When I was flying military air transport aircraft our passengers were usually reluctant and disgruntled. I found that the Army held the Royal Air Force in low regard and viewed the VC10 transport aircraft, in which they were obliged to fly from time to time, as uncomfortable and inconvenient. They would have far rather travelled Club Class on BOAC and spent the money saved by scrapping the RAF VC10 on more tanks. Army, particularly, and RN hostility to the RAF was institutional, rather like the Labour Party supporters who view everything Conservative as fundamentally evil. Passenger prejudice was a fact of life and there was little one could do by way of free drinks or business class upgrades for example, being military, to compensate for air-travels little irritations. It was often said, particularly at their graduation ceremony, that an Air Steward (cabin crew) was the Captain’s first line of defence from military passengers who tended to complain at every opportunity. I could depart on time, miss the bumpy weather on route, fly an immaculate approach in marginal weather to arrive spot on time and having saved a few tons of fuel form the fuel plan on the way, and for all my excellence, if the Air Steward spilt coffee on the Senior Army Officer’s lap then the full passenger gripes procedure would click into gear. Newly qualified Air Stewards would be promoted to Acting Corporal, a source of resentment with their fellow tradesmen in the Catering Branch. Although their presence was vital for passenger safety it was for their more visible role of cabin service that they were usually judged.
I remember a scheduled departure from Brize Norton to Washington Dulles one morning when I was making ready to start the engines and the duty Movements Officer flounced onto the flight-deck greeting me with, “would you like the good news or the bad news Captain.” Without giving me time to reply she, for it was a she, said that they have overloaded the aircraft by 10,000 lbs of freight but, the good news was, she had ordered a fuel truck to take out 10, 000 lbs of fuel. All this meant a delayed departure which would mean a late arrival in Washington. Worse, with the reduced fuel load and the headwinds of the day we could no longer make destination direct and would have to make a refuelling stop on route. Whilst we were waiting for the fuel to be sucked out of the tanks we hatched a plan to route via Gander in Newfoundland going as fast as we could beneath the regulated traffic on the North American Track System and aiming for a rapid refuel at Gander followed by another dash for Dulles. If all went well, we should probably only be an hour late. The timing mattered because my VIP passenger, a General, was being met by the Embassy and they would need to know the new reception arrangements.
Eventually, ten thousand pounds lighter we roared off from Brize Norton pointing towards Canada and nagging ATC for every corner-cutting opportunity available. We established a cruise at about .9 Mach which at 26 000 feet gave us a cruise speed of about 620 mph. After the usual departure activity, when things on the flight deck quietened down, I left my seat and went aft to talk to the General. I explained we had had a snag on departure and would be a little late in Washington because of an unscheduled refuel in Gander. However, the Embassy had been told and all arrangements had been amended. He seemed perfectly happy and with white-coated stewards hovering, tucked into his lunch with a glass of wine.
Back on the flight deck we assessed our progress. Something remarkable was happening with the fuel consumption. Although the VC10 had a tremendous thirst, particularly at the speed and altitude we were flying, we seemed to be “making” fuel as we progressed across the Atlantic. Maybe, just maybe, if we could negotiate a climb through all the commercial traffic in the mid-thirties and find a level above 40 thousand feet we could, after all, with some cunning (but legal) fuel diversion tactics, make Washington direct, skipping the refuelling stop in Gander. Even better, we could arrive on original schedule of 1400 hours local time. It is worth pointing out that there was an additional incentive to arriving before 1400 since crew allowances would be calculated to include an extra $35 for lunch. Arriving after 1400, even by a minute, was after lunch so no $35. Amazingly, Gander Air Traffic cleared us to climb to 43 000 feet, which was high as the aircraft was cleared to fly, and then, as we passed 50 degrees West, to route direct to Washington. On the flight deck we slapped our thighs in delight at our cleverness but I now needed to go aft again to explain to the General that, after all, we would be going straight to Dulles and would be arriving on time. After some negotiation on the HF radio all the reception arrangements were reinstated, I put on my hat and went aft to speak to the General. Interrupting the brandy and cigars I explained the new plan, the sheer brilliance of which, to my dismay, clearly escaped both the General and his Assistants.
Now settled in the cruise at nose-bleed altitude and with oxygen masks dangling, just in case, we triple checked the fuel plan and found that we were still “making fuel.” The rest of the trip would be a doddle since the weather en-route and destination was clear and fine. As we made progress over North America and did not deplete our fuel reserve, we were able to move the last point of diversion closer and closer to the destination until, eventually, they were coincident. All was well until we approached the New York area and ATC instructed us to descent to 26 000 feet. This was very bad news since the increased fuel consumption at the lower level would mean that we could no longer get to Dulles and would have to land somewhere on route, Philadelphia or maybe Baltimore if we were lucky. Baltimore wasn’t too far by road from DC? Then we realised we had still to play our joker. As lessons learned from a recent serious incident when an aircraft had run out of fuel in the air, international standards now recognised a fuel call of “Fuel Priority.” This didn’t mean that the aircraft was in an emergency of likely to run out of fuel in flight – just that by continuing doing what we were doing would mean diverting to an alternative, closer, destination. OK, let’s do it, we agreed. “ASCOT – Fuel Priority,” announced the non-handling pilot. The effect was instantaneous and dramatic. “Roger ASCOT. Maintain Flight Level 430. Route direct to Dulles. Say you fuel remaining in minutes. Advise ready to descend.” Now we were in business, but we now needed to be careful we did not arrive early!
There followed a serene descent to a straight in for one of the southerly runways. I placed the aircraft very gently on the ground and refrained from using the reverse thrust which might have disturbed the passengers. As the wheels caressed the tarmac, just before 1400 hours, I felt sure that even that faintest of touches had alerted the cabin crew to look at their watches and I swore I heard the tinkling of cash registers as $35 for “lunch” was banked. We then coasted off the runway and found our way to parking where the “people carriers” awaited to transport the passengers to the terminal. Nobody from the VIP party bothered to say goodbye but then we would not expect them to – we were just Drivers (Airframe) to the Army.
As long as the cabin service had been on top form, no coffee spillages, there could be no complaints and we could all congratulate ourselves on a job well done. And so it must have felt like with the Prime Minister as he recovered from a near-fatal dose of Covid-19. Having kept the NHS from going under, built a few new hospitals in record time, supported the cash flow of industries, provided a safety net for furloughed and redundant workers, and seen the much maligned Universal Credit system cope with unprecedented demand, it must have seemed a little unfair that all that hard work was undermined by one of the crew down the back going absent for an eye test in Barnard Castle.
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