Iconic Aircraft Aviation Forum

by **Wedgy** » Tue Jun 23, 2009 5:36 pm

Would be worth the money :ymapplause:

by **Cluny** » Tue Jun 23, 2009 6:24 pm

Saracenman wrote:Why you should all despise me

Quite apart from the obvious fact that I’m nice, and therefore deserve special treatment, there was actually a practical reason for my little trip yesterday in the mighty XM655. I am currently embroiled in a little project that will hopefully raise funds for 558, and over the last few weeks, both Mayfly and Mr. Mayfly have proved invaluable with a large amount of ‘inside info’ about operating a Vulcan. DT has suffered several inquiring ‘phone calls, providing facts and figures that would never be available elsewhere!

Sunday was the very first time I’d seen 655 ‘in person’, and I was even MORE impressed with MaPS’ achievements than I expected to be – she looks absolutely stunning, and is a real credit to the handful of volunteers who keep her in such fine condition - good enough to be used as a crew trainer for 558!

After her first taxy of the day, complete with Red Arrows’ tribute, we were all looking forward to the second run of the day – the REAL highlight! For me, this turned out to be something EXTRA special!

A little while before the aircrew were due to crew-in, Mayfly took me aside and asked me if I’d like to be onboard 655 for the taxy run!!!!!!!!!! Both the Pontiff’s spiritual beliefs and the arboreal ablution activities of Caniformia immediately sprang to mind! Besides, I fear that answering “No!” would have seen a disorderly queue forming for much blood-letting and removal of body-parts!

Mayfly’s main concern was that I wouldn’t get to see 558 doing her thang. Had anyone overheard my reply two years ago, my soft dangly bits would’ve been vulnerable, “So what?!?!” I replied, “I can see 558 ANY time!”

DT gave me a comprehensive safety briefing – what to do, what not to do etc. I was left in no doubt that, in the event of an emergency, AEO Phil Davies was FAR more important than me, and would be opening and exiting the crew-hatch before anyone else. I would follow RAPIDLY, without a nice soft AEO to land on, as he would have by then broken the 100 metre World record to become a tiny speck as far away from 655 as possible! No doubt, as I wheezed my way over to join him, I would’ve been overtaken by two racing-snake Vulcan pilots!

The MaPS car then chauffeured us to the other side of the main runway to await Bovril’s ‘gleaming’ tug, with Vulcan attached. When invited, I climbed the yellow stairway to heaven and squeezed into my allotted navigator’s seat, while I inhaled the unique Vulcan smell; it is a strangely sweet mix of many indescribable things – perhaps the closest comparison is ‘eau de classic car’ – a leathery comfortable smell.

For those that have never seen inside a Vulcan, the two pilots sit side-by-side on a raised ‘platform’, about six feet above the crew hatch, accessed by another yellow ladder from immediately inside the hatch. The three other crew seats face rearward, behind the hatch – the AEO sits on the port side, the navigator on the starboard, with the second nav’s seat in the centre. There is only about six inches between each seat, and the whole crew compartment would not be somewhere I’d recommend to a sufferer of claustrophobia!

The rear crew seats are not comfortable; I suspect that sitting on a parachute, had I had one, might’ve prevented my ample arse from sinking into the ‘square-ness’ of the seat, but would’ve done absolutely nothing for the very upright back position. If you imagine being in the front seat of a two-door car when a rear passenger tips your seat forward to squeeze out the door – that’s how upright it feels! Presumably they were designed for aircrew who would be wearing slightly more than a tee-shirt! Even so, being strapped into one for eighteen hours is, I imagine, extremely unpleasant. Even knowing that you’re suffering just so you can lob high explosives at a load of Argentinean gits wouldn’t make it any more like anything you might buy at DFS!

Despite the lack of any sizable windows, and the full-width black system panels, I was surprised how light it was. While Phil Davies sorted out a headset for me, I scrutinised the mass of switches, knobs and dials – the only one I had ANY clue about was the one marked “BOMB DOORS”. Hmmm, I don’t recall seeing that on any Easyjet 737 I’ve ever been on!

The headset afforded me the opportunity to hear the start-up checklist; Phil Davies had an A5-sized ring-binder containing a LONG list of systems and circuits, each one being called out one by one, with short monosyllabic responses from DT. Occasionally Mike Pollitt, in the right-hand pilot seat would reply, if the particular system applied to his position. All replies were typically “Off”, “Set”, “Up”, etc – all the while, various lights would blink on the AEO’s panels, while Phil would press the occasional button or flick a switch.

What particularly struck me was the length of the checklist, which, despite the knowledge that 655 was not leaving the ground, was clearly all-inclusive; I even heard the prompt “Tail Brake ‘chute”, to which the reply was “Not applicable”! Playing with a ground-based Vulcan is quite clearly taken every bit as seriously as it would be in 558 before a real sortie – these chaps are 100% professional.

I’m only guessing, but I think that the checklist had already taken at least twenty minutes before I heard any mention of engines – possibly even longer. Sitting right beside that massive engine intake, I was intrigued to know just how noisy it would soon become; it was already far from quiet in there, with the background hum and whine of the systems – a very ‘electric’ noise that left me in no doubt as to why 558 is classified as a “Complex” aircraft type. The crew hatch was still wide open but I could hear nothing of the outside World; I found myself pressing on the headset with both hands to hear the well-rehearsed checks over the ambient noise.

Then came the magic word – “Palouste”, the air-starter for the engines. This was the first time that I heard the Crew Chief’s voice, plugged into the nosewheel undercarriage bay. I imagine that there were various hand-signals outside before I heard the unmistakable screech of the Paloutse. Phil Davies fixed his stare on the panel as various gauges rose and other lights either lit up or went out. Eventually either he or DT must’ve pressed the right button, because I instantly knew that one of the Olympi was spooling up – BLOODYHELL!!! What a racket! From then on I heard very little of what was discussed between the crew – how the hell they understood each other over that roar is beyond me; I’m certain it would be more sensible to tap Morse Code into the back of DT’s head with a long stick, especially as the noise got louder and louder as each engine fired up. I was surprised at the complete lack of vibration, despite knowing that a great deal of titanium and other funky alloys was spinning at high speed only a couple of feet away.

Once all the engines were clearly self-sustaining, and presumably as various umbilicals were being unplugged outside, Phil Davies rose from his seat and deftly negotiated his way to my feet to access the controls to close the crew hatch. Again, I was intrigued to know how much difference this would make to the din – my own experience of armoured vehicles has taught me that they are about five times louder inside than out – a Vulcan is one zillion times louder OUTSIDE than in! At last I could hear the voices through the headset again.

Phil Davies called the tower, using the call-sign “Wellesbourne Vulcan”, and told them that we were ready to move. We were told that other traffic was about to land, and I also heard the tower tell another aircraft on the ground that he would have to depart soon before we blocked the runway for six minutes! Eventually we were given permission by the tower and I heard the pitch of the metallic whine increase; I looked round to see if I could see DT throttling up, but all I could see of him was his right foot on the rudder pedals. If anyone wants specifics of DT’s footwear, let me know – in the words of Arnie’s Terminator, ‘I have detailed files’

I was aware of gentle movement – I wish I could say that it felt completely different to any other form of ‘moving forward’, but it didn’t – forward is forward! The first thought of ‘I’m travelling in an Avro Vulcan’ came at the same time as DT’s intercom voice said “Brake test” – an abrupt stop, with 655’s nose dipping a few inches. DT then announced that Mike Pollitt had control, and the latter then performed his own brake test. As we were rolling gently forward, permission was granted to enter the runway, and the Olympus whine rose even more – still absolutely no vibration whatsoever, despite the increase in RMP, and as we gathered a little speed, I could feel the texture of the runway right through the aircraft. WOOHOO – I’M TAXYING IN A VULCAN!!

There was very little ‘chat’ between the aircrew at that point, and the headset was full of voices from the tower and other aircraft reporting their positions. Being on the starboard side of 655, I realised that I’d better do the regal bit and wave to the on-looking crowd, as obviously EVERYONE would be able to see my hand through a window some eight inches wide! An even better idea occurred to me – let’s look OUT of the window. Ah! If Avro had ever intended rear crew to SEE out of the window, instead of it simply being there to let light in, someone in the drawing office clearly thinks that all navs have the anatomy of a giraffe – a knock-kneed giraffe at that!

In true Inspector Gadget fashion, I extended my neck and caught a glimpse of the crowd – all waving (obviously at me) and clearly enjoying the Olympus Overture. Off again, further up the runway – despite the lack of any physical hint of all that thrust behind us, I really did sense the enormous power of those engines; even the smallest throttle-up had an effect. Quite what a fast taxy, let alone a takeoff would feel like, I can only guess at – but I bet it’s spectacular!

Then a familiar voice broke the silence in my headset – the slight burr of Barry Masefield, “Wellesbourne tower, this is Vulcan 558…..” Barry announced their distance, fifteen miles at that point, and their intentions – to approach from the south, at 500 feet, flyby over the runway, turn to the west and fly two circuits before departing. That was when the feeling of unreality dawned - I was taxiing along smoothly in a Vulcan, with another Vulcan due to arrive overhead within minutes – VERY weird! I realised that Phil Davies and I would be the only two there that day who wouldn’t see 558, but at that moment I really didn’t care – is that bad?

DT and Mike decided to run a little further before turning to face the inbound Vulcan – 655 seemed to turn on the proverbial sixpence and, in no time at all, with appropriate tunefulness from those engines, we headed back from whence we came. Another voice called the tower – ‘Dakota Two’ was en route to Coventry ( I think) and was asking for clearance over Wellesbourne; even the response seemed surreal to me, “Dakota Two, keep to the east, you have traffic at 1,000 feet and a Vulcan coming through………’a’ Vulcan!

Dakota Two acknowledged, at which point one of our crew, who shall remain nameless, creased me up – “Wow! A Dakota – you don’t see those very often do you!” The Vulcan WE were waiting for (to distinguish it from all the other Vulcans flying that day) announced “Five miles”

Disregarding my excitement for a few seconds, I rapidly thumbed through the “How to Look like a Knock-kneed Giraffe” handbook (standard RAF issue I imagine), just in case I caught a passing wingtip overhead – WOW! She flew right past me! It would prove to be only Phil Davies that didn’t see her that day! Fanspecamazicredulous – a new word, invented by me, just now, as no others currently exist, to describe just how it feels to watch a Vulcan fly overhead, through the window of another Vulcan sat on a runway, engines running, with DT’s right shoe in command.

Giraffe-life seemed somewhat more appealing as I continued to watch Martin Withers do his stuff. Only one small disappointment struck me – I had four of Bristol/Rolls Royce’s finest whining in my ear – I would have to content myself with the sight of 558 without the sound of her eng……..

HOWL!!!

ROAR!!!

Right over my head! FANSPECAMAZICREDULOUS! And off she went, to Kemble.

Our six minutes of runway-hogging now expired, more Olympus music as we made our way back to where the most memorable journey of my life had begun

You really don’t want to hear about me getting out and being chauffeured back to my adoring fans – suffice to say that the air was filled with encouraging comments such as “I’m never going to speak to you again” and……..oh what was the other one? “You’re barred” or something!

I would like to repeat my sincerest thanks to the all the MaPS crew, the aircrew and to Mayfly for my forced zoology lesson; as I hope you can tell from ramblings above, the whole experience was a truly unique and unforgettable one.

I shall now go and lock myself in a damp cellar, beat myself with rusty barbed-wire, and drink nothing but bleach – just as pay back to you all for being such a lucky luck Saracenman!

sm