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British Mensa Travel Special Interest Group |
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The
Flying Fifties The year was 1950. We flew from Northolt to Nice by BEA. The flight took 4½ hours and we were treated like royalty. When we were seated in the plane, two men came out on the runway, turned the propellers and ran off rapidly while the plane took off. It was, of course, a small plane, though regrettably I don’t remember exactly how many passengers it carried, nor the cost of the flight. (Does any members happen to have access to such data?) Some other amusing incidents were both leaving Ben Gurion airport (Israel) returning to England. Once we were seated, but delayed by about half an hour. Eventually a fellow appeared with a roll of wide sellotape and proceeded to seal round the emergency door, after which we were able to take off. I am still puzzled by the incident. On another occasion, on the same route, we took off at dawn. As soon as the seatbelt sign went off, all the “black hatted brigade”, the ultra-orthodox Jews, congregated by one corner of the plane for morning prayers. I imagined the pilot furiously compensating for the change in balance – he must have been forewarned – or are today’s planes self-regulating? While on the subject of the “BHB”, the Cohens (priests) among them are not allowed in cemeteries – well, not until they are dead. To avoid being “contaminated” by going over cemeteries on the route out of Ben Gurion, they wrapped themselves in bodybags in the plane. There was talk of the planes making a slight diversion to avoid this. And, before major festivals, when they visit family and want to look their best in their – no, I won’t call it Sunday clothes – it is the men who travel carrying large hatboxes. My most spectacular flight to date was to the Grand Canyon, in an aircraft so light that each passenger had to be weighed and seated to balance. We flew round the column of a spectacular storm. Indescribable, so I won’t even try. First published in VISA issue 51 (June 2003) Trudie's memories prompted this article in a subsequent issue:- When
Flying Was Fun Trudie’s observation that two men ‘turned the propellers and ran off rapidly’ sounds authentic. For the benefit of sub-pension age readers I should explain that in the days when cars had starting handles on the front, aircraft were started by grasping the tip of the upper airscrew blade, swinging it down sharply, and hoping to have removed one’s hand before the other blade came round and did so. Being a qualified prop-swinger myself (now an endangered species — though not so endangered as then!) I remember well the need to dash once the pilot waved ‘Chocks away!’, for the aircraft had no other brakes... But if prop-swingers were needed to start the engines it must have been a pre-war design. I think the only likely type was a de Havilland Dragon Rapide, of which BEA acquired a number when private companies were nationalised after WWII. But they were used almost entirely on Scottish services, and to the Isle of Man, Scilly and Channel Islands. With a range of under 500 miles they could not reach Nice in one hop. I flew in to Northolt many times in 1947 but do not recall seeing one there then; as a biplane it would have been very noticeable among all the more recent types, and my diary recorded any interesting ones that I spotted. Most BEA European routes were flown by the tubby Vickers Viking or, by 1950, the more elegant Airspeed Ambassador, but as Trudie mentioned ‘a small plane’ it could have been a de Havilland Dove of about 1945 vintage, a neat-looking 8-seater of which BEA had a few. So I think that maybe the men she noticed were not prop-swingers, but on some other job. Early wartime designs (Northolt was swarming with Dakotas, many operated by BEA) had their starting power provided from a handcart loaded with batteries which plugged in to a fuselage socket, but the lads could hardly ‘run away’ heaving that. And there was a phase when a bod would bring out a wheeled fire extinguisher, with its nozzle at the top of a long lance to reach up to the higher engines of our Yorks and Lancastrians, at the ready as each one was started; again not a runner. That leaves tyre checkers: fifty years before the Paris Concorde disaster we always had our tyres meticulously examined by chaps who came out from a caravan at the end of the runway to ensure that no damage had been inflicted by debris as we taxied to the take-off point. They could run! Sticky tape round the emergency exit I remember well! On the Wellington bomber, that was its only fixing. A narrow catwalk led to the rear gun turret, and just to one side there was a square panel held in place only by a two-inch strip of tape round its edge. The tape itself was stuck on with dope (the stuff with which fabric-covered aircraft were painted), so that a quick kick was all that was required to open it in order to make a rapid departure. Inadvertently I put that to the test while on a flight during an ATC camp. The gunner wanted to pass me and, not knowing of the escape hatch, I began to move aside when there was a sudden icy gale up my trouser leg, and an interesting view down beyond my foot (luckily my other one was still on the catwalk). The crew were highly amused - and at least it gave them something to smile about as they set off that night for Germany on one of the first thousand-bomber raids. Emergency exits on passenger aircraft were fastened by a proper handle, which had a piece of easily breakable wire threaded through to prevent it from working loose with vibration. Muggins here happened to be in the passenger cabin of one of our Dakotas where evidently the wire had not been checked. There was a sudden deafening roar as the top-hinged hatch blew open just behind one of the engines. (I had not previously realised just how effective the sound-proofing was in our specially converted VIP aircraft.) Not pausing to consider the parachutes available, carefully stowed away down the back, I leaned out into the slipstream and pulled the thing closed. Luckily none of our cargo of high-ranking Dutch officers had been sitting in the nearest seat. In the case of Trudie’s aircraft I expect it had been noticed that either the wire or some other safety device was not as it should be, and the sticky tape was used to avert possible excitement. The weighing of passengers, mentioned by Trudie, was something that we normally dispensed with; for purposes of 'weight and balance’ calculations everyone conveniently weighed 200 pounds including luggage. The only exception in my experience was after Pakistan was split off from India in August 1947, when we were involved in the evacuation of Muslims from Delhi to Karachi, and Hindus vice versa. Naturally they all wanted to take their most valuable possessions with them, and our aim was to shift as many as possible, so there was a conflict of interests. But it was realised that so many were poorly nourished that they were far below our 'standard’ weight, so they were weighed in order to cram more in without exceeding the safe loading limit. For interest I kept a copy of the passenger manifest for a flight on 29 October 1947. The first few entries, with weights in pounds (including luggage), were: Nassir Hussain
185; Wife 145; Nazir Mohd 160; Wife + 2 babies 131; Daughter 60; Mohd
Ishaq 110; Wife 145; Contemporary news cuttings describe ‘the biggest air evacuation in flying history’, Royal Air Force aircraft flying over a million miles in the first six weeks, with over 20,000 passengers, while civil airlines coordinated by BOAC carried another 40,000. The most popular luggage seemed to be huge circular brass trays, which were the devil to stow in our limited hold, but no doubt represented a family’s major item of furniture, so we tried to fit them in. One little old lady who seemed to have severe walking difficulty staggered on to the scales, and recorded a surprisingly high weight; she was taken aside and discreetly asked to lift the bottom edge of her floor-length gown a little - it was found that under her robes she had a sewing machine suspended between her legs. Colleagues from another squadron landed with more passengers than they had at take-off, a baby having been born en route. So when, soon afterwards, our guests included a very pregnant looking woman it seemed that we might follow suit, and the pilot jokingly nominated me for midwife. In flight I took a look through the peephole into the passenger cabin, and she appeared very apprehensive as there was a great deal of disturbance going on under her robes. In those days I had only a vague idea about where babies came from, but the commotion seemed to be rather higher up than I would have expected. Then her robes parted slightly, and as I watched wide-eyed out popped...a hen’s head. Among our customers we sometimes carried King’s Messengers, mysterious gentlemen identified by a golden greyhound badge. Their job was to accompany ‘diplomatic bags’, in which confidential communications were carried between Foreign Office and embassy, and they were required never to let the things out of their sight. There was a comical scene when we delivered one to Le Bourget once. It was August, and it was hot. When we had titled and/or high-ranking passengers we stopped close by the VIP lounge, but on this occasion we went straight to the aircraft parking area, the sooner to catch a bus for a dip at Piscine Le Bourget to cool off before picking up our return passengers. The efficient French baggage handlers came out with a tractor towing a number of small trailers, into which they dumped all our cargo, and set off back towards the terminal building. Fast. Our ‘greyhound’, who was a very short rotund little chap, suddenly realised that his precious secret bags had got away and attempted chase after them, his arms waving like a demented windmill and his scarlet face bawling above the noise of aircraft engines as he fought a losing battle with his puff. On a flight when we had a load of freight in the nose hold, and few passengers, there was a problem with the ‘weight and balance’ calculation, which showed the Centre of Gravity to be way ahead of the permitted safe range. So the skipper volunteered me to sit in the toilet down in the tail until we reached an adequate height. My first trip out east was a rush job. The Viceroy of India, Lord Louis Mountbatten, needed to come to London for urgent talks about the forthcoming India/Pakistan split; he was in Delhi and his personal aircraft - Avro York MW102 which he had used when Supreme Commander during the Burma campaign - was in the UK for servicing. At lunchtime on Thursday I was looking forward to a weekend at home. Then a phone call, and with only twenty minutes’ notice I had set off with two crews for Malta and an overnight stop. On Friday we refuelled beside the Suez Canal and dropped off one crew who would wait there and rest, to take over again on our return. Then we flew through the night and landed at Karachi. An important-looking gentleman in white robes strode out to the aircraft, spoke to the flight engineer, then turned and clapped his hands twice above his head. “Is that the signal to bring on the dancing girls?” I wondered hopefully. No such luck. He was the Shell representative, and simply caused two huge petrol tankers to emerge from among the camels and come over to replenish our thirsty tanks. On to Delhi by mid-morning, Saturday, where the temperature was front page news even in the local papers: 114°F, they said. On Sunday morning we were on our way back by the same route (but without an overnight stop), reaching Northolt by Monday morning. I was offered immediate leave, but after more than fifty hours’ flying in four days I was too shattered to accept. How fortunate we were that Health and Safety had not been invented in those days First published in VISA issue 53A (Dec 2003) |