Cromer Helicopter Corridor to North Denes heliport, prohibited space for fixed-wing traffic. Breezing into the circuit overhead at Barsham Green, perhaps used to non-radio approaches in the Thruster, he neglected to call up the tower. As he could see no other planes in the circuit and the windsock indicated little or no wind, he decided to land as he pleased, forgetting to check the designated direction of take-off and landing displayed in the ground signals area in front of the clubhouse. Hurtling in downwind on the side of the airfield reserved exclusively for the gliding club, in front of a glider on the point of launch, he taxied briskly over to the apron, pulled up and got ready to report a successful flight. It was only then that he discovered that the effect of his actions, broadly speaking, had been like kicking an ants’ nest.

Richard’s confidence was dented by this incident, but dented less than I might have imagined. As I would discover with flying faux pas, so long as nothing and no one has got hurt, the fuss quickly dies down. By Wednesday lunchtime the pursed lips, shaking heads and mutterings of the club instructors had turned to wisecracks. Richard was told that, so long as he agreed to re-sit his radio-telephony exam, he would not be reported to the CAA and he might consider the matter closed. I received the incident with mixed feelings. On the one hand, it served Richard right; he had only got what he deserved. There was the strangely reassuring comfort of seeing a good friend in trouble, and the overall result was a return to the happy status quo of ‘us versus aviation’. On the other hand, if Richard, born administrator and high priest of procedures, could make this kind of cock-up, what hope was there for me?

My concerns, however, had no chance to get any further, as, later on Wednesday, there came a far more dramatic setback: one which brought all our flying to an abrupt halt.

It was about quarter to seven, on another perfect, cloudless summer evening. Richard, now officially checked out to fly the Thruster solo, had gone off on a local flight. Sean was in the hangar briefing a pupil. I was sprawled on the grass outside with a ring binder of loose-leaf pages I had come across in Sean’s office entitled Thrsuter (sic) Pilot’s and Operator’s Handbook. It was an interesting document. The down-stroke of the ‘A’ of the ‘Thruster Air Services’ company logo zoomed with a swoop, a steep climb and a flourish round and through the other words in a graphic representation of a vapour trail, culminating in what was equally unmistakably the silhouette of a jet fighter. It seemed an ambitious image for a company selling a flying machine which had, screwed to the centre of its instrument panel, a plate stating ‘ALL AEROBATIC MANOEUVRES STRICTLY FORBIDDEN’. A machine, moreover, which was, even in a brisk tailwind, unlikely to exceed a ground speed of 70 knots.

Anyway, the writing style was breezy, talking, as it did, of a return to the golden age of aviation, where pilots must rediscover the instincts of the seat of their pants rather than relying on fancy instruments. I could almost hear the Australian accent (the Thruster was an Australian design; used, someone had said, to shoot dingos and, fitted with klaxons, to herd sheep): ‘Stalls: this little baby has had many a pilot lying six foot under…’ when my reveries were interrupted by a flexwing speeding up to the hangar entrance. Leaving the engine still running, the passenger jumped out and rushed into the hangar yelling for Sean.

Something was clearly up. A strict rule of the club was never to have engines running near the open hangar door as it could whip up grit and sand which might damage the machines inside. I could not hear what was said, above the engine. But I saw Sean stiffen, drop what he was doing immediately, and, without bothering to put on his ozee suit or gloves, jump aboard the trike, take the controls from the pilot, and take off from where they were. They were airborne before they had even left the tarmac apron for the grass of the airfield.

I got up and walked over to the figure left behind. ‘What’s up?’

‘There’s a Thruster down in a cornfield. Looked like the one we’d seen round here.’

The sentence took a moment to sink in, as my mind searched furiously for ways to explain, parry, reject or somehow defuse the information it contained. A fearsome, disorientating dread washed over me, accompanied by a slightly sick nausea. This was joined, it must be said, by a pulse of pure excitement, stabbing through the gentle glow of the evening.

It had to be Richard.

There were no other Thrusters. Not round here, anyway. In any case, the man had said as much. ‘Looked like the one we’d seen round here.’

I stared, slightly deranged, at the hangar in the yellow evening sunlight, the dangling windsock, the club Cessnas, the warm green of the landing field, all so friendly and charming a moment before. Now, I noticed them again. They looked different, dangerous, threatening… as if they were the final image of flying I was to take away with me as my memory singled out this moment for saving and filing with a burnt-in time code. Not because it was contented like the one before, but because this was when I heard that Richard had been killed.

Had he? That was the question. Was his body, even at that moment, slumped in the smashed wreckage of the Thruster?

‘Was…was the pilot okay?’

‘Couldn’t see. Looked as if the machine had nosed over.’

This wasn’t part of the plan. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Thoughts flooded through my head. What could have happened? Had the Thruster broken up in mid-air? Christ, how horrifying was that? I had been in it only an hour before: it might have been me. Had everyone been right after all? Were these machines just death traps? Why had we trusted them? Were we out of our minds? Placing our lives in the hands of a company who could not even spell their name right on the cover of the handbook?

And, round and round, again and again: Richard. Could he really be dead? No more Richard. What would I do without him? Who would be my best mate? What about our flying plans? What about our holiday? Who would I share the flat with? What would I say to his parents?

Of course, if he really were dead…it did give our hobby quite an exotic, boulevardier ring…and it certainly highlighted the risks we were facing—and consequently our extraordinary courage to have taken up such an activity—not to mention providing an eminently good reason to give up…tchaaargh…how could I think such things? About Richard…my best mate. At a time when he may be dead.

DEAD.

I felt ashamed I had pinched his bacon at breakfast without telling him. What a childish and odious thing to have done. The maddening impotence of my situation took hold. All I could do was hang about, waiting for further information. If he weren’t dead, what shape was he likely to be in? What was the most likely injury from a flying accident? Spine presumably. Jesus. And the ambulance had not even been called yet. There wasn’t even anyone I could talk to. I did not know what to do. I certainly couldn’t continue reading the Thruster Handbook. It no longer seemed an amusing example of the quirky charms of amateurism. It had become a chilling testament to the idiocy of not doing things properly.

For fifteen minutes I paced about in an agony of lonely imaginings, until one of the white-shirted Cessna instructors came out of the Portakabin. I had seen him around but had never spoken to him before. ‘You Tony?’ His face and voice were kind and reassuring. ‘Sean’s been on the radio. It’s OK. Your mate’s had an accident but he’s fine.’ He paused, then gave a sniff. ‘Doesn’t have much luck, does he?’

It would be wrong to say that the news of Richard’s survival came as a blow. But it would be equally wrong to say that it was not in some way anti-climactic. Perhaps preparing myself for the worst, as a defence mechanism, I had decided that Richard was definitely dead, or—at the very least—badly injured. Now, as I sat down on the ground again, the planes, the hangar, the summer evening all came up for emotional re-evaluation in the light of this information update. Relief flooded over me, and I felt exhausted. But, now that his survival was not in doubt, I also felt annoyed at having been put through the trauma. Now that the drama was over, all that remained was tedious information gathering and—no doubt—clearing up. There was a sense of let-down; and, with it, of irritation. Richard was okay, I told myself. That was the main thing. He was fine. But our plane? Was that fine? A flood of less charitable thoughts entered my head. Was the machine damaged? If so, how badly? Did it mean we would miss any flying tomorrow? At that moment, Sean arrived back.

‘Ugh!’ he groaned, shaking his head mournfully. ‘Why did he have to choose standing corn? There are lovely fields all round here, and he chose one of standing corn. Phwah! She was running lovely as well. Come on.’ He slung a battered metal tool box into the back of his van. ‘I dunno. You boys.’

It took some time to locate Richard from the deep lanes running between high hedges that divided the fields to the south-east of Barsham Green village. At length Sean spotted a yellow combine through the hedge which he remembered was working nearby and we parked in a gateway.

When Sean had flown over, Richard had been standing beside the plane, waving. It had been impossible to see how much damage had been done to the plane. Now I could just see the tail of the stricken Thruster sticking up over the standing corn, with Richard, expressionless, alongside. Sean grabbed his tool box and I followed his clanking progress round the edge of the field, brushing flies and insects from my face and arms.