Tasman Echo Alpha

By Guy Clapshaw

Tasman Echo Alpha is the embellished experience of former air New Zealand pilot Guy Clapshaw at a time when airline flight brought magic and romance to lives.

Characters include Richard Whacker, the aircrew scheduler who managed to get all the aircraft overseas and their crews back in New Zealand, the operations manager who only hired people with bird names, and aircrew who performed extraordinarily well in emergency situations.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley
• Release date: May 11, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463705933

Guy Clapshaw

Guy Clapshaw’s flying career started when he won an R.A.F. Flying Scholarship at seventeen. His tertiary education was a two-year R.A.F. Pilots’ Course where he first began his lifelong observations of the many unique characters and bizarre situations encountered in aviation. He has flown almost everything from World War Two jet fighters, Fox Moths, Dominies, DC-3s and DC-8s to Jumbo Jet 747s. Approaching 80 years old, he still flies after 63 years in the air and intends to keep on flying until he gets it right.

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Tasman Echo Alpha

Published by Austin Macaulay at Smash words

Copyright: 2018- Guy Clapshaw

The right of Guy Clapshaw to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All Rights Reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted save with the written permission of the publisher, or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended). Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

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Tasman Echo Alpha, 2018

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd.

ISBN 978-1-78848-018-5 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-78848-019-2 (Hardback)

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A Hundred-To- Eight Long Shot

I STILL marvel at the quirk of fate which secured my job with Tasman Empire Airways – I suppose you could say it was a hundred-to-eight long shot. It happened in the summer of 1965, when I was between flying jobs after the British company I’d worked for went out of business. It was mid-summer and all the other airlines were fully staffed for the summer season, so finding myself faced with little prospect of a flying job until the following spring, I took a job as a junior bank clerk with the National Provincial bank.

I managed to maintain a link with flying by scanning the Situations Vacant column of Aeroplane magazine and hanging around Gatwick airport at weekends to join my old flying colleagues for lunch in the staff cafeteria, where I caught up on all the gossip, and occasionally got a weekend job ferrying aircraft for maintenance or replacing a crew member who was sick. One Saturday morning lunch I overheard a conversation between a group of Caledonian Airways flight engineers, which would shape the rest of my flying career.

‘And if I were a young fellah, that’s where I’d be heading,’ one of them announced.

His companion shook his head. ‘Too far away, Andy, and ye ken what some of these foreign airlines are like. Here today, gone bust tomorrow.’

‘Yon’s no foreign airline! It’s owned by the British and Australian governments for heaven’s sake, and it’s a bonnie country, my wife’s cousin lives in Dunedin and reckons it’s better than Inverness.’

I moved my chair closer. I had a premonition something rather far-reaching was about to happen.

‘And they’re expanding with new DC-8s, that’s why they’re advertising over here. There aren’t enough pilots in New Zealand. Aye, if I were a young laddie, that’s where I’d be heading – New Zealand to join TEAL.’

‘I think ye could be right. A young fellah joining them now could find himself halfway up the promotion ladder when the new DC-8s arrive.’

I eavesdropped unashamedly before hurrying to W.H.Smith’s book shop to scan through the back pages of the latest Aeroplane magazine.

Sure enough, a half-page advertisement in the Situations Vacant announced that TEAL, the international airline of New Zealand, was recruiting experienced pilots, navigators and flight engineers for their Lockheed Electra and Douglas DC-8 fleet. The Scottish engineer’s words echoed in my ears ‘If I were a young fellah, that’s where I’d be heading.’

I was twenty-six and didn’t know where my flying career was heading, so I hurried home and wrote to TEAL’s London office.

Three days later, a job application form arrived together with a request to attend a job interview on Monday week, ten days away. Coincidentally, a phone call from Dan-Air offered me a week-end’s work, flying a Bristol freighter between Gatwick and Paris le Bourget airports.

‘You’ll be carrying racehorses, so wear an old uniform and gumboots,’ Pluto Wilson, Dan-Air’s chief pilot advised me. ‘Nobody else wanted to do it, lots of night flying and smelly animals. We’ll pay you £3 for every flying hour and there’ll be six trips, so you should make about twenty-five quid over the weekend.’ Twenty-five pounds was three times my weekly salary so I accepted, exhilarated at being back in the flying business, even if only for a few days.

When I turned up at Dan-Air’s freight ramp, I was surprised to see half a dozen smartly dressed men attending to the racehorses. ‘Jockeys and trainers,’ the ramp controller explained. ‘Pedigree racehorses are extremely valuable so they’ll accompany you in flight. That little guy on the left is Sir Gordon Richards, Mannie Mercer is just behind him, Vic Smythe is to the right and Lester Piggott is the one wearing a duffle coat.’ I didn’t pay much attention to them until we arrived at Paris le Bourget, and I joined them for coffee while another equine cargo was being loaded for the next trip to Gatwick. Conversation between my six pas- sengers centred about a forthcoming race meeting next weekend at Royal Ascot and I heard an unknown wonder horse was expected to win the Ascot Gold Cup.

Everything went smoothly until Sunday night, when we had loaded the final load and were preparing to fly back to Gatwick. I pressed the starter button to turn the first engine and nothing happened. ‘Check the circuit breakers,’ I suggested. The French mechanic said they were in their correct position and offered to remove the cowls to check the starter solenoid, a long tedious job in the electrical entrails on the rear of the engine. The Frenchman enrolled the assistance of two other colleagues and suggested we wait in his office.

Over the next three hours I listened to some of the world’s top jockeys and trainers discussing horse racing, and the name of the wonder horse recurred several times. ‘Fightin’ Charlie, trained by Freddie Maxwell,’ trainer Vic Smythe announced. ‘He’s carrying little weight and is a racing certainty with Lester Pig- gott up. Put all your money on him.’ I was more interested in the progress of the French mechanics, who were removing more and more components from the engine, than gambling on an unknown racehorse, so walked over to check if they had made any progress. They had already fixed the problem and had begun the long tedious job of replacing everything they’d removed. Eventually, just before dawn, we took off on the final flight back to Gatwick.

My TEAL interview was scheduled for ten that morning and it would be nine before I could expect to get away from the airport and up to London. I’d been told the TEAL interviewer, a Captain Brownjohn, was a stickler for punctuality, clean- liness and appearance. ‘Get there at least ten minutes early, wear a neatly pressed dark suit, white shirt and tie, shiny black shoes, oh and he doesn’t like facial hair.’

To cut a long story short, I arrived at Air New Zealand house half an hour late, unshaven, wearing another airline’s grubby uniform, gumboots and smelling of horse manure. I didn’t trouble to announce myself to the receptionist, following a sign saying TEAL INTERVIEWS. As I hurtled into Captain Brownjohn’s office, I found him relaxing with his feet up on the desk reading the racing section of the Daily Express. ‘What’s going to win the Ascot Gold Cup?’ he enquired, interrupting my attempts to explain my lack of punctuality. I realized this was one interview I had almost certainly blown.

‘Fightin’ Charlie, Freddie Maxwell’s horse,’ I heard myself say. ‘He’s a dead cer- tainty with Piggott up.’ Brownjohn suddenly became very attentive and marked something in his newspaper before enquiring whether I knew a lot about horseracing, to which I mumbled ‘No’. He then proceeded to tear strips off me for arriving late.

‘Who are you flying for at the moment?’ he enquired, and I had to admit I was out of work. ‘I’m not surprised.’ He looked me up and down. ‘Why would I want to employ you? I’ve got BOAC and RAF Transport Command captains with four times your flying experience applying, and you turn up half an hour late in your gardening clothes, smelling like a stable and badly in need of a shave. Good day to you!’ He returned to the racing pages and I slunk back to the bank.

The following weekend, her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II watched Lester Piggott ride Fightin’ Charlie to a convincing win in the Ascot Gold Cup at the phenom- enal odds of 100 to 8. Anybody betting ten pounds for him to win would have collected a hundred and thirty-five pounds, but I hadn’t even watched the race on television, preferring the world of aviation.

On Tuesday morning a slim envelope bearing the distinctive TEAL logo arrived in my letter box. By now I was well used to the usual single-sheet stereotyped letter beginning ‘Dear Sir, We regret to inform you your application for a position was unsuccessful etc, etc.’ It went into the rubbish unopened.

One of my flatmates, another pilot, discovered it a few days later. ‘Aren’t you going to open it?’ he suggested. ‘You never know, it might be good news.’ I assured him it wasn’t, but agreed to his suggestion to open it. He took a long time to read the letter twice.

‘They’ve accepted you! As a Lockheed Electra co-pilot and navigator at a salary of £1,700 a year!’

I took the letter in utter disbelief, but sure enough, it confirmed TEAL was offering me a job, commencing the 1st September, at four times my bank clerk’s salary! Furthermore, if I presented myself to Speedbird House in Victoria, a First Class London-Auckland ticket would be issued. I was delighted but puz- zled. Captain Brownjohn had made it abundantly clear they had no need of an inexperienced, scruffy, unshaven, smelly out-of-work pilot who turned up half an hour late for a job interview.

Next morning I called into Speedbird House and collected a First Class air ticket to Auckland, and armed with this proof of employment, handed in my resignation. The chief clerk of the National Provincial did his best to undermine my confidence. ‘They’ve probably sent you the wrong letter. They must have had hundreds of applicants so they send out standard letters. You’ll discover their mistake when you arrive in New Zealand.’ I digested this information. It seemed logical. ‘Don’t expect the bank to give you a reference,’ he continued. ‘And don’t come crawling back asking for your old job when they discover their mistake.’

I left for New Zealand the following Monday after spending a wonderful last weekend with my family. BOAC sped me halfway round the world to Sydney in just over a day, stopping to refuel at Rome, Beirut, Karachi, Calcutta, Singapore and Darwin, and TEAL continued my journey aboard their midnight Electra service to Auckland.

After take off the captain sent back a message inviting me to the flight deck. The TEAL crew were incredibly young, most in their late twenties or early thirties, and I was invited to stay in the cockpit to observe the approach and landing into Auckland’s Whenuapai airport. As we touched down on Whenuapai’s nor’easterly runway, I wondered whether this would be my only landing in New Zealand.

Gale-force winds and torrential rain buffeted passengers and crew as we walked from our aircraft across the tarmac to the small terminal building. I’d just joined the immigration queue when I heard my name called over the public address system. ‘Mr Clapshaw, passenger from Sydney, report to a TEAL representative in the immigration hall immediately.’

My heart fell. My worst fears would be reinforced.

‘Aaah, Mr Clapshaw, welcome. How do you like New Zealand? Captain Brownjohn would like to see you in Technical House as soon as you’ve completed arrival formalities.’ The TEAL rep seemed very cheerful. ‘There’s a company car and driver waiting to take you in to Technical House when you’re ready,’ he added.

I rehearsed what I was going to say to Captain Brownjohn as we proceeded on the 40 minute journey into Auckland, while the TEAL driver gave me a rundown on the airline. ‘We’re going through a tremendous expansion programme. Our first DC-8 arrives shortly and two more are scheduled for later in the year. You’ve joined us at a good time; we’ve operated three Electras on Tasman and Pacific Islands routes until now, but once the new jets arrive, we’ll expand to Honolulu, North America and the Orient.’

It would have been a wonderful airline to have joined, with modern equipment, good maintenance and job security, unlike the British independent airlines I’d worked for, and I felt utterly dejected when he pulled up outside a large unimposing building on the waterfront. ‘Here we are, Testicle House.’

‘Wasn’t I supposed to report to Technical House?’

The TEAL driver shrugged. ‘Testicle House, Technical House, same place. You’ll soon find out this is where most of the balls ups originate. Go up those stairs and Flight Ops is on your right.’ He shifted into gear and disappeared into the winter rain.

‘Aah yes, Mr Clapshaw. Brownie er... Captain Brownjohn is expecting you,’ Yvonne, the Flight Operations manager’s secretary greeted me brightly as I entered. ‘How was your flight?’

‘Alright,’ I replied curtly, determined to make my dismissal as difficult as possible. ‘Would you like a nice cup of tea?’

‘No.’

‘Is that Mr Clapshaw? Send him in,’ Captain Brownjohn called from his office overlooking the Waitemata Harbour, where TEAL and Pan American flying boats had alighted only 25 years earlier. Pictures of various wild birds adorned the walls and the bookshelf seemed to contain more bird books than technical manuals.

‘Had a good flight? What about a nice cup of tea?’ ‘NO!’

‘Aaah come on! Yvonne, two cups of tea, plenty of sugar, and some of my favourite chocolate biscuits,’ he removed a chair with short front legs and replaced it with something more comfortable. ‘Good to see you here, we need plenty of chaps with your sort of knowledge and experience. Aagh here comes our tea!’ I allowed him to ramble on while he poured the tea and added milk and sugar, convinced the axe was about to fall. ‘Yes, nice to have men with your sort of background and knowledge flying for us, now then, let’s get down to details.’

I refrained from replying, convinced my dismissal was seconds away.

‘Now let me see, we offered you a position as an Electra first officer and navigator, didn’t we?’ he consulted a copy of the letter I’d received and beckoned behind me, ‘Close the door, would you? We don’t want everybody in the office to overhear what we’re saying, do we?’

I refrained from answering, so he got up and closed the door himself.

‘Now then, let’s get down to business,’ he continued. This was going to be it; I pre- pared myself to go ballistic when he delivered the death blow to my TEAL career.

‘Yes, jolly good to have you here with us,’ he floundered, then became quite furtive as he leaned across the desk. ‘Er... got any more good racing tips you’d care to share with me?’

***

Back To School

NEXT MORNING I returned to Testicle House to learn what TEAL had planned. A clerk directed me to Captain Brownjohn’s office, where I met other new entrants.

Mike Furniss had previously flown Comet IVs for East African Airways, Bunny Somerville had flown for Sudan Airways and John Peacock came from the United Kingdom. Johnnie Wilson came from operating flying boats in the Caribbean and four flight engineers were scheduled to attend the same Lockheed Electra training course: Bob Falconer from the RNZAF, Ross Gosling and Jack King from the TEAL hangar, Mike Pounder and Derek Stubbs from National Airways and Brian Cox from a local seaplane operator.

‘Welcome to Tasman Empire Airways, soon to change its name to Air New Zealand,’ Brownjohn greeted us. ‘My assistant operations manager, Gus Knox, will now introduce you to the operational staff. He gestured towards a tall placid looking fellow in his mid-forties smoking a pipe.

The executive staff of TEAL had all come from the wartime Air Force. Doug Keesing, the company’s chief pilot, had served as a maritime patrol pilot and later as a flying instructor. Chief training captain Phil le Couteur had started his flying career in the pre-war Air Force flying Vickers Wildebeests. During the war he’d commanded Short Sunderlands before being transferred to the newly formed TEAL as a flying boat captain. Joe Lawton, the chief navigator, had flown aboard Wellingtons and Whitleys in 75 New Zealand Squadron, and had achieved fame by assisting the co-pilot of their Wellington to win the Victoria Cross during a bombing raid by climbing out onto the wing of his aircraft to extinguish an engine fire. Most of the senior TEAL captains had flown during the war.

Gus led us into the main flight ops office where he introduced us to a rather harassed looking individual. ‘Squadron leader Whacker’s a former RAF Education

Officer now in charge of all crew scheduling. He’ll tell you what he’s got planned. OK Dick?’

‘You’re on the Electra course, starting next Monday,’ Squadron leader Whacker advised us. ‘That’ll give you the rest of this week to arrange accommodation and get sorted. Daily transport to the technical training school will be provided.’

Next stop was to meet the Technical Librarian, Digger Dawson, a former flying boat radio operator. Digger issued us with a complete set of company manuals, which comprised a large Lockheed Electra Flight Manual containing technical aircraft information, a Performance Manual for flight planning, a Route Guide and a voluminous TEAL manual titled Part A which told us everything about company procedures from how to address royalty to which uniform shoe to put your left foot into. Digger also helped us find accommodation in Mendelsohn Mansions, a large drab concrete building overlooking Herne Bay Tennis Club and Auckland Harbour Bridge, run by a TEAL captain, Frank Boothwaite, and his wife. Frank had originally flown TEAL flying boats during the war, while on loan from the RNZAF. Afterwards, he exchanged his RNZAF uniform for that of a TEAL captain and continued to fly the same aircraft on the same routes. The graceful flying boats had eventually been replaced by land planes and Frank was about to convert onto the new DC-8 jet liners. He was a tall slim fellow in his mid forties who attempted to combat the ravages of age by dyeing his greying locks. Unfortunately for him, this turned his hair an unfortunate colour, leading somebody to comment that Captain Boothwaite was turning prematurely orange.

Mendelsohn Mansions accommodated a number of personnel working for the two government airlines: TEAL which operated internationally to Australia and the Pacific Islands, and New Zealand National Airways (usually shortened to Nackers) which operated within New Zealand. There was also Mellow Yellow, a talkative parrot Captain Boothwaite had brought back from the Second World War twenty years ago, and Bosca, their boxer dog.

The first human tenant to introduce himself was Mike Hawk, a former RAF Coastal Command navigator now flying for TEAL. He introduced me to Don Robbie, a chief purser with TEAL, and various other aircrew members. I soon learnt Mike and Don had sparkling senses of humour, which made them amusing company.

The best accommodation was the top floor, which had been converted into a single luxurious apartment with magnificent views of the city and Waitemata

Harbour. The tenants were Clarence and Leslie, the gay proprietors of an art gal- lery in nearby Parnell Village. They were usually referred to as the ‘Parnell Queers’ which didn’t seem to bother them in the slightest. There was a third occupant, a tiny chimpanzee called Baby. The name was appropriate because he was treated like a very young child, even being taken for a twice daily outing in an expensive English perambulator.

Other rooms housed various aircrew and ground staff, and it wasn’t unusual for the place to contain a complete Electra crew from captain down to junior hostess. Richard Whacker, the harassed head of rostering, soon learned to take advantage of this when yet another foul up had occurred in Testicle House, and a quick call to the Mansions could procure an urgently needed crew member for a flight. This was often inconvenient for the person concerned if he or she had made other arrangements on a day off, but was quickly resolved by simple Kiwi ingenuity. Half a dozen bottles of beer were kept in a fridge handy to the phone, so when Squadron leader Whacker required a particular crew member, he or she could quickly open a bottle, take a sip and regretfully announce ‘I’m sorry, Sir, I’d love to help you but I’ve had a drink today.’

My first few weeks taught me how hard members of the company worked and played. A day would start with breakfast in the sitting room with ten or more others, so conversation could become quite animated. Mellow Yellow the parrot loved noise, and would add to the cacophony by flapping his wings and uttering the occasional squawk or inane phrase.

Bosca the dog was the exact opposite, preferring to spend breakfast lying in everybody’s way, mournfully licking his genitalia with the gusto of an alderman drinking soup, which must have met with Marie Boothwaite’s disapproval in the past, as occasionally Mellow Yellow would call out ‘Stoppit, stoppit dammit!’ in Marie’s voice. The dog would shamefacedly stop his libidinous licking and gaze slowly round to locate the voice. Finally, with a deep regretful sigh, he would fall half asleep on the floor while keeping one eye open for any falling food scraps. On weekends or holidays, or when some weren’t working, the day’s activities were planned – sailing, going to the beach or shopping.

For those of us on training courses, breakfast on weekdays was a race against the clock to catch the company transport to the Technical Training School at eight.

The first week of the Electra course taught me that although TEAL folk played hard, they took work very seriously. Students on technical courses were called mushrooms, and every weekday morning, we mushrooms were transported to the technical training school at the international airport, still under construction for the new DC-8s.

There were eleven students on my course; seven co-pilots including Mike Furniss and John Peacock – and the four flight engineers. Most of the other co-pilots had left NZ National Airways to join TEAL, except Warbler, an ex-BOAC captain who’d decided to return to his native country, and Ted Tomkins, a recently retired RNZAF squadron leader who’d flown Sunderland flying boats.

Lectures were held in a modern classroom with a whiteboard adjacent to the lecturer’s rostrum, and a slide projector. There was a different instructor for each subject, which could be electrics, air conditioning and pressurisation, propeller, engine, hydraulics, avionics or flight controls. Each instructor would lecture from the rostrum, occasionally turning to draw a diagram on the whiteboard. When a particularly complex diagram was called for, curtains were closed and the projector turned on to beam the diagram onto the whiteboard.

Air conditioning hadn’t been installed in the training school, so the room tended to get very hot and stuffy by mid-morning. The combined effect of heat, darkness and the projector’s hypnotic hum combined to produce drowsiness.

The technical course started with an introductory speech from the chief ground instructor, himself a licenced aircraft ground engineer. The course would be five days a week for twelve weeks, with an examination on what we’d learned every Friday afternoon. At the end of the ground course, there would be conversion flying training. Course timetables were handed out and I was relieved to see the first lecture was on air conditioning – a simple subject – or so I thought.

By 4 p.m. I had begun to doubt my ability to achieve the required academic standard, for the Electra’s air conditioning system was incredibly complex, unlike the comparatively simple aircraft I’d flown previously. The system was electronic and involved complicated diagrams of cabin programme shafts, delay relays, electronic sensors, zero negative sensing relays and lots more to confuse us. The main electrical diagram was so complicated previous students had dubbed it ‘the Fair Isle Jersey’.

Most of the other students were also having problems with the course, and to make a bad situation worse, some of the American terminology was incompre- hensible. At the end of the first day, I was about to approach the instructor and tell him the course was beyond my technical comprehension but other members of the course said it for me. The instructor remained unfazed and assured us all new aircrew on previous courses had made the same comment on the first day, yet completed the course successfully. I discreetly said nothing but was rather thoughtful on the bus home.

The course continued through until early December, with lectures starting at nine and continuing until midday when we broke for lunch in the staff cafeteria. For many, this was our main meal of the day so we tended to stock up on soup, steak, chips and tomatoes followed by dessert, to enable us to study in the evening without having to break for dinner.

Lectures resumed at one and continued until four, with a short coffee break at three.The soporific effect of a heavy lunch adversely affected our concentration in the afternoon, especially when the temperature in the darkened classroom neared thirty degrees and we struggled to hear the instructor’s monotone above the projector’s hypnotic hum. It certainly proved too much for Bunny Somerville one afternoon.

We had discussed the recent Torrey Canyon maritime disaster at lunch, where a super-tanker had run aground on Great Britain’s rocky Cornish coast, spilling millions of litres of crude oil and damaging one of the country’s finest natural beauty spots. In a desperate effort to prevent the oil being washed ashore, Royal Air Force fighter bombers had been called in to bomb the site and burn off the oil. The morning’s newspapers had headline pictures of Hawker Hunter ground attack aircraft carrying out bomb and rocket attacks. Bunny Somerville must have been thinking about it when the afternoon lecture commenced. The subject was electronics, a particularly difficult and tedious subject with many complex electrical diagrams. The needle of the classroom thermometer had passed thirty degrees as our instructor pulled down the blinds and turned on the projector.

The captain clung to the wheel of his stricken ship as the first aircraft wheeled into the attack. Captain Somerville had selflessly given his crew the order to abandon ship, knowing nothing could survive the effects of napalm and rockets from the attacking enemy aircraft. The last life boat was pulling away from the stricken vessel as the heroic captain steered his ship into deeper water. The first salvo hit the bridge beside Bunny’s left ear with a deafening bang. The structure collapsed under the impact, throwing him to the deck..

Bunny picked himself up from the classroom floor and gazed up at our row of grinning faces. Somebody helped him back into his seat as he struggled to remember where he was.

‘Projector bulb blew,’ John Peacock explained. ‘You must have nodded off ’cause your head was resting against the side of the projector when the bulb blew! You awoke with a tremendous yell and said something about lifeboats before falling to the floor.’

The laughter subsided, our instructor replaced the bulb and Bunny resumed his seat, determined not to fall asleep again.

Every Friday afternoon we were examined on what we’d been taught during the week. This was an admirable system, removing the necessity to study over the weekend, leaving us free to relax before returning to class again on Monday for another five days of lectures.

The results of the previous week’s exam results would be published on Wednesday, and anybody unfortunate enough not to achieve the required pass mark would be given another opportunity to sit the exam at the end of the course.

Towards the end of the course, lectures began to concentrate on specific subjects such as company structure, New Zealand aviation law, Pacific climatology and Aviation Medicine. With the exception of aviation law, we weren’t examined on these subjects, they were categorised as ‘nice to know’ rather than essential.

Our instructors for these subjects were current aircrew. A training captain taught us the essentials to pass the aviation law exam to validate our foreign licences, and climatology was taught by a very experienced line navigator with phenomenal knowledge. He started off by drawing a map of the eastern Australian coast line then New Zealand, Fiji, Samoa, the Cook Islands and Tahiti from memory, before describing the various weather patterns associated with each area. His delivery was droll and deliberately humorous, and we listened spellbound, for his was the voice of practical experience talking to us. ‘Then there was this fellow Buys Bal- lott, who liked to stand with his back to the wind,’ he would start like a practiced storyteller. His audience clung to his every word and rarely doubted anything he said. I only heard him questioned once, and that was on the subject of Wellington winds. ‘Very tricky place to operate,’ he began. ‘Three aircraft were damaged at the opening. The problem is wind shear, sudden changes in wind speed or direction… or both. The place gets very strong winds funnelling through Cook Strait but basically there are only two types of Wellington weather. It either blows a gale from the north or from the south.’

The ex-National Airways pilots exchanged doubtful glances. They’d experienced every type of Wellington weather, sometimes flying into Wellington five times a day. ‘But I’ve operated into there on a calm day when there’s not been a breath of wind,’ one of them ventured.

Our instructor looked at him. ‘So have I,’ he agreed. ‘That’s when both winds blow at once.’

The last subject on the technical course was Aviation Medicine, which in 1965 was a comparatively new topic. It was taught by the company medical officer, Dr Fred Platts, a founder member of the airline, who’d been present twenty-five years earlier when RNZAF personnel had formed TEAL.

Our class was now joined by a mixed selection of newly hired stewards and air hostesses. We quickly got to know the hostesses, especially a rather gorgeous little blonde. Conversation revealed she was a former nurse, engaged to an orthopae- dic surgeon in Wellington. To emphasise her words, she displayed a spectacular diamond engagement ring on her left hand.

Conversation ceased with the arrival of Dr Fred. He eyed his audience specu- latively before beginning his lecture on food poisoning. ‘Still quite a problem on the Coral Route,’ he explained ‘Despite the company’s efforts to keep conditions sanitary aboard our aircraft, problems still arise in the high temperatures of the tropics. Aircrew must avoid drinking contaminated water at all times, and remem- ber to eat different meals at staggered times during flight.’

We listened attentively as the doctor continued with a description of the various maladies which might affect international travellers. ‘Cholera can be contracted in any warm climate where poor hygiene conditions exist,’ he cautioned before listing most of the other diseases prevalent in the tropics. ‘Yellow fever, small pox, dengue fever, tetanus, typhoid, malaria, filiarasis, beri beri, black water fever, rabies, dysentery, sleeping sickness...’ The list was long.

Then he gave us the good news. ‘Before going flying, you’ll be immunised against these by a single injection against tetanus, typhoid and para-typhoid called TABT. It’s a selection of every drug you’re likely to require.’

‘Sort of like a pharmaceutical cocktail,’ John Peacock whispered.

Dr Fred continued. ‘There are a few adverse side effects from the injection. The surrounding area will be unduly sensitive for several days, maybe even a week. Some of you might experience lack of appetite, drowsiness, possibly even nausea or vomiting. It will certainly prevent you enjoying golf, squash or tennis for a few days.’ He paused to let the information sink in. ‘Any question about TABT?’

The blonde held up her hand bearing the spectacular engagement ring. ‘Will it prevent me having children?’ she enquired.

Dr Fred ignored a few sniggers from the audience. ‘I wouldn’t depend on it if I were you,’ he advised her kindly.

The doctor departed for his office amidst a ripple of laughter. In the years ahead, he proved a good friend and ally to anybody who became unfit to fly, believing his job was to help our return to flying rather than find reasons to ground us. Regrettably this attitude is sometimes rarer today.

***

Flying Training

NOW WE only needed to convert our overseas pilot licences to New Zealand ones before commencing our Electra flying training, which required passing the New Zealand Civil Aviation Law examination. The Department scheduled an exam date for 10 a.m. the following Wednesday, giving us a few days to run through previous exam papers with our instructors. ‘The questions are reasonably simple,’ one commented. ‘The problem is the time allowed to answer all the questions, which is far too short.’

Mike and John Peacock arrived early at the exam venue with Bunny in tow – missing this exam meant waiting until after the Christmas holiday break to start flying training.

There were about thirty other candidates sitting the exam and everybody found the allotted time of one hour passed far too quickly and nobody completed all the questions when the invigilator instructed us to put our pens down. ‘Hand in your exam sheets as you leave,’ he barked and we obediently placed our uncompleted answer sheets on the growing pile in front of him. Only one person, Warbler the former BOAC captain, ignored the instruction and continued writing.

‘Sorry mister, you’ve exceeded the time limit,’ the invigilator took great delight in telling him when Warbler went up to hand in his paper.

‘But I hadn’t completed all the questions…’ Warbler tried to explain.

‘Too bad, matey,’ the supervisor was having great fun now. ‘You exceeded the time limit so I won’t accept your paper. You’ve failed. Gottit?’

The candidate pondered the situation; it was essential to pass the exam before continuing on to flying training. He eyed his torturer for a few moments before a solution came to him. ‘Do you know who I am?’ he enquired quietly.

‘Naagh, and frankly I don’t give a rat’s arse,’ the invigilator had begun to lose patience.

The man eyed him up and down, ‘Good!’ He slipped his exam paper into the middle of the pile before joining us for a pub lunch.

It wasn’t until we’d ordered lunch that we noticed Bunny was missing. ‘Must have slipped out early?’ John Peacock suggested.

‘Naagh, nobody was allowed out ’til the official time was up. Where the devil is he? Couldn’t still be in there, could he?’ We returned to the hot stuffy exam room and found him lying with his head on top of the desk – asleep. We shook him and he looked around bemusedly. ‘Whaa … where am I? What time is it?’

‘Time to go, you blithering idiot. You didn’t fall asleep during the exam, did you?’ Bunny sheepishly admitted he had dozed off after the first few questions.

After we’d taken and passed the Aviation Law exams, the NZ Dept of Civil Aviation issued us with temporary student pilot licences for our flying training. Bunny and I were assigned to a young former RNZAF fighter pilot, Captain Mayn Hawkins, who’d joined TEAL less than two years earlier. The flying training syllabus comprised twelve hours flight time for each student pilot under training. Management didn’t believe in flight simulators, arguing there was no substitute for the real aircraft. They had to write off two aircraft in training accidents before realizing their error.

Flying training was lengthy and very comprehensive. Each training sortie was four hours, split into two-hour spells for each student. Training was conducted at the new Mangere International Airport early in the morning, as the aircraft were required for revenue flying during the day. Each session would start before dawn with breakfast in the staff cafeteria, followed by a comprehensive briefing on the day’s exercises. These could include approach to and recovery from stalls in various configurations, recovery from unusual attitudes, fuel dumping, emergency descent, steep turns, engine shut down and asymmetric flight, then back to the airfield for various types of circuits – conventional four-engined circuits, low level bad weather, three-engined, flight idle, flapless and boost off.

A few of the exercises were really too dangerous to be taught in the aircraft and should have been taught in a flight simulator, where a crash situation could be resolved by pushing the ‘Reset’ button, but as we didn’t have a simulator, these exercises had to be taught in the air.

The Lockheed Electra was an exhilarating aeroplane to fly, with each of its four Allison turbo-propeller motors producing 4000 horsepower at take off. The giant four-bladed paddle propellers almost spanned the entire wing span, flight controls were hydraulically boosted and delightfully light, so the aircraft handled like a late generation Second World War fighter and was considerably faster than a Spitfire or Typhoon.

Unfortunately, when hydraulic power to the flight controls was turned off, the manual forces required to move the controls were excessively heavy, transforming the previously agile machine into an unwieldy cumbersome hard-to-manoeuvre lump of metal.

And when the throttles of the four powerful turbo-prop engines were closed to flight idle, drastically reducing airflow over the wings, the aircraft dropped like a stone unless the nose was lowered to regain speed. Unfortunately, both these manoeuvres had to be performed simultaneously by pilots under training.

As each early morning briefing session commenced, we wondered whether today would be the day for boost off/flight idle approaches. Captain Mayn Hawkins had already demonstrated one such approach, wisely overshooting from 200 feet, and I had attempted a boost-off approach and landing which went well until we crossed the threshold of Auckland’s sou ‘westerly runway and encountered an area of turbulent crosswind burbling across the hangars to the north. The port wing dropped and when I attempted to apply a touch of right aileron to pick it up, manual control was ponderous and too slow. The strength of both my arms was insufficient to deflect the controls fast enough. Mayn lent his strength to the control wheel, but all too slowly, the wing began to rise.

Fortunately for everybody, the flight engineer, a very experienced aviator nicknamed Scratchy Poole, had second-guessed this could happen, so had kept his hands on the hydraulic power levers. Seeing our two pairs of hands strug- gling to maintain control, he selected the hydraulic power to the controls back on again and the wing lifted. I overshot from the approach, and as we looked at each other, everybody agreed it was a ridiculously dangerous manoeuvre to practice in the air.

Flight idle approaches were equally if not more dangerous – the aircraft had to dive at the runway to maintain airspeed, and combining the two seemed a formula for disaster. We dreaded the final session when we needed to demonstrate our ability to perform both manoeuvres. There was no tolerance for error, and I firmly believed there was a strong possibility of damaging the aircraft. Unfortunately a very strong ‘macho’ image prevailed in the company in those days, perhaps because of the many ex-wartime aircrew in its ranks, and to have protested against these dangerous manoeuvres would have labelled us as sissies.

Fortunately for us, the problem went away when two experienced captains proved how dangerous it was by writing off one of our aircraft during a bi-annual competency check. As they hurtled towards the runway, I suspect the airspeed may have become a few knots too slow, or wind shear may have affected them. Whatever the reason, when the pilot pulled back on the control column to halt the Electra’s rapid rate of descent, it failed to respond quickly enough, hitting the ground and disintegrating. The fuel tanks ignited, engulfing the aircraft in dense black smoke and flame. The crew struggled from the cockpit in zero visibility and managed to reach safety, but a perfectly good aircraft was destroyed.

This unfortunate event saved Bunny and I, and the charred remains of Electra ZK-TEB remained to remind everybody of this foolhardy manoeuvre.

The final day-time flying training session was the company’s bi-annual compe- tency check, where our instructor would determine whether we had demonstrated our ability to execute a satisfactory standard of flying. Like most executions, this one took place at dawn. Mayn and I met for breakfast, both keenly aware that if I failed this check flight, my long-term future in TEAL would be doubtful. Bunny didn’t show up for breakfast, which was surprising, his love of food already well known.

Mayn briefed me and we proceeded to the aircraft. The flight engineer for my check flight was Scratchy Poole, which re-assured me, and Mayn acted as co-pilot.

Basically things went much the same as earlier flights, Mayn closed a throttle to simulate a failed engine on the first take off, and I carried out the vital actions and checklist items prior to a three-engined approach and landing. I was also called upon to demonstrate various other manoeuvres like flapless landing, steep turns and emergency descent, which I had already carried out during training. After an hour and ten minutes, Mayn announced the end of the test and I taxied in and parked on the ramp. After engine shut down, Mayn finished writing up his training report and signed it before handing it to me to read. I had passed.

‘OK, got any questions? Don’t forget to only pull symmetrical reverse on a three-engined landing, otherwise it was all OK. Look forward to flying with you on the line.’

‘Welcome to TEAL,’ Scratchy Poole extended his hand. ‘We hereby promote you from the rank of mushroom to first officer.’ I thanked him and forgot to ask why new aircrew were called mushrooms. I looked at my watch, it was 10 a.m. ‘Bit too early for a celebratory drink in the pub, I suppose?’ I ventured.

Mayn and Scratchy looked at each other aghast. ‘Jeezus Guy, you’ve still got a lot to learn!’ Scratchy cautioned me. ‘It’s never too early when somebody else is shouting.’ We headed off to a grubby little pub near the airport nicknamed the Mangere Hilton and toasted my elevation to the first-officer ranks. After several pints of New Zealand bitter had slaked our thirsts, Scratchy enquired how I’d found the technical course. I told him I’d found the amount of technical detail they’d thrown at us mind-boggling. ‘Some of it was irrelevant,’ I added. ‘And some of it was completely incomprehensible. They couldn’t possibly expect us to retain more than twenty per cent.’ He readily agreed.

‘And 9 a.m. to 4 p.m. is a long time to spend in the classroom when you have to study again in the evening,’ Mayn added. ‘So they tell you too much, hoping some of it will stick in your memory.’

‘It’s blooming hard sitting in a hot dark room, looking at a screen and trying to understand a lot of superfluous shit you’ll never need to use,’ Scratchy declared. ‘Well, at least the mushroom treatment is over,’ Mayn observed. ‘From now on training will be more practical.’

I suddenly remembered something. ‘Why do they call us mushrooms?’

Scratchy took a long swig of his beer before replying. ‘Because they treat you like mushrooms,’ he explained. ‘Keeping you in the dark and feeding you shit.’

It was now Christmas time and we were about to begin our route familiarisa- tion training, which required us to operate into every airport used by the Electras, under the supervision of a training captain.

Bunny was rostered for another competency check with the chief pilot of the Electra fleet, Jack Curtis, a former Second World War bomber pilot often referred to as ‘The White Fox’ because of the colour of his hair and his exceptional air- manship. Jack was an excellent instructor, a very fair check captain and a real gentleman to fly with but Bunny didn’t get to fly with him. As we’ll find out later.

But that’s another chapter.

***

***

Route Familiarisation

‘Taman Echo Alpha, Cleared To Taxi Runway 03 Threshold’

OUR ROUTE familiarisation ran over Christmas into the New Year, teaching us the vagaries of the various routes and airfields we’d fly into, to ensure we were up to standard. This usually took about a month to accomplish and ended with a final route check with a training captain. After passing this check, we were then cleared for line flying.

It was company practice for line pilots to share the flying ‘leg for leg’ whenever practicable –which meant the two pilots took it in turn to fly the aircraft; while one flew, the other handled the radio communications, monitored the other pilot’s flying, assisted en route and performed the checklist items in conjunction with the flight engineer.

Co-pilots under route training were only given the occasional take off and landing at various airports served by the Electra fleet, which included Auckland, Wellington, Christchurch, Sydney, Melbourne, Brisbane, Tontouta (New Cale- donia), Nadi and Pago Pago. This was to ensure they were not only technically proficient at handling the aircraft but also fully conversant with the route network, and the company’s standard operating procedures. TEAL management had no time for individualists or one-man bands; they wanted their aircraft flown their way.

Whenever a trainee co-pilot’s initial landings were less than perfect at a new airfield during route training, the responsibility reflected on the training captain. On one occasion during his route training, John Peacock under-estimated the severity of Wellington’s wind shear and thumped the Electra onto the runway so hard that Barry Gordon, his patient instructor, indignantly announced he wasn’t taking responsibility for the landing. Handing John the public address microphone, he ordered him to apologise to the passengers for his ‘grand piano’ landing.

Not wishing to take the blame, but aware of the legal requirement to obey his captain’s orders, John addressed the passengers: Ladies and gentlemen, Captain Gordon has asked me to apologise for that landing!

Barry however was vastly more experienced in such matters than his student, and retaliated by donning the co-pilot’s jacket, leaving John no choice but to put on Barry’s captain’s jacket. While waiting for their bags in the arrivals area, the passengers vented their opinions on the quality of the landing upon the pilot with four captain’s rings on his sleeve. Old age and deceit had overcome youth and enthusiasm yet again.

I commenced my route training on the night of Christmas Eve with ‘The Beaver’, a very likeable little man with phenomenal technical knowledge. He seemed more concerned that his wife had a good seat and was comfortable aboard our aircraft than bombarding me with questions, so our night flight to Sydney went very pleasantly. He gave me a few tips and pointers, but otherwise left me to settle into the routine of flying for a new company. Scratchy was the flight engineer and ‘Gregory’ Peck the navigator.

We arrived at Sydney where a fresh crew waited to take the aircraft on to Wel- lington. The sun had just crept above the horizon on Christmas Day, 1965, when we boarded our crew bus. The King’s Cross ‘ladies of the evening’ were finishing a hard day’s night when our transport pulled up on the forecourt of the Manhattan Hotel, in Sydney’s red light district. The Beaver’s wife disembarked first, leaving her husband to manage their bags.

A Sydney milkman drew up in his horse drawn milk float. ‘Coming up for a drink, Milky?’ the navigator enquired. ‘It is Christmas, y’know.’

The milkman declined the offer. ‘Gotta get home to get Daisy her breakfast,’ he explained. ‘She gets irritable if it’s late.’

‘Is Daisy your wife?’ the Beaver enquired.

‘Naagh, Sport. Daisy’s me bloody horse.’The Milky gestured at the front of his milk cart where several of our cabin crew were feeding her boiled sweets.

‘She seems happy enough for a few minutes, why don’t you come up to the crew room for a quick noggin? Do you prefer Scotch or brandy?’

Milky’s tongue ran over his lips in thirsty anticipation. ‘Is that French brandy?’ He eyed a bottle protruding from somebody’s flight bag.

‘Yeah, duty free. Says on the label it’s over a hundred years old,’ Scratchy replied. ‘Might go off if we don’t drink it fairly soon.’

The milkman saw the sense of this argument and agreed to a Christmas drink. ‘Only one though,’ he insisted. ‘Daisy’s waiting for her breakfast.’

A King’s Cross hooker, complete with miniature poodle, eyed us professionally from her doorway as we trooped across the forecourt. ‘Anybody want a good time? Only ten quid ($20).’ The Beaver generously suggested she bring her dog up to the crew room for a Yuletide drink instead. ‘Still cost yer ten quid.’ There was no trace of Christmas spirit in her voice.

The Beaver’s Scottish ancestry came to the fore and he countered with an offer of ten shillings ($1). ‘You must be bloody joking,’ she replied indignantly. ‘Make it a fiver.’

The Beaver shook his head. ‘Ten bob, take it or leave it.’

‘I’m selling sex, not peanuts,’ she spat back. ‘Yer won’t get anything decent for ten bob.’ She tugged angrily on her poodle’s leash and stalked back to her doorway.

Ten minutes later the whole crew were celebrating Christmas overlooking Syd- ney’s rooftops. Introductions were made and I met the Beaver’s wife, a formidable lady with piercing eyes and battleship-steel grey hair.

Over by the window, ‘Milky’ admired the magnificent view of Sydney Harbour as he downed a fourth brandy. Twenty stories below, Daisy was feeling distinctly neglected. Her Christmas had been all too short – a few boiled sweets then every- body disappeared upstairs to celebrate. ‘Merry Christmas, Daisy old girl,’ Milky called. ‘Fancy a drink?’ Daisy whinnied derisively.

‘She probably does need a drink, left there in the hot sun,’ a plummy voiced hostess declared. ‘I’d never neglect my horse like that.’ The junior steward, an amateur jockey, agreed. They fell into angry discussion over the matter.

After an hour of festivities, the effects of the long night flight and the alcohol began to take their toll. Scratchy, the plummy-voiced hostess and two stewards had already left with a bag of boiled sweets. The Beaver and his wife left as I headed for the lift.

Our departures must have tweaked Milky’s conscience, and he decided to return to work. We waited patiently for the lift until a porter appeared and told us it was temporarily out of service. ‘Godda larch piece of freight coming up,’ he explained. ‘Shouldn’t be longer’n ten minutes or so.’ He cast a furtive glance at Milky before hurrying downstairs.

The Beaver’s wife announced they weren’t waiting ten minutes for any lift, and dragged her husband towards the stairs. Milky decided to follow and together we went down fourteen flights.

Milky became quite distraught on the hotel forecourt. ‘Me ’orse, where’s me bleeding ’orse?’ he demanded. To our surprise, his milk float was still in front of the hotel but the horse was no longer between the shafts. Somebody had released Daisy.

We were about to initiate a search when a whinnying sound from above drew our attention. Craning our necks skyward, we saw Daisy fourteen floors above, chewing contentedly as she gazed happily out of the crew room window. ‘Merry Christmas, Milky old boy!’ she seemed to say in a plummy voice. ‘Thanks for the drink!’

Passers by began to snigger at the ridiculous sight, but the captain’s wife was not amused. ‘It’s cruel!’ She tugged her unwilling husband across the forecourt by one hand. ‘I will not have anything to do with that sort of disgusting, bestial, cruel behaviour.’ As she spoke, she almost tripped over a poodle in an adjacent doorway. A chuckle from the doorway made her miserable husband look round.

‘I told yer you wouldn’t get anything decent for ten bob,’ a voice whispered.

Flying training for the four flight engineers on our course took considerably longer than the pilots because none of them had previous flying experience in

Reviews for Tasman Echo Alpha

[Howard Kennard · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Funny, intriguing and lots of great technical aviation stuff. Very well written. Didn’t want it to finish. I hope the remainder of the story appears as other title/s.