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It was at this point
that I saw a bird shape almost directly ahead.
Remembering my training, I twitched back on the control column but, to
my horror, the bird reared up in harmony and was neatly hoovered up by the port
engine intake. My recollection differs
from the account given by Flt Lt Philips to the Inquiry – “IP (Instructor
Pilot) noticed a large bird ahead. IP
took control and pulled up trying to avoid the bird but the a/c was struck and
a large thud was heard on the port side.”
I maintain that Flt Lt Philips took control after the impact.
What was clear was that
it was not a soppy sea bird that we had hit!
After the initial vibration died down and, with Flt Lt Philips now in
control, there followed a surreal period where, for me, time seemed to stand still
and everything seemed much larger than life. “Should I eject?” I
suggested. “No, hang on a bit,” was the
reply and then, shortly after, “OK, off you go!”
During the time between the impact and Flt Lt Philips
decision to abandon the aircraft, he had converted excess speed to height,
attempted to re-light the engine and put out a “Mayday” distress call. The Casualty Report narrative notes that,
following my departure, Flt Lt Philips attempted another re-light and made a
final Mayday call before ejecting himself. (In retrospect, having spent pretty
much a career as an instructor, that would have been a copy-book statement to a
Board of Inquiry.)
I pulled the top handle, pulling the face blind down over my face (there are 2 handles - in those days it was recommended to go for the top one first), and waited the “eternity” while the
various clockwork devices ticked over and canopy jettison mechanism
operated. I wasn’t aware of the canopy
going but do remember the tremendous bang as my seat started to rise up the
rail. I’m pretty sure I lost
consciousness momentarily.
The ejection seat was a Martin Baker Mk 4P. This was a development of the Mk 3 seat but
both Marks used the same ejection gun – 80 feet per second acceleration propelled
by a primary cartridge and 2 or four secondary cartridges with a 72-inch
stroke. This is how it works (worked):
- Face screen seat firing handle pulled.
- Canopy jettison initiated.
- Ejection gun fires:
o
Seat moves up guide rails
o
Secondary cartridges fire
o
Emergency oxygen tripped
o
Aircrew services disconnect (in this case, only oxygen hoses)
o
Leg restraints operate (this pulls the lower legs hard against the seat to prevent flailing)
- As the seat rises, a static line initiates a time-delay which fires drogue gun after 0.5 sec. The drogue deploys and stabilises and slows the seat.
- Above 10,000 ft a “barostatic” device prevents operation of time-release mechanism. A high-speed g-restrictor also prevents operation of time-release mechanism until it is safe for the parachute to open.
- Below 10,000 ft and at a safe speed time-release unit releases the scissor shackle to transfer the pull of drogue to the lifting lines of parachute, releasing it from the seat. The face blind, harness and leg lines are also released from the seat. The drogues deploy the main parachute and the aircrew separates from seat.
- If the automatics fail, a “manual” separation is possible. Operation of the manual separation handle fires a cartridge that operates a guillotine that frees the parachute from the seat, together with the negative-g strap, PEC and leg restraint cords. The rip cord is used to open the parachute.
As Officer Cadets, at Initial Training School, we had
received some training to help prepare us for emergency evacuation using an
ejection seat. There was a mobile rig
with an extending rail, probably 30 feet in length, rather like a fire engine
ladder. A representative seat, complete
with harness, could be fired up the rail using a small explosive charge and
braked at the end of the travel. The
idea was to prepare us intrepid students for the sensation of ejecting in a
controlled environment. I remember being
very apprehensive as I was strapped in and awaiting the order to “Eject
Eject.” On pulling the face blind
handle, there was a moderate kick up the backside as the seat shot up the rail
but, in retrospect, nothing like the real thing. What it did do, however, was instill a
confidence in the mechanism which would make its operation almost second nature
in the real event, at least for me.
The next thing I remember is tumbling forward; face down
towards the earth and a tremendous yank across my shoulders as the parachute
opened. I now know that about 2 to 2.5
seconds would have elapsed from firing the seat to finding myself suspended in the
parachute, all the systems operating in sequence. This seems incredible but is put into context
by the most modern seats which achieve all that in just less than a second! I
do not remember feeling any sort of emotion of relief and just got on with the
various jobs I had to do on the descent.
I concentrated on the oxygen mask first, attempting to release the clip
of the “H Type” rubber mask which was attached to the inner helmet inside the
“bone dome” on the right side with an adjustable strap and fastened on the left
with a tricky-to-operate clasp. I had
difficulty detaching it but, having been successful, I reasoned that since this
was not going to be a landing into water, and hence no danger of drowning, I
thought that it might be better to use what additional protection to my face it
might afford. I re-attached it! Remembering this experience, years later, as
an instructor on the Chipmunk, where we used the same helmet and mask
combination (but without the oxygen, of course), I used to use an assessment of
the dexterity with which my students were able to fasten and unfasten their
oxygen mask on the early sorties as predictor of ultimate success on the
training course.
I then turned my attention to my Personal Survival Pack (PSP). The PSP contained an inflatable single-man dinghy and various other survival and location aids including fresh water and flares. The PSP had been my seat cushion in the ejection seat but was now attached, at 3 points, to my Mae West survival jacket. The idea was to release the 2 rear fasteners which would allow the pack to fall away suspended from the front attachment by about 15 feet of cord. For landing on water, the splash of the pack would alert the impending arrival of the water. The idea was that at that point the parachute could be released by turning and pressing the quick release box, thus ensuring that the inflated parachute did not drag you through the water after landing. If you found yourself in this situation, the drill was to turn on to your back and then, with two hands, turn and press the quick release. Once free of the parachute, you could haul the dinghy pack towards you, inflate, and climb aboard - just like that. Over land, the suspended mass would be reduced once the pack had hit the ground and posture would be more appropriate for landing. I completely failed to locate either rear fastener and seemed destined to be stuck with the pack attached for landing.
Whilst looking down, it was the apparent rush of the ground
towards me that concentrated my mind on the landing.
As with the ejection seat, we had received quite a lot of
instruction in parachute landing techniques.
I remember bending to the parachute landing position, knees bent and
hands above the head holding on to imaginary lift webs and following the
instructions of the Instructor - “Forward Left,” “Forward Right,” “Side Left,”
“Side Right,” “Backward Left,” and “Backward Right,” all resulting in a sort of
crumpling manoeuvre where the legs, thighs and torso together made progressive
and graceful contact with the matted floor.
The orientation of the landing manoeuvre was determined by the direction
in which the parachute was drifting under the influence of the wind. I remember being hopeless at it – one had to
adopt a sort of rag doll posture to do it properly, a technique I never
mastered. We didn’t actually jump out of
anything, like a balloon or training aircraft.
Indeed, I recall the longest “training” descent as being from the height
of a gymnasium bench!
I think I realised that I was drifting backwards and to the
right. The surface wind was about 15
knots from the South East. Recalling my
instruction, I attempted to arrest the drift by pulling down on the opposite
lift web. Two alarming things happened.
Firstly, there was a noise of rushing air as it spilt out of the canopy and
secondly, and more worryingly, the rate of descent increased appreciably. This, combined with the “rush” of the ground
towards me, convinced me to abandon the steering technique and I gingerly
relaxed the pressure on the lift web. I
had just completed that aspect of on the job training and put myself into the
landing position (as best I could considering my PSP was still attached) when I
hit the ground – hard.
I do not recall any feeling of relief that I was alive and
put my mind to the next danger – being dragged across the ground by a still
inflated parachute. I need not have
worried because I was not being dragged.
What had happened was that I had completed my backward right into a
barbed wire fence in front of a hawthorn hedge.
Nicely caught in the wire and thorns, I was able to release my parachute
harness and remove the potential dragging hazard. At some stage, also, I must have finally
located the 2 quick release fasteners and detached the PSP. I must have stood up unaided but was aware
that all was not well with my right ankle.
Believe it or not, at this point, a girl on a white horse
arrived at the scene! Hermione Shields
was the daughter of the owners of the land, Crailing Bhan. Her mother, meantime, thinking that they may
still be survivors in the burning wreckage nearby, had pulled a large wheeled fire
extinguisher from the stables and had set off, across the field, towards the
crash site.
To be continued.
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