Fifty Years of Flying Fun: From the Hunter to the Spitfire and Back Again

By Rod Dean

From the Royal Air Force to award-winning display flying to flight instruction, a memoir of a half century in the sky. Includes photos.

Fifty Years of Flying Fun covers, in a roughly chronological order, over fifty continuous years of flying. This ranges from joining the RAF in 1962, through the author’s intriguing first operational tour on Hunters in Aden, the early days of the Jaguar in Germany and, finally in the RAF, an almost outrageous two years flying the Jaguar and Hunter with the Sultan of Oman’s Air Force. His subsequent civil flying has been exclusively in the General Aviation and flying display fields as a flying instructor and well known display pilot, including being involved in many varied and interesting display-related episodes. With in excess of 7,000 flying hours on 59 different types—and only one aircraft (Spencer Flack’s Mustang) with a working autopilot—Rod Dean gives a clear, and largely humorous, insight into the operation of a cross section of piston and jet engine vintage aircraft and his undoubted fifty years of fun since the first solo on March 19, 1963.

Fifty Years of Flying Fun is not just a book for the aviation enthusiast, but for anyone wanting to learn about flying history through the memoir of a man who flew through a half century of it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Jul 19, 2015
• ISBN: 9781910690857

Book preview

PROLOGUE

On 3rd September 1962, at eighteen years old, I joined the Royal Air Force. A Chipmunk flight on 28th November 1983 closed, apart from some final leave and clearing from RAF Uxbridge, a chapter of over twenty-one years of outstanding flying, overseas travel and great fun. Since then flying, and life, has continued to take a very satisfying and rewarding, if somewhat different, course.

The genesis of this narrative was the publication of some articles about my flying experiences in various aviation magazines such as Aeroplane – my first published article being in July 1982 – FlyPast and Pilot. Having found a liking for putting words on paper, the natural extension of writing short articles was to make a more comprehensive record; an autobiography if you will – but always trying to look at the amusing side of life, of which there has been much. Indeed, I know that I have been extremely fortunate, or even very lucky, throughout my life having achieved (thanks to the assistance of many friends and colleagues) virtually all my ambitions (except flying the Focke-Wulf Fw 190!) and there is very little, or even anything, that I would change in the highly unlikely event of getting a second go at life.

Consequently, this meagre offering is a rough chronological summary of my military and subsequent civil flying career, interspersed with a number of ‘off-piste’ individual tales that are a meander through these years. Like any narrative covering a number of years, there is the clear possibility of error particularly when relying on one’s memory – the passing years do tend to put a gloss, or an embellishment, on events that exceeds what actually occurred. My logbooks, as all pilots know, are a definitive source of detail and from those details many memories are triggered. However, if my memory of things differs from the memories of others involved, then I apologise and it is all meant to be fun after all.

The only areas I have glossed over are my various employments after leaving the RAF – American Airlines Training Limited, British Caledonian Flight Training Limited, the Civil Aviation Authority, Air Safety Support International and, finally, Farnborough International Limited. I would dearly have loved to include a couple of chapters on these areas as there were many interesting, and amusing times, in my post-RAF full-time employment which stretched from June 1984 to December 2010. However, space constraints and the desire to concentrate on the flying side – which is what this book is all about after all – have precluded that and so apologies to my many work colleagues who will miss that part of the tale.

Finally, I must offer an apology to my wife, the ever supporting Vicki, and my three kids, Duncan, Lucy and Ben for the lack of summer holidays – too busy display flying – and an inability to talk about anything other than flying. Sorry!

Rod Dean

November 2014

CHAPTER ONE

IN THE BEGINNING

Where did this all start – this obsession with flying and all that has followed from it over the years? I don’t really know; there is no history of aviation, military or civil, in our family but the interest has been with me for as long as I have been aware. Maybe it was the sight of the Bristol Brabazon landing at what I subsequently came to know as Filton – a vaguely remembered experience from an early childhood holiday in the West Country. The sight of that thing thundering in to land, even through the back windows of a car, would have had an effect on anyone.

By the mid 1950s the interest had grown through the usual routes of aviation magazines – Flight, Aeroplane and Flying Review being the most prominent in my mind – to the finale of visiting the Farnborough display. I guess I must have been about twelve years old when I finally persuaded my father to take me to Farnborough for the first of many visits. We always tried to go on Friday as it was quieter and I remember well many of the outstanding flying parts from those days – Roly Falk halflooping and then half-rolling the prototype Vulcan B2, Roland Beamont’s stunning displays in the Canberra and Lightning – particularly the prototype Lightning T4 when he brought it round finals right across the front of 111 Squadron, the Black Arrows, as they ran in – and, of course, the Black Arrows themselves. I find it hard to identify where the differences lie, but display teams these days do not have the impact of teams like the Black Arrows. The pinnacle is always quoted as the twenty-two ship loop and I certainly remember it well but, as I came to appreciate many years later, the diamond sixteen barrel roll was, technically, much more demanding and required superb flying standards from all the pilots.

So the die was cast – my only interest was in aviation and that was quickly translated into flying in the RAF, ideally on the Hunter and, for some reason I do not understand, even more ideally on 43 Squadron – ‘The Fighting Cocks’. But, being a northern lad who went to a comprehensive school my ambition to join the RAF as a pilot was given all assistance short of actual help by my school. Indeed, Mr Davies, our so-called careers master, went out of his way to dissuade me from this course of action – presumably he felt that I should aim for something more in keeping with my background and schooling rather than risk the disappointment of aiming too high. Hard luck on him.

As soon as I was old enough – thirteen I believe – I joined the Bolton Air Training Corps squadron, 80 Squadron, which was one of the oldest in the country and had a thoroughly great time for the next five years or so. In those days, there was significantly more flying in the ATC than now and regular visits to RAF Woodvale for Chipmunk flying was one of the highlights. I was also lucky enough to do a two-week gliding course at RAF Kirton in Lindsey, still an active gliding centre, followed by an extended course at weekends at what was then RAF Burtonwood, the well-known ex-USAF base and site of one of the longest runways in Europe. The only drawback to this arrangement was travelling to and from Burtonwood with one of my ATC squadron colleagues, Ian Boyle, who had a motorbike and was something of a hooligan – the gliding was great but the journey there and back was petrifying.

80 Squadron, Air Training Corps on summer camp at St Mawgan.

Before it was used for gliding, Burtonwood was the largest USAF base in Europe and was a fascinating place to visit. Being reasonably close to home, it was the target for many a day’s cycling activity. The resident unit was a weather reconnaissance squadron equipped with the Boeing WB-50. In addition, there were a constant stream of visitors such as C-47s, C-54s, C-124 Globemasters II and numerous others. The highlight of the year was the regular USAF Open Days with visiting F-100s and B-45 Tornados as well as RAF types such as the Hunter and Javelin, to name but a few.

Security on the base was not what would be acceptable these days and it was quite easy to gain access to the flight line particularly at weekends and even more so as a public road, giving access to some houses alongside the runway, crossed the taxiway with subsequent unguarded breaks in the security fencing. An absolute delight for an aviation nutcase. Even accessing the aircraft themselves was not beyond the realms of possibility but that did run the risk of a run-in with the occasional USAF military policeman or, much less of a problem, with ground crew working on the aircraft.

I was fortunate to be chosen for the International Air Cadet Exchange in 1962. This prestigious exchange programme saw air cadets from many European countries and North America visiting each others’ countries for about three weeks. Although the Canada and USA venues were seen as the most popular, for obvious reasons, the visits to European countries were very good value in that the party was made up of pairs of cadets from a number of different countries. Thus not only did I have a new country to visit but also had a cross section of other nations to get to know.

Our party was led by a USAF major whose Christian name was Bill, Major Bill formally, Sweet Loveable Old Bill to his friends or SLOB to his good friends. All the cadets met up at the USAF base at Rhein-Main, Frankfurt – we transited from the UK in an RAF Britannia – and from there dispersed to the host countries. I was bound for Holland and it was a great experience – raw fish, thermalling in a Piper Cub, various areas of Amsterdam at 02:00 – and I was only just eighteen!

Another important part of the ATC year was, and still is, the annual camp to an RAF station. Two stand out, RAF St Mawgan and RAF Watton, both now long closed. St Mawgan was the home of the Shackleton and a number of us cadets were fortunate enough to get airborne in ‘10,000 rivets in loose formation’. The flight I went on was about a six-hour training detail including circuits and some practice depth charging by dropping practice bombs onto a floating flare – all at night! All went well for about four hours but then something occurred which required an engine to be shut down and the captain decided it was prudent to go home and land. A wise decision as we had eaten all the excellent in-flight rations and four hours was about as long as one could reasonably take in a Shack.

The IACE contingent visiting Holland.

The visit to Watton was a mixture of highs and lows. I seem to recollect getting in trouble at one stage over an ashtray missing from a local pub but this was balanced by some other good deed – the actual deed is long forgotten – which restored our squadron commander’s faith in us. By that stage I was a sergeant and the reward for Cadet Warrant Officer Bob Partington, and me was a flight in one of the last Lincolns serving in the RAF. The actual flight was an engine air test and the captain was an ancient master pilot who obviously had thousands of hours on Lincolns or Lancasters. For an hour we floated around with one, or sometimes two, of the engines shut down without any apparent effect on the handling of the aircraft.

The squadron commander of 80 ATC Squadron was Flight Lieutenant Ken Wilkinson, a wartime fighter pilot who had flown Hurricanes, Spitfires and Thunderbolts mainly in Burma and, towards the end of the war, instructing in the Canal Zone of Egypt. Ken Wilkinson was a great supporter of my ambition to join the RAF – as opposed to the school’s attitude – and without his help I doubt I would have succeeded. He was a great character and ran the squadron with a splendid mixture of discipline and fun. He died suddenly some years after I left the ATC which was a great loss.

At some point, when I was about fifteen or sixteen years old, I became aware that many air forces were getting rid of their older, piston-engine equipment, as the early jets filtered their way down to the smaller users. I decided that some of these aircraft were worth trying to get hold of and I wrote to a number of countries to see if they would let me have one of their now vintage aircraft. When the Israeli Air Force said yes – this was after nobody else replied except the Irish Air Corps who wanted a lot of money (even then) for their Seafires and Spitfires – I was rather taken aback. The Israelis were prepared to give me a Mosquito FB6 provided I could get a qualified pilot to fly it out of the country.

The local and national press somehow got hold of the story and an ex-Mosquito pilot sent me a copy of his Pilot’s Notes (providing I returned them, which I did) and offered to fly it back for me. Unfortunately, the vintage aircraft movement had not taken hold at this stage and I could not raise the funds to get hold of the Mosquito – but just think what a flyable FB6 would be worth now?

At sixteen I went for pre-selection at RAF Hornchurch – a famous fighter station that has long since become a housing estate. That must have gone reasonably well because, after gaining the required five GCSE ‘O’ level examination subjects – including Maths and English – the following year I went back to the RAF Selection Centre, now at Biggin Hill for the actual selection. Biggin Hill was in its last throes as an active RAF station but was to continue for many years as the Selection Centre. Having elected to try for the RAF College, Cranwell, the week at Biggin Hill was followed by a further week at Cranwell itself.

However, the weekend between the two was free and we all stayed at Biggin Hill. In one of the hangars there was the basis of what has become the RAF Museum at Hendon – a collection of World War Two vintage aircraft such as the Wellington, Heinkel He 111, Bf 110, Fiat CR42 and numerous others. All of these splendid aircraft could be accessed just by drawing the hangar keys from the guardroom. That filled a complete day without any difficulty. Also on the airfield were three Boeing B-17s – filming had just been completed on The War Lover and the aircraft were being returned to their civilian configuration before going home to, I believe, France where they were used for photo reconnaissance. There was ample opportunity to crawl all over these great beasts and try out the various crew operating positions. I now have the greatest respect for anyone who went to war as a ball turret gunner on a B-17 or B-24 – a more cramped, uncomfortable and dangerous position could not be imagined.

Newspaper article from The Daily Mail about the Israeli Mosquito.

The Biggin Hill and Cranwell selection and medical tests were completed and then there was the long wait for the results. Eventually, the letter that was to decide how my future developed – pilot or road sweeper – arrived. I had failed to make the grade for Cranwell but, and this was the important bit, their lordships were prepared to offer me a direct entry commission into the RAF for pilot training. This was exactly what I wanted.

Cranwell was a three-year course, equivalent to going to university, whereas direct entry cut out most of the ‘bull’ and allowed you to get on with the flying. I accepted without further ado. I also had great pleasure in showing the letter to Mr Davies although I can’t remember his reaction. Their lordships also suggested that I complete my A level exams before reporting to RAF South Cerney for basic training. That filled a six-month wait but was more noted for the absence from, or at the very least the late arrival at, school. Having got into the RAF there appeared to be a marked lack of interest on my part in doing anything other than getting started as soon as possible. Well at least I got an A level in Technical Drawing.

Air Ministry letters confirming direct entry commission.

CHAPTER TWO

INTO THE AIR FORCE

On 3rd September 1962, I reported to RAF South Cerney in Gloucestershire for four months basic training. Memories of South Cerney are blurred by time – arriving at Cirencester to meet a number of other guys of the same age and intent, the privations of living in a barrack block (but only for the first month) and having the expected round of ‘bull’ – those blocks must have been the cleanest in the world – a week in tent on ‘escape and evasion training’ in Wales in winter (not to be recommended), a flight commander with a slight speech impediment who, when wanting to stand No 2 Flight at ease, actually said Number Flue Tight stand at ease and reduced the whole place to hysterics, ‘Fatty’ McLaughlin threatening to do all kinds of damage to one of the staff if the staff guy threw the threatened thunderflash into the concrete tube through which McLaughlin was crawling, the desperation of a Saturday morning ‘twice run the airfield – RUN’ following the Friday night mid-course thrash – we had even bought the staff guys beer all night and still they inflicted this on us, and many, many more.

Probably the most traumatic moment at South Cerney was when my mother saw what the RAF had done to my hair – it had all disappeared. ‘What is under your hat is yours, what’s outside is ours’ was the motto of the camp barber (ably supported by the squadron warrant officer) so if half of it was going to go, it might as well all go.

Talking of the warrant officer, even now, brings back fear and trepidation. Warrant Officer Maunder was a man you did not cross. Large, imposing and always immaculate does little justice to his appearance and bearing. There was no doubt that all us lowly officer cadets (along with the rest of the squadron, including the squadron commander) lived in continuous fear of getting on the wrong side of this warrant officer.

His fund of terms of ‘endearment’ were endless, I’m going to stick my pace stick so far up your backside you’ll think you have brass fillings, was one of the milder ones. The old ones such as, "Am I hurting you; I should be, I’m standing on your hair’, were far below Maunder’s dignity. He always strove to get the best results out of the cadets because, as he continually reminded us, after we had left South Cerney with a commission he would have to salute us and call us ‘sir’.

Some years later, when in Aden, a new RAF regiment squadron arrived, lo and behold, the squadron warrant officer was Warrant Officer Maunder. Tony McKeon, who had also suffered through South Cerney with me, and I could not resist the temptation (hearts in mouth of course) of popping round to his office to see him. As we walked in, unannounced, Warrant Officer Maunder jumped up from behind his desk, crashed to attention and declaimed in his loudest parade voice Mr Dean and Mr McKeon if I’m not mistaken – still as scruffy as ever, sirs. Good to see that some things don’t change.

8 Course photograph at RAF Leeming – note Sergeant Buckley, the last NCO pilot to be trained in the RAF. (via Rod Dean)

Eventually, South Cerney was completed and on 20th December the surviving members of No 178 Entry passed out as acting pilot officers – 4231607 sir! – (the stripe is so thin you can’t see it) and went our merry little ways for Christmas leave and then on to the next stage – flying training. The infamous (or so we thought at the time) No 8 Basic Flying Training Course started on 7th January 1963 at No 3 Flying Training School, RAF Leeming, in Yorkshire on the Jet Provost T3. Not that we saw a lot of the Jet Provost initially. More lectures and ground training was the order of the day but at least it was aerodynamics, jet engines, navigation, meteorology and the like. Mind you there was, at the beginning and throughout the course, a smattering of officer training and the occasional bit of ‘bull’ but we didn’t let that get in the way.

Groundschool was eventually reduced to a half day with the other half spent at the flights and on 18th February I did the first thirty-five minute Jet Provost familiarisation flight in XN606, a Jet Provost 3, with Flight Lieutenant Eric Evers. Eric Evers was a real gentleman, ex-Shackletons I think, and he guided me through the first couple of months of the course including the magic first solo after eight hours and thirty-five minutes dual training. This came on 19th March in Jet Provost 3, XM459 and lasted all of fifteen minutes – three circuits for an overshoot, a roller and a full stop was the brief I think.

In April I had a change of instructors when I acquired Flight Lieutenant ‘Lofty’ Lance, a South African with a fascinating background. There is more on Lofty later in the next chapter but he certainly had a major influence on my progress through the course and was a totally intriguing character. There were a number of other players in the Leeming scene – ‘Farting’ Jack Pollard, for one, who concentrated on teaching instrument flying and was an instrument rating examiner on the Jet Provost. He thought nothing of putting the Jet Provost into a spin whilst in cloud, as I found out on a practice for my IR test (we were required to be able to recover from the spin on instruments) and he gained his name because of the unpressurised Jet Provost and the fact that we went to quite high level (30,000 feet or so) on instrument flying with the obvious effects.

The Jet Provost 3 was no great shakes as a high performance aircraft. It did weight something like 7,200 pounds with the tip tanks full of fuel and it only had 1,750 pounds of thrust from the Viper engine. My last flight at Leeming in a Jet Provost 3 (until many years later at RAF Brawdy) was on 1st August 1963 and it was a full airtest on XN574 – Lofty was flying and I went along to do the writing.

At this time the Viper in the Jet Provost 3 had started shedding compressor blades and, until a solution was implemented, the engine was trimmed back to 98% of its normal maximum rpm. The loss of 2% of the rpm meant a substantially larger percentage loss of thrust given the characteristics of jet engines. Consequently, I noted on the airtest form that the time from brakes off to 1,000 feet on a hot summer’s day, with full tips and two crew (one of whom was ‘well built’) was five minutes. Not for nothing was the Jet Provost known as the ‘constant thrust, variable noise hair dryer’.

Eventually we swapped to the Jet Provost 4 which, with some 2,500 pounds of thrust, was considerably more exciting. The early part of the Jet Provost course was completed on the T3 but at somewhere about mid-course a change was made to the T4 for the more advanced low-level navigation and formation work. In October Flight Lieutenant Ian Weddle took control from Lofty and saw me, successfully, through to the end of the course and the wings parade. We received our wings and our postings for the next part of training on 20th December, and, after a suitable thrash, the course broke up for Christmas leave. The luck which seems to have been with me as far as flying is concerned did not desert me and I was posted to Gnat T1s at RAF Valley with the course starting on 7th January 1963.

Air Marshal Sir Augustus Walker presenting the wings. (via Rod Dean)

The journey home from Leeming to Bolton was something of an epic. For a variety of different reasons, despite now having my wings, I had not yet passed my driving test. In spite of this handicap I was now on my second car; the first, a really clapped out only just post-war Morris 8, was left festering behind the officers’ mess at Leeming suffering from a terminal breakdown of everything. The second was a Wolseley 6/80 which, in its police car guise, was a very pokey vehicle for its day. However, this particular vehicle had had its 2.5 litre engine removed and replaced with a 1,500cc unit which made it bit breathless. I had agreed with one of the guys on the course that he would come back to Bolton with me as, without a license, I needed a driver to accompany me.

For some reason this arrangement fell through and I was stuck at Leeming and so I thought, ‘What the hell, I’m a junior jet jockey – I’ll drive it home on my own’. All went well until just before Halifax when the exhaust started blowing and the car sounded a bit like a tank. No problem, press on, only thirty miles to go. The next snag arrived going up a steep hill into Halifax (no motorways in those days) when I was stopped by traffic lights on some roadworks. As I was drawing up to a halt, I noticed two policemen, a sergeant and a constable, standing on the opposite side of the road taking an unhealthy interest in my car and the noise it was making. One of the principles of war is that attack is the best means of defence.

Sergeant, I wonder if you could help? said I, winding down the window.

Yes sir, what appears to be the problem?

The exhaust has gone on my car, as you can hear, do you know any good garages in Halifax that might be able to help?

Yes sir, just over the hill on the right hand side of the road, about a mile to go.

Thank you very much.

No problem sir.

Traffic lights green, foot hard down, roar away and next stop home.

I took my first test in this self same car in Bolton whilst on Christmas leave. Mention of the first test indicates the degree of success – I failed. I felt a great sense of trepidation when the examiner appeared to be on day release from the Gestapo complete with a trilby hat, a mid-calf-length trench coat and absolutely no sense of humour. It did not help when the knackered battery caused the car to not start and I sought his help in holding out the choke whilst I wound it up. It fell apart, however, within five minutes of us starting off. The examiner had been very explicit: I want you to follow my instructions to the letter. Understand? No problems, having just completed my wings course, I understood clear cut instructions. As we drifted down one of Bolton’s main thoroughfares the man said that I was to take the next left. So I did, straight down a narrow dead end.

What are you doing going down here? enquired the examiner.

Only doing as instructed – take the next left.

"I meant the next main road left!"

You should have said so. You told me to follow your instructions to the letter and this was the next left. I can’t turn round now so I will have to break the law and back out onto a main road.

Not a good start. And the rest was not much better. After the driving part the examiner suggested we should try the Highway Code at which stage I kicked him out. No point wasting both our time; we both know I’ve failed so why don’t you get out and let my driver in? Not best pleased. I finally did pass my test, in Holyhead, in the crowded middle of summer, in a car I had only driven once before and with a very pleasant and relaxing examiner. Mind you, as will be recounted shortly, the Wolseley was to prove a great boon and be the centre of one of those crux moments in life – not that I believed it at the time.

CHAPTER THREE

‘LOFTY’ LANCE

I never knew what his Christian name was – he was known to one and all, students and staff alike, as ‘Lofty’. This was mainly because he stood about six foot six tall and was built like the side of the proverbial brick-built s*** house. He certainly occupied about three-quarters of the cockpit of a Jet Provost leaving little room for the poor old student.

Lofty was South African and he came to the RAF via a very long and convoluted route. Following some time in the merchant navy, his first air force was the South African during the Korean War where he flew Mustangs. In the process he managed to write three of them off including one very spectacular event, judging from the photographs, when after a one-wheel-up landing he departed the runway and went through the base armoury shedding the wings and rear fuselage on the way. Having left all the fuel behind, the armoured cocoon continued on its way for some further distance before coming to rest whereupon Lieutenant Lance stepped out, totally unmarked, over the side of the remnants of the aircraft. He always said that the Mustang was the only aircraft to crash in.

Lofty’s Mustang in Korea. (via Rod Dean)

Following the end of the Korean War, Lofty carried on flying, this time with the Royal Canadian Air Force. On expressing the desire to be a fighter pilot he was posted, after signing on of course, to the Argus maritime reconnaissance aircraft. A few years of that led to the RCAF instructors school and a basic training job. The wanderlust overcame common sense and somewhere around 1962 Lofty left the RCAF and joined his third air force, the RAF. The same routine applied – fighter pilot please – sign here – Central Flying School go. It came to pass that our paths crossed at RAF Leeming in 1963 where Lofty became my instructor for the majority of the Jet Provost course.

Lofty had his own style of instructing which did not owe a great deal to Central Flying School. Sod the briefing, let’s fly were the usual words that preceded a flight, the rest of the action being picked up on the walk out to the aircraft or whilst taxiing. Any questions? as we walked in post-flight was the usual debrief. However, despite his unorthodox approach, he was an excellent instructor who had a superb rapport with his students and treated them much more like equals than most instructors. We had to call him ‘sir’ at the squadron but you were likely to get a clip around the ear if it