First Flight of the Day

The date was August 1963 and I was a 16 year old Air Training Corps cadet, on an initial gliding course with 641 GS at RAF Ouston in Northumberland, just a stone’s throw from the famous Hadrian’s Wall. We flew at weekends, weather permitting, and it took a minimum of 25 winch-launched flights to obtain an ‘A’ and ‘B’ Gliding Certificate. The last three flights were solos, but on this day I was at flight number 16, sat in the front of a Slingsby Cadet TX.3, XE806, with the Instructor Pilot Officer Waggot sat behind.

We were the first flight up that Saturday morning, and there had been no flying in previous days, due to bad weather. On a previous weekend I had been briefed on the ‘cable break’ procedure, namely to recognise the break, stick the nose down to maintain airspeed, clear the tow toggle and any loose cable, and land straight ahead. Simple.

Perhaps the Instructor was in a bad mood that morning, but for whatever reason, and without any warning, he released the cable at less than 250 feet. The change from lift-like acceleration under tow, to an upward slowing lurch, was instant. So was, I’m pleased to say, my reflex to get the nose down. Realising that the cable must have gone (I thought that it had genuinely broken, given our low altitude), I cleared the toggle, and surveyed the rapidly approaching scene ahead. My view was, of course, much better than that of the Instructor, sat behind.

Stick hard right, 30 degrees of bank, jink rapidly into an ‘S-curve’ to kill forward progress, stick hard left, back into wind, straighten up, flare, wheel thumps the grass and hold the wings level till we come to a stop. I didn’t get out, but the Instructor did, so he could glare furiously at me. He actually seemed rather lost for words, but eventually managed a “what the **** was that all about!?”

Like many British airfields, RAF Ouston was far from flat, and undulated considerably. My own view at this unfortunate moment in my stillborn flying career, consisted of a large and irate Instructor, and just behind him an equally large, lengthy, and freshly dug trench across the airfield. I eventually managed to draw his attention to this imitation Roman Vallum, to which his response was a rather subdued “Oh”. Taking the initiative, I suggested that ‘landing straight ahead’ had not been an option, given our lack of height to clear the trench. Which is why I had broken the golden rule that maneuvering at low level will lose you airspeed and height, and spell disaster.

Please don’t break that rule, unless you really have no option.

Philip Pain

Noddy

The gliders were launched into the air by a winch cable, strung out on the ground several hundred yards up-wind. The winches were mounted on two large yellow painted vehicles, and the winch operators had a lonely and very noisy time. Each was protected by a strong wire cage, lest the cable should break and whip backwards.

The height that each glider achieved on launch was determined by the length of the cable, roughly about a thousand feet. The higher you got on the launch, the longer you could stay in the air. Many flights were of only 3 to 5 minutes in duration, but more experienced cadets and instructors could achieve 7 to 11 minutes.

With growing experience we would all delay pulling the cable release toggle for as long as possible. But this had consequences. Firstly the smooth rapid climb would start to level out, and you became acutely aware that the cable was no longer strung out in front of you, but rather had vanished somewhere below your feet. You were about to be dragged back downwards.

Then secondly a rather alarming switchback ride commenced, increasing rapidly in severity. The glider's nose would dip down, it would gain speed and extra lift, and attempt to pull itself back up again. The cable would drag it back down, and if this rapidly worsening cycle continued, something was going to break!

No doubt the winch operator down below was also casting loud verbal doubts on your parentage, and not enjoying the glider's attempts to tip his vehicle backwards. Usually your instructor would rapidly pull the release toggle, or remind you in no uncertain terms to do it. The situation was potentially very dangerous, because the glider was losing speed, and a stall with the cable still attached could be lethal.

Cadets on their first solo flight did not have the protection of an instructor, and could forget their procedures or react too slowly as the situation rapidly developed. From the ground we would watch the nodding glider with some amusement, but 'Noddy' would later get stern words from his instructor.

For most of us we learned to wait for the first 'nod', as a sign that we had got all the height we were going to get, and then pulled the toggle.

It was always the best part of each flight, with the Tyne Valley and Hadrian's Wall visible for many miles in front, the reservoirs down below, and all of Northumberland off to the right. I used to sing the latest 'number one' out loud, and in 1963 the swinging sixties had it all. Very many years later, I was driving over a long road bridge with the car window down. The evening sun was shining, the wind was blowing in, there was a familiar song on the car radio, and suddenly I was back in the sky over Ouston!

Philip Pain

The Dreaded Spin

It was a requirement of the gliding course syllabus, that one spin was practised and recovered from. A spin occurs when an aircraft loses forward airspeed, and lift is lost from the wings, resulting in one wing dropping suddenly with the aircraft spiralling downwards. Spins can be fatal when they occur too close to the ground, with insufficient height available to recover.

Practise spins were not without risk, and eventually they were removed from the syllabus. This was because there was a greater risk of accidents, than actually occurred from inadvertent spins during normal flying.

So on 3rd August 1963, my 11th flight, this time in Slingsby Cadet TX.3, WT873 of 641 GS at Ouston, I winch launched with a different instructor in the rear seat, Pilot Officer John Young. He instructed me to make a left hand circuit towards the main station buildings, and this was to keep us away from the other gliders performing right hand circuits over empty grass. Instructor Young took the controls to raise the nose to slow us down, and I could sense that he was nervous, but not as much as me! The glider wallowed around, nose high, and then suddenly we dropped and the camp buildings below us started to rotate alarmingly.

At this point multiple sensations kicked in; vertigo, nausea, and unwelcome bowel activity. The Cadet TX.3 has an open cockpit with the pupil sat right in front. You feel secure in normal flight, but not when you are hanging in your straps with nothing between you and the ground.

I remembered the lesson; rudder hard opposite to the direction of spin; wait until the rotation stops; watch the speed increase, and gently pull back on the stick to raise the nose. It all happened in a few seconds, and we were back to normal flight, still going in the right direction.

Instructor Young shouted "well done", but I kept thinking "I could feel that you never took your hands off the controls!"

Another tick in the box towards a gliding certificate.

Philip Pain

Pushing up the Daisies

After my near disaster with the freshly dug trench across the airfield at RAF Ouston, we move forward another weekend to 11th August 1963. My glider was again the Slingsby Cadet TX.3, XE806, and my instructor was Pilot Officer Sanderson.

One tricky part of learning to land the glider, was being able to accurately judge when to 'flare' for landing. This being the point of completing the steady diving approach, then raising the nose to lose airspeed and land gently on the single wheel under the fuselage. There were few visual clues when landing on grass, and I was having some difficulty getting it right.

On the next flight, the instructor said that he found the best means of judging when to flare, was when he could see individual daisies on the grass surface. And there were plenty of them, so I tried it, and it worked a treat.

We move forward another week, to my first flight of that new weekend. In best RAF fashion, the instructor didn't get in the glider with me, but suddenly announced that I was ready for my first solo flight. So off I went on the winch launch, talking myself through the procedures, and telling my self that I could do it. There was a slight feeling of panic, but I soon felt confident.

Each flight was very short, usually lasting no more than 5 minutes to complete the circuit and land. Everything went like clockwork, and I lined up for a text-book landing. Close to the ground I looked carefully for the individual daisies to appear, ready to flare. The glider hit the ground hard and bounced back into the air, and after a few kangaroo hops I came to a halt. I climbed out to survey the glider, but fortunately there was no damage.

Instructor Sanderson arrived at the trot, and demanded to know why I had so badly misjudged it. I stood there sheepishly looking at my feet, and replied "Somebody has cut the grass Sir!"

So off we both went again for another dual flight in XE806, and all went well on my second attempt. Two further solo flights followed, and by the end of the day I had qualified for the 'B' Gliding Certificate.

I had somehow managed to make a favourable impression, because subsequently the RAF offered me a week long residential gliding course in Yorkshire, to qualify for the higher 'Silver C' Certificate. To go on this course I had to obtain my Headmaster's permission for a week off school. So the next day after school assembly at Rutherford Grammar, I joined the queue to speak to Headmaster Roger Bennett. He refused point blank, saying that my studies had to come first. Thus ended my flying career.

Philip Pain

Last Flight

My last ever flight at RAF Ouston occurred later in the Autumn of 1963. When gliding was taking place, one of the instructors or senior cadets kept a logbook going, detailing each flight as they took place. At the end of the day the information would be transferred into each cadets individual logbook. But for some reason my logbook was not fully completed when my course finished on 11th August 1963.

I tried to have this corrected through my ATC cadet squadron, 131 (F) in Newcastle, but with no success. So eventually one weekend in that Autumn I took it upon myself to go back to Ouston, catching the bus to Heddon-on-the-Wall, and hitchhiking to Ouston from there. Even though I was not in cadet uniform, it proved easy to ask at the guardhouse, and simply be directed to walk out onto the airfield where gliding was taking place. The officer in charge was happy to oblige in completing my logbook, but I had to hang around for a long time until flying had finished for the day. I generally helped out with cables and steadying wings, while I waited.

The gliders were always kept in the hangar overnight, to protect them from the elements, but it took a fair bit of effort to move them to and from the far side of the airfield. Which is why the senior instructor had devised his own technique for getting the last glider back to the hangar. And on this occasion he very kindly invited me along for the ride! This was to be my one and only flight in the Slingsby Sedburgh TX.1 glider, which had side-by-side seating, rather than the tandem seats of the Cadet TX.3. Sadly I failed to record which of the two Sedburghs it was, but it was either WB964, or XN187.

So we winch launched, as the last flight of the day. The instructor released the cable early, at about 600 feet, and turned sharp left towards the big hangar. He expertly touched down on the tarmac taxiway leading to the hangar, and rolled to a stop just infront of the doors. These gliders did not have brakes and he had not landed 'into wind', as was usual gliding practice, making his landing all the more skillful.

It would be another four years before I flew in anything again, in a car ferry 'Carvair' from Southend to Ostend.

Also, I had no success in thumbing a lift back from Ouston to Heddon-on-the-Wall. It was a long walk, but I was happy!

Philip Pain