THE POTATO RACE

(A True Tale for Pilots)

by Colin Woodward

At the end of the Second World War, ubiquitously among pilots there was a considerable fear of flying in cloud. This had resulted from the stress of combat being aggravated by a campaign to alert pilots to the dangers of cloud flying. In all crew rooms there were large posters graphically illustrating those dangers: huge fists holding lightening bolts, and graphic scenes of ice accretion affecting both wings and engines. Combat and cloud flying stresses became so intertwined that flight operations were seriously affected and it aroused alarm among Air Ministry officials. Loss of life was still war orientated, so it was decided to determine exactly the dangers of all types of operation of all types of aircraft in all types of weather. The Empire Flying School All Weather Flying Course was formed. It operated as No 15 EFS Course from RAF Hullavington, with South Cerney as its satellite field. The course commencement date was 1st January 1947. The date coincided with the start of the most severe two months of winter weather on record in Britain and Europe.

I was the training officer of the No 1 Air Communications Flight operating from Hendon. The Wing Commander Flying was posted onto the EFS course. He received the instructions concerning the nature of the course. Shortly before the reporting date, he became sick and nominated me to replace him. I had little idea of what the course comprised, just sufficient to make my resultant sick feeling as genuine as his. But I had no one to nominate and, being only a flight lieutenant, I felt that no medical officer would validate any sickness symptoms I might simulate. So I bade my wife an emotional farewell and reported to EFS on 01 01 1947.

Thirty students reported for the course. The Commonwealth nations were well represented, with ranks from wing commander to flying officer. One was a Wing Commander medical officer (with whom I flew often and became quite friendly), two were naval officers, one was the (civilian) chief training officer for BOAC who, I believe, failed the course. There were thirty-three staff officers, approximately twelve were tutors, headed by Air Commander Vincent and Group Captain Macpherson. The choice of students and tutors seemed to be random, with some students being far more experienced than some tutors. A Wing Commander Dobree-Bell was flight commander and Lt Colonel Retief, a South African, was OC Flying, both extraordinarily capable pilots, Pierre Retief particularly so. There were several South African tutors.

First we were interviewed and orientated, told what to expect. Expectation fell far short of reality. Intensive academic training was a feature of the course. Flight theory, jet propulsion, air traffic control, engines, instruments, radar, instrument approach aids, high-speed flight, and meteorology (very intensive with a highly qualified senior met officer) were the main subjects. The students were required to lecture and to give met briefings. Orientation took five days. During those days the atmospheric pressure plummeted, together with the temperature. On the 6th January we commenced flying.

The cloud base was about 100 ft. Visibility half a mile. Drizzle. Freezing. I was in the first sortie of eight Oxfords. We taxied out. Our brakes froze. So we taxied back. It was decided to send off the second sortie, of eight Harvards, which had cable brakes. They taxied to the end of the runway. Peter Dobree-Bell would demonstrate the first take-off. He moved onto the runway and opened to full power. His tail came up and he sailed along the runway. His tail went down into the take-off attitude and he still sailed along the runway. Through the hedge, across the road, through the next hedge, and he came to rest in a ploughed field.

The students returned to the crew room and reflected, making frequent trips to the toilet. The tutors foregathered in Retief's office and also reflected. After some time Dobree-Bell confronted us in the crew room. He stated that it had been decided what had gone amiss. The drizzle was supercooled and had formed rhyme ice on the leading edges of the wings. It had accreted significantly, clearly evident on the crashed aircraft. When he raised the tail into the flying attitude the aircraft accelerated normally. When he pulled back to lift off, nothing happened. No further acceleration. He left it too late, not believing he could not unstick, and climbed out unbruised. The conclusion was that when he raised the nose, the rhyme ice moved into the airflow over the wing, destroying lift, increasing drag. So seven Harvards would go out again and he would demonstrate the new technique. The take-off procedure would be normal until the nose was raised for the lift-off. Should the aircraft get airborne, all well and good. Should it not do so, then the nose was to be progressively lowered, slowly and steadily, the opposite of normal. Eventually, when the rhyme ice was clear of the airflow, the aircraft should lift off. He seemed fairly positive about it.

They taxied out. All seven. We watched. Dobree-Bell (plus his student) turned onto the runway. There was a slight delay. They were doing a final tightening of their straps on DB's instruction. Then he opened the throttle. They sailed along the runway. The tail came up into the flying attitude. They still sailed along the runway. The nose came up into the lift-off attitude. They still sailed along the runway. Then slowly the nose went down, and down. Then to our amazement (we had given them up), despite a fairly pronounced nose down attitude, the aircraft lifted off and almost immediately disappeared into cloud. One by one, the other six repeated that performance and also disappeared. It set the tone of the course.

We did not know the type of aircraft we would fly until shortly before each flight. It seemed to be a matter of finding out which aircraft were serviceable and then allocating them to tutors and students. Neither did we know whether we would be flying dual or solo. So every time we reported for flight there was a considerable measure of anticipation mingling with the apprehension. Some of the aircraft were not (then) fitted with dual controls: the Spitfire, Vampire, Meteor, for instance. The Lancaster was the only four engined aircraft available and normally one tutor and four students flew it on sorties of some hours duration, each student performing a different function for each leg: pilot, navigator, Gee operator, and map reader (lying in the bomb aimer's position in the nose).

Two students frequently flew together. The cloud was solid from near surface often to twelve thousand feet. These flights were always arduous because we had to acquire proficiency in the various manoeuvre sequences comprising the instrument rating test. Such sequences became part of the normal flying training for pilot pupils but, in those days, they were unknown and none of us, neither tutors nor students, were initially proficient at performing them. Half the flight was spent practising and the other half watching for trouble. All the aircraft were fitted with 'two-stage amber'; blue goggles and amber windscreens, the combination cutting out all external vision. Because solid cloud produced the same effect, we did not often use it.

We flew half days, mornings and afternoons alternating. Frequently we flew at night. This was of little significance during the flying because external vision was virtually non-existent, day or night. But it did have its hazards. It snowed. Heavily and unceasingly. I found climbing into the Buckmaster at night, when changing over with another crew, remarkably unpleasant. Sometimes with strong winds, driving snow, ice on fuselage and clutching parachute and helmet, moving on hands and knees between two enormous propellers virtually inches away, squeezing down into the cockpit while hanging on to the hatch with its spike-like handle which, if the hatch inadvertently slammed shut (not infrequent) would penetrate the hardest skull, was an ordeal I (and all others) positively dreaded. The short fuselage, with enormous Bristol engines (it was a twin), made single engined flying practice, including approaches, overshoots and landings at night on instruments, a piloting nightmare. The Buckmaster was an unpleasant aircraft at the best of times, but whoever included it in our course should have been required to fly it. One trip would have been enough.

Ground school was intense and interesting. I had long enjoyed studying flight-related subjects and the tuition was expert and excellent in all subjects. High speed flight and meteorology were fascinating. We were required to give an 'interest' lecture on any subject of our own choosing. I chose 'The Physiological Aspects of Flight' in which I had a longstanding interest. It went down extremely well, among students and staff. I had acquired good sources of information over several years and I was a PAF enthusiast.

One other notable feature was the requirement to write a treatise on the future of flight. It would be given considerable emphasis in our final course assessment. I wrote about projecting a gyroscopically-stabilized light array into the cloud in front of the windscreen as an artificial horizon with basic flight data (anticipating the HUD), and I postulated the positioning of tanker aircraft at medium to high levels (clear of cloud) at designated locations to provide refuelling and navigational facilities. My paper was well received.

The Ground School tasks lasted the length of the course, interspersed with many goings on in the flying periods. In Britain and the whole of Europe, the weather stopped all flying, except for Hullavington. Even the bogs froze, which was most inconvenient. We did not stop. And we flew all the aircraft, all flight procedures, in cloud mainly, day and night.

Flying through thunderstorms (cumulo-nimbus) was stipulated as essential for each student. There had been several days of continuous heavy snow, swept to the sides of the runways almost hourly. It was a very murky day: blowing, snowing, and freezing. I was designated as Gee operator for the first leg, navigator the second, pilot for the cu penetration and first return leg, and map-reader for the final leg. My considerable experience of flying on basic instruments made me the popular choice as pilot for the first penetration, there being a probability that the turbulence would topple the gyro instruments, which we wanted to anticipate.

After starting the engines, there was a problem: carburettor warm air could not be selected. The tutor decided to carry on with the sortie, as everything else seemed normal when the engines were tested. The take-off and general flying were normal. We flew to 60 degrees N and 20 degrees W, over the Atlantic, where cu nims were forecast. As we approached this position, one was sited and I moved into the pilot's seat. There was some clear air turbulence before we entered the cu at 16000 feet. It was less turbulent in the cu than out of it. But the cockpit became filled with a mass of ice crystals making it difficult to see the instruments. On the other side we descended to 10.000 feet, turning to re-enter. Had there been severe turbulence, each student would have been required to do a penetration as pilot. It was much the same inside, even smoother. So we headed for home.

I was having an easy, if chilly, time lying in the bomb aimer's position as we descended through cloud to base. The tutor decided to do the approach and landing, as he needed the practice as much as the students, and landing was not a requirement of the sortie. The weather was really bad. Ground Control could not give a cloud base. It was snowing hard, little or no visibility, despite the wipers going flat out. The tutor was using the SBA (Standard Beam Approach), audible morse dots and dashes to one side of the approach path, dashes and dots to the other, steady note when on beam.

The tutor called "Outer marker on finals". We were at 800 ft descending. I was instructed to report as soon as I saw something, anything. I saw only cloud. I heard the inner marker and I caught a glimpse of a light directly below. As I reported it, full power was applied and we overshot. Fortunately we were the only aircraft using Hullavington, the others were using South Cerney, and how they were coping I can't remember. We climbed up on the back beam, did a procedure turn at 1000 ft, back to the outer marker, another procedure turn onto the approach, descending to 800 as we heard the outer marker again, the tutor notifying Control of each phase.

We saw nothing and heard nothing until the first bleeps of the Inner Marker, except the engines which were ominously, noisily at higher power than normal. Again I caught a glimpse of the lights, but we were going much too fast. We overshot and repeated the whole procedure again. This time the engines were practically at full power and the approach was abandoned before the Inner. I couldn't imagine what the problem was. Nor could the tutor. That I was anxious, was the understatement of the age. Again the same procedure at full power, high speed. When the tutor reported at the Outer Marker, he added: "Switching off all engines." It seemed as though all noise stopped, although the airflow must have been very audible. As soon as the Inner Marker sounded, the tutor called for full flap. I had only a vague impression of the ground until we touched, reasonably gently, right on the runway centre line. There was some braking as we came to an intersection. We turned off. Then the engines returned to life and we taxied to dispersal.

The fault had been with the carburettor hot air. During the starting procedure it had iced up, locked solid. When power was reduced, the ice forming on the throttle butterfly prevented full closure. As we overshot each time more spikes of ice formed on the butterfly until it was not possible to move the throttles. After the landing the heat from the engines melted the ice and switching on with rotating props gave all engines again.

Pierre Retief was an exceptional pilot. He had been an aeronautical engineer who, I believe, became a private pilot. He was allowed to become a service pilot but not allowed to be an operational pilot because of his defective eyesight. During the war, regularly he would go to the bomber squadrons volunteering to act as flight engineer so he could go on the raids. One day at Hullavington he checked out the Meteor for engine ice problems after an experimental screen was fitted to each intake as an ice ingestion precaution. He returned overhead after half-an-hour in cloud, the engines screaming like mad. After landing the icing screens were found to be almost entirely solid ice, with a foot diameter central hole keeping the engines turning. He was completely laconic about it. "I told them that would be exactly what would happen." Some years later, he became Commander in Chief of the South African Air Force.

At most weekends we were allowed two days off to go home. I travelled down to London (and back) with a Fl Lt Yeates DFC, an extremely gentle, courteous fighter pilot, and we formed a warm friendship. His wife also lived in London. My wife and I rented the upper part of a small terraced house in Finchley owned by a very elderly couple. There was no effective heating, just an electric fire in the room we used as a sitting room, consuming shillings ravenously. My wife was recovering from jaundice. Having to leave her when returning to Hullavington added greatly to the stress and trauma of the course. It was a harsh trial for both of us, but kept us together, very closely.

Fl Lt Yeates and his tutor, Major Driver, a South African, were detailed for aerobatics: at night, in cloud. They spun into the ground, both killed. It was said that the controls had frozen at full deflection, and the canopy had frozen.

Another pilot crashed a Spitfire on a low-level sortie in appalling visibility. He survived, badly bent. Seven Harvards were written off. Morale went through the floor. The students rebelled. Several refused to fly. It was stated that all the students would be interviewed individually by the Air Commodore. I was determined to make it evident that I valued my wife and my life far more highly than any kudos I could get from the course. And I was very emphatic about it. It was not enough. I was kept on. Ten others were not. The course was reduced to eighteen students, one of whom failed the course.

One morning I relaxed in the crew-room there being no aircraft available. Pierre Retief walked in. "Colin, have you flown the Meteor?" I replied: "Sir, I haven't even sat in one, never mind fly it." "Well, you had better study that. There will be one ready in an hour. You can have it." And he tossed the Pilots' Notes into my lap and left. I was still reading them when the engineer said the aircraft was ready, and while I walked out with him, and tucked them under the chest harness when I strapped in.

I asked the sergeant engineer: "Do you know how to start this thing?" "Sure do, Sir," he replied and he leaned in, messed with the cocks and switches, and the engines whined into life. I taxied to the end of the runway, Notes in hand, swotting up the take-off check. All too soon I was cleared for take-off and I taxied on to the runway. The weather was bad. Base about fifty feet and vis half runway length. I eased forward to straighten the nose wheel, then pulled brakes hard on. I tucked the Notes in my straps, opened to full power, waited till the revs settled, glanced heavenwards imploringly, then I let go the brakes. Something kicked me in the backside and I could only hang on. Before I could really appreciate what was happening, I broke cloud at six thousand, still hell bent for the upper blue yonder. In those initial jet days the instructions were not to control speed with power but with airbrakes. I pushed the nose down into level flight, reduced power sufficiently to synchronise revs, and trimmed. The airspeed indicator wound up alarmingly.

I selected airbrakes. There was a helluva juddering and the ASI unwound like mad. Selected in, and off we went again. So it went on. The Meteor played around with me for 20 minutes or so. I positioned on the SBA, travelling to and fro over the transmitter, keeping a lookout for other users. When it was free I decided to persuade the Meteor to get me down. First checking the Notes for the landing sequence, I made my call, selected airbrakes, and pushed down into cloud.

Everything went smoothly. I did the landing check during the procedure turn from the outer marker, selecting third flap, then airbrakes in and undercarriage down as I approached the outer again at 800 feet, calling finals. No sign of the surface until I first heard the inner marker at 100 ft still descending. I saw the runway (or some of it) at 50 feet over the inner. The instructions were that no attempt was to be made to overshoot below 100 feet. I sailed along the runway, below and between the snow banks piled on either side. She just would not touch down. Then I suddenly remembered full flap. In a flash it was down. We touched. I have never seen the end of a runway approach so fast before. We were rolling fast when I squeezed her onto the perimeter track with brakes still hard on.

Pierre Retief met me as I was getting out of the Meteor. He asked how I had enjoyed myself. I lied readily enough. Then he told me to have the brakes changed before I went to lunch. They had to change both main wheels: brakes, tyres, hubs, the lot. In later years, I became quite fond of the Meteor.

The end of the course came near. It was time for final, qualifying air tests to begin.  I was the last one of the first day's batch of seven. Pierre Retief was doing them all. It was after 4pm and, with very low cloud and snow, it was already dark. I had been instructed to wait near the peritract at 15.30hrs. Retief had already done six tests, each lasting over an hour. He was running late, and the course still had more than two weeks to run. I had convinced myself that my test would be delayed until next day. Then an Oxford taxied out of the murk and a student got out, came over and said: "He wants you right away." I stumbled through the snow, chute over shoulder. As I passed the wing I saw that there appeared to be two leading edges: there was clear ice mixed with the rhyme. I bashed at the ice with my gloved fist and a chunk came off. With this in my hand I climbed aboard, went to the front, shoved the ice under Retief's nose and asked: "Do you think it will fly with all this onboard, Sir?" He answered: "It flew well enough for the last chap. I don't see why it shouldn't for you. Get strapped in. Put the two-stage goggles on and then you won't see anything to worry about." And that's exactly what happened.

He taxied to the runway, cleared with Control to take-off, taxied on and lined up. "You have control." Though significantly extended, the take-off was normal. Almost as soon as we were airborne, I could hear ice from the props hitting the fuselage sides. There was some turbulence, but nothing excessive. We went smoothly through the whole gamut: pattern A, pattern B, steep turns, stalls, stalls in steep turns, awkward positions, single engine flying with one throttled back, critical speeds: many of the procedures were on primary instruments, including the SBA approach and overshoot on one, finally a SBA approach and landing with the goggles removed. He taxied in while I relaxed, anxious for the verdict. He waited until we were walking to report in: "You can collect your Master Green tomorrow morning, and your Instrument Rating Examiner's endorsement." I had passed first go, with no adverse comment, with flying colours. I slept well that night, the several pints playing an effective part.

I did six more days flying, including the Spitfire and the Lancaster. I liked the Spit. Heck of a lot of torque on take-off, but the rest of the handling was most pleasant. The penultimate weekend, with a vast improvement in the weather, saw a bunch of us, tutors and students, on the station platform waiting at the first class end for the train to London. We had been indulgent with the sherry at lunch time, as flying had finished at midday. There was a shortish South African lieutenant with us. No one else on the platform but for a solitary coloured man at the far third class end. We had physically to restrain the lieutenant from going to the black man to get him off the platform. "Blacks don't travel with Whites," he shouted. That one did. It was the first time I had seen apartheid in practice, and it took a long time to get it out of my mind.

The final weekend was the occasion for the celebratory dinner. The Lancaster had travelled to the Continent and North Africa to garner all the culinary goodies that the harshly rationed could only dream of. It was a marvellous meal, heavily laced with liquor: fore, during, and aft. The course had been highly successful, with insignificant loss of life, and Air Ministry was overjoyed. The whole of the Air Staff was at the dinner. Air Chief Marshal Lord Tedder, Chief of the Air Staff, was in jubilant mood. Invariably on these occasions, after the meal has been well washed down, the officers play games, some of which are extremely rough. On that occasion there is only one that I can recall. Lord Tedder had been in urgent discussion with Pierre Retief. Tedder banged on a table with his glass and called us to attention: "Gentlemen, we are going to play the Potato Race, a recent South African import. There is an unbreakable stipulation when playing the game. You are to touch the potato with only one body part. Pierre will demonstrate how it's done."

Pierre had prepared everything beforehand. Twelve buckets and twelve potatoes were brought in. The buckets were placed in line across one end of the anteroom. And the potatoes in line across the other. Pierre sat down in front of one potato, facing the corresponding bucket. He placed his hands on the floor by his upper thighs and lifted himself onto the potato. A brief squirm and then he turned over with his legs straight and tight together displaying the potato clutched firmly between his buttocks. With his hands on the floor and his legs still straight, he pushed himself up until he could stand erect. Still with his legs together, he shuffled along the room to reach the bucket, turned round, bent his legs and dropped the potato into the bucket. There was a very enthusiastic round of applause. Lord Tedder: "Gentlemen, you have all seen what has to be done. Now we are to have two teams of six officers. Air Marshals and above will play the rest."

It was hilarious. There was a brief altercation between one very portly Air Vice Marshal, I believe he was the Director of Personnel, and Lord Tedder. Despite his protests, he was ordered to participate. Our team was extremely well practised. I could perform as well as Pierre, and so could the others. We all had our potatoes successfully deposited before a single Air Marshal had got a grip. Tedder eventually managed it, the first of his team, delighted and delirious with laughter. The Director of Personnel was having a distressing time, lifting himself up and down, trying to locate the potato, cautioned by Tedder every time he moved his hand to his rear. All others present were engulfed in mirth. I had to sit, my sides ached.  I was drunk.  It was a fitting end to the course.