Nice little tale from a recent RAF Flight Safety Magazine:

“YOU HAVE CONTROL”

The leaves of the calendar are falling quietly into the corner of my office and, if the paper was a bit thinner, I could see my 38/16 (retirement point) staring me in the face. The dangers of being recognised by a master wheel at the head Shed and crucified in public for the tale I tell thus cause me to pause but not to desist.
Some years ago I was on a very happy flying unit. We had collected the first of our new 2-seat high speed aircraft and were working up. ‘Working Up’, as everyone in
the RAF knows usually involves giving everyone who has either rank to pull or something interesting to trade for a ride in the new bird. On the day in question I had
bunted the brains out of some unfortunate senior officer and was lolling in the coffee bar planning to trade a ride in our new bird for some dual in a Beverley when another stranger walked in. He was dressed in flying kit, sporting wings and Wing Commander braid. A happy, friendly-looking chap. He said, “who wants a trip to
Leuchars in the Hunter T7”? This was a surprise, almost a shock, as I had been expecting the usual “How about a trip in your new birds then”? Never one to examine equine molars, I struggled to my feet and volunteered “Me Sir”. “Right then” he said “we’re off”.

I didn’t have any pilot’s notes for the Hunter T7 and didn’t know much about it. Let’s face it, I had once flown as a passenger, while some young steely tried out his low level aerobatic sequence. That was my total experience on the Hunter. This was no problem as the Wing Commander, having his private T7, was obviously an ace.

We wandered out to the flight line where an exotically painted Hunter T7 stood and were chatting through our introductions as we walked clockwise round the aircraft on out pre-flight. He didn’t seem to be doing a very detailed inspection but did remove the pitot cover and hand it to me. When it came to climb up the ladders I asked if he minded if I flew in the left seat. He said “Of course not old chap, you choose your seat”. What a nice fellow, I thought. We strapped in with the aid of some of our own groundcrew. I had noticed we hadn’t signed a Form700 or the authorisation book, but assumed it was a round trip on a traveller. I found a set of Pilot’s Notes in the cockpit and fumbled through the preflight checks and finally started the engine, being in the left-hand seat. I asked if I might taxi the aircraft and was given another “Of course old chap”. From habit I used my personal callsign and wandered towards take-off with my confidence curve sweeping past my knowledge level. We were cleared for line-up, and did so. The Wing Commander said, “OK if I follow you through on the controls for take-off”? I readily agreed. After all, it was his aircraft.

The Hunter flew much like any other aircraft. A bit wobbly on the ailerons perhaps, but I got the wheels up, inched the flaps up and we were heading northish, going
well. The tower seemed a bit surprised when I told them I was leaving frequency for Leuchars Approach, but I changed channels rapidly before they could gather there wits (in the best fighter pilot tradition). Not wanting to push my luck, I said, on the intercom, “You have control Sir”. He looked pleased behind the oxygen mask as he said “I have control”. It was a grand afternoon-ideal for an East Coast bumble. I didn’t have a map and the Wing Commmander didn’t produce one either. Still, as I could be heard to say about midnight any night in the bar, I don’t really need a map because if I can see the ground in Europe I know where I am – and if I can’t see the ground what’s the use of a map? St Abbs Head drifted astern and Bass Rock came up nicely, slightly to port. Right in the groove, still heading northish going well!!

As we got settled in the descent towards Leuchars, the Wing Commander asked if he might do the circuit. I agreed readily. I said, “Won’t you do the landing Sir”? He
gave me a look which I took to be a ‘So-you-don’t-think-you-can-hack-it’ look which I took and broke into the down-wind leg. We got a few notches of flap down, the
speed was not too high as the wheels flopped out of the wells and things looked alright – if not exactly according to the Central Flying School (CFS). Bodging around finals with throttle, rpm and ASI needle all moving well, the Wing Commander’s breathing rate showed a healthy increase as his hands flashed around the cockpit too fast for the eye to follow. At the last second something I had been told way back at CFS popped into my mind – but too late. We arrived on the ground with a monumental smash which probably caused the teacups in Air Traffic to slop over. Nothing obvious fell off the Hunter and we stopped quire soon. As we had been stalled since halfway down finals, I don’t suppose we could expect too much of a ground roll!

As we turned off at the end I had almost finished unstrapping and was easing my body in Martin-Bakers (ejection seat) rack. I offered to take control and taxi in to dispersal. The Wing Commander looked relieved. Just before we got to the Station Flight I raised the flaps and glanced across at Sir. He looked back and said “Not too bad for my first attempt at landing the Hunter, was it”? Naturally, I laughed at this merry quip, but he made no further comment. We got stopped in dispersal, ignoring the ill-mannered group of airmen who crouched on their hands and knees pointing at our wheels and grinning at each other.

After a few minutes of confusion I got the lid of the cockpit open and stopped the engine. We both climbed out and walked towards the Station Flight. The Wing Commander said “Thanks very much, I enjoyed that trip. It was good of you to let me pole it so much of the time”. I thought he was going a little too far with the polite bit, but said “I enjoyed it too, Sir. What time are you heading back South”? “I’m not” he replied. “I live here. Thanks very much for my lift. I’ve never been in a Hunter before”. I stood open-mouthed as he walked off towards his distant office. My moment of truth was upon me! Thought whirled around in my befuddled head and came to the surface.

He hadn’t flown a Hunter before.
I thought he was the captain.
Who authorised the trip?

I hadn’t flown a Hunter before.
He thought I was the captain.
Who owned the Hunter?

How could I get the Hunter back to my home base?
Had anyone missed it?
Maybe I could catch the train and deny everything.

I had a cup of coffee while trying to decide which was the least of all evils looming up ahead. In walked a corporal. “She’s refuelled, all ready to go Sir. Have you got the travellers?” “Well no corporal, I forgot it”, said I. The first lie was the hardest, and I was off down the slippery slope. My mind was made up in a flash. I had just flown it here without any problem. It was, after all, just another aeroplane. I’d fly it back and hope nobody had missed it. I rang the tower, said “I’m off - about 30mins on route – VMC below and all the usual stuff”. “OK said the bird on the switchboard. Flight Planning used to be a piece of doddle in the old days”!

I walked out to the lovely Hunter with what I hoped was a confident stride. I wandered around the aircraft in the usual clockwise manner, patting it here and there, looking into various holes and kicking at the wheels; generally giving the impression that I knew exactly what I was doing. Having arrived back at the front again, I mounted the ladder and was faced with a closed and apparently locked canopy. I looked around with mounting panic. I looked at the sky, pretending I had climbed the ladder to check the cloud-base, and then backed down to the tarmac. “Just open the hood please, corporal. I’ll be back in a sec” said I, heading off to fulfil a sudden and very real need for relief. Having regained my composure behind the hangar, I walked out to the Hunter again.

The hood was still shut tight. “Don’t know how to open these, sir” said the willing fellow. “We haven’t got Hunters here, now”. “Who closed it”? said I, showing potential as a future staff officer. “Not me, sir” said he, batting the ball back and showing potential as a Flight Sergeant at least. “Must have been the other crew and they’ve gone for early tea. ‘Have a look in the pilots notes’ thought I. Then I spotted the little blue book. It lay on the coaming, inside the firmly locked cockpit. To protect someone who is not planning to leave this happy band of warriors soon, I will not reveal how I got the hood open. Sufficient to say it involved a carefully worded telephone conversation to a buddy at another airfield. During idle conversation I managed to bring up the topic of opening a Hunter T7 from the outside.

Having gathered all the gen I needed, I walked out to “my” Hunter again, opened the hood and climbed in. With Pilot’s Notes open at the correct page, I got the engine started and set-off southwards. On the way down the coast I decided to learn all I could from Pilot’s Notes intending to dazzle all with a flood of facts and figures on the Hunter thereby giving the impression that I had been flying Hunters since the year dot. By the middle of the slim book I was passing Acklington at about 3000ft and had a quick look out to make sure England was still that right way up. A Douglas B66 shot across in front at a few yards range, same height, heading east. I didn’t read any more, but left the Pilot’s Notes beside the right rudder pedal.

I got overhead base. The tone of the R/T was formal and very correct – always a sure sign that a wheel stood right behind the controller. A new voice came up. The boss.

“You are diverted to L************* where they want their aircraft. Can you get there before dark”?
“Yes,sir”.

Now L*********** is down that way a bit and it is getting dark. Oh! Well I’m so deeply in it now it can’t get worse, I thought. For the first time that day I was right. I landed at L************* just after dark, without too much drama and delivered the Hunter to the Squadron Commander. He was a bit surprised when he saw me. Luckily he and I had done our first tour together on a fighter squadron. He was kind. He even arranged transport back to my own base.

My own boss had several words to say when I got back. My trip had qualified me as a first pilot, day and night, on the Hunter T7 and also for several weeks as Station Duty Officer.

The moral? The old one – I suppose – NEVER volunteer, until you know EXACTLY what you’re getting into.

Very good Reminds me of the "I learned about flying from that" articles that used to be in Pilot magazine, or was it Flyer?

An excellent little story.
Reminded me of the first time I soloed a Pa-38 Tomahawk. At the time I was current on Cessna152 and Pa28 and though I had a while back taken a checkride in a Tomahawk, I had never soloed on type. This particularly day I got allocated a Tomahawk as a substitute for the booked aircraft (by a guy who left the flying club soon afterwards). As soon as I got airborne I felt decidedly uneasy with it and requested a circuit to land. However the airport had started doing bird scaring and it was a rather anxious 20 minutes before I was able to get back on the ground.