Vampire Boys: True Tales from Operators of the RAF's First Single-Engined Jet

By Charlotte Bailey and Frederick Forsyth

Sliding out of the shadows of World War Two, the de Havilland Vampire – accompanied by the distinctive whine of its Goblin engine – quickly proved itself an effective alternative to piston-powered fighters. After entering operational service with the RAF (as the service’s first single-engined jet) in 1946, the Vampire – sought by air forces the world over – held a number of notable records: the first fighter to exceed 500 mph, the first to set a world altitude record of almost 60,000 ft, the first jet to take off and land from an aircraft carrier, and the first jet to cross the Atlantic Ocean. Not bad for something built partly of wood. Throughout these pages, the ‘Vampire Boys’ bring to life the trials and tribulations of operating a first-generation jet across the globe. Through their insightful anecdotes and exceptional experiences, the reader can follow squadrons across the dusty deserts of Iraq to exercises in West Germany. First-hand tales of training, aerial handling, incidents and accidents (including the much-maligned spin characteristics) and squadron life – accompanied by unique images – bring together a portrait of a pioneering time in aviation advancement, right up to the present day with the T.11 still flying from Coventry Airport.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Dec 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9781911667995

Book preview

Chapter 1

THE SPIDER CRAB

DICK WHITTINGHAM

Dick Whittingham. (Roger Coasby)

On 8 December 1942, the Ministry of Aircraft Production issued Specification E.6/41 calling for a jet-powered fighter propelled by a single Halford H.1 engine. (This was Frank Halford’s redesigned version of Frank Whittle’s pioneering powerplant, later put into production as the ‘Goblin’.) The de Havilland design team – overseen by the company’s chairman, Sir Geoffrey de Havilland – had just the answer and after a successful bid, two prototypes (soon extended to three) of the revolutionary new design were commissioned. After being constructed in great secrecy, the first prototype – now dubbed the ‘Spider Crab’ – was first flown from Hatfield on 20 September 1943 by Geoffrey de Havilland Jnr. In fact, such was the level of secrecy that when the prototype airframe (minus its engine) was first revealed to the workforce, de Havilland airframe fitter Frank Howe couldn’t work out where the propeller was supposed to be fitted! Airframe LZ548/G (the G denoting the requirement for a guard) was subsequently joined by another two prototypes – LZ551/G and MP838/G – which both made their maiden flights in early 1944. In April of that year, assembly of the first production aircraft – now renamed the Vampire – commenced.

Richard ‘Dick’ Whittingham spent his entire working life at de Havilland. He was an engineering apprentice for the Hatfield-based company from 1935 until 1941, after which he became an inspector and moved to the Experimental Department in 1942. Here, Dick was authorised by the AID (Aeronautical Inspection Directorate) to inspect and sign aircraft out for flight on their behalf. This was initially on Mosquitos and he had the opportunity to fly with Geoffrey de Havilland Jnr and his brother John on many occasions. During 1943, Dick was engaged almost exclusively on the Spider Crab prototype until he was called up for compulsory National Service and joined the RAF in December 1945. Dick’s diary, from which entries between 1943 and 1944 are reproduced here (with kind thanks to Roger Coasby, Dick’s nephew), offers a fascinating insight into the Vampire’s formative months.

Dick Whittingham worked as a de Havilland engineering apprentice for seven years. (Roger Coasby)

Early flights revealed a tendency for the aircraft to ‘snake’ in the air. Geoffrey de Havilland Jnr had some difficulty in persuading the chief designer, R. Bishop, just how serious the problem was. Eventually to convince him, he got them to stand at the edge of the airfield whilst he took off in the prototype LZ548/G. In a few moments we saw him coming straight towards us at no more than fifty feet above the ground. As he reached us he made a tight ninety-degree turn heading away from us. The snaking was so violent that it was frightening and he had reached the far side of the airfield before he had the aircraft under control again.

Upon landing there was a discussion and it was decided that as extra nose and dorsal fins had not cured the problem they should now consider reducing the fin and rudder area. Geoffrey then suggested flying with one rudder removed to prove the theory. Although the design team were not very happy to take responsibility for this drastic step, one rudder was removed and I signed it out for flight on 4 January 1944: ‘less one rudder at pilot’s request’.

After the flight Geoffrey enjoyed pulling Bishop’s leg and said, Right, that’s how I want it. In the event however, the upper section of the fin and rudder were sawn off prior to restoring the familiar de Havilland shape on later aircraft.

Dick Whittingham spent his entire working life at de Havilland. (Roger Coasby)

On 29 January 1944, MP838/G was fitted with drop tanks and ballast. Geoffrey Pike flew it in the morning, having previously taken it up on its first flight the week before. Having tightened the drop tanks that had worked loose, Geoffrey de Havilland flew it in the afternoon. Watching him coming in to land we were horrified to see him go straight into the ground without flaring out. Fortunately it was at quite a shallow angle. Nevertheless the plane bounced some way in the air before coming to rest.

Dick Whittingham’s qualification as a pre-flight inspector. (Roger Coasby)

After taxiing back in to the hangar Geoffrey called me over and invited me to lean into the cockpit to feel the control column. It was locked solid! The ailerons could be moved but not the elevator. Eventually it suddenly freed itself, only to lock up again after fitters sat moving the stick backwards and forwards for two days. By process of elimination the fault was finally traced to a rough ball race in the elliptical pulley that provided differential movement to the elevator. Upon removing the dust cover one of the ball bearings was found to have split in two. It was probably no more than one eighth of an inch diameter, but the fault could have been disastrous.

On Saturday morning, 5 February 1944, we pushed LZ548/G out and found quite a large crowd waiting on the airfield. In the early days the de Havilland Engine Company carried out the engine runs. While I was talking to one of their fitters who I knew, Sir Geoffrey de Havilland came over from the waiting crowd and asked us: Will the engine start first time? We both said that usually about one in three is a false start. He then said, Could you do your best to make it start as I have just told Mr Whittle that our de Havilland engine always starts first time and he doesn’t believe me. I was not sure how we would achieve this but my companion told me not to worry.

When the engine was ready to be started, he got me to come on the top of the wing with him where the engine cowlings had been left open. He then slackened off the igniter plug until it was finger tight. The engine was started and the revs built up, until after a few seconds we both knew that it was not going to ignite. My colleague then whipped out the plug, handed it to me, then lit a wartime ‘Polo’ lighter and pushed it into the plughole.

There was a sudden ‘whoof’ as the fuel ignited and flames shot out of the plughole singeing the hair on the back of his hand. As the revs built up, the flames were sucked back in through the plughole, enabling me to replace the igniter plug and its lead. Geoffrey gave one of his spectacular displays and no one, including Frank Whittle, ever knew that a humble fitter had saved the day.

On 23 May 1944 we pushed LZ548/G out for a flight. It was customary to leave the cowlings off until engine runs were completed. This was for safety reasons. The tailpipe on early engines was covered with soft lagging. This could become saturated after an abortive or ‘wet’ start and we were always aware that it could catch fire.

On this particular day the engine runs had been completed. The engine was thoroughly checked over; the cowlings were refitted and their fasteners checked. I then went to the hangar to see that the paperwork was all completed. As I came outside once more to have a last look around the aircraft a very observant electrician suddenly pointed to the plane and shouted, Look at that! The yellow paint on top of the hinged cowlings was gradually turning brown. We both of us grabbed a fire extinguisher, got onto the wing, lifted the cowlings and a great bout of flame shot up into the air. Fortunately we were able to put the fire out fairly quickly, but not before a considerable amount of damage had been done.

Engine runs and preparation for flight were carried out in an outside compound that had high walls for security. There were large gates at the airfield end that would be opened as the aircraft landed. Geoffrey de Havilland would then taxi in and brake before reaching the wall at the far end. The gates would then be closed behind him. On this particular day he took one of the prototypes up for an altitude test. On landing he taxied into the compound at a fairly brisk rate, but suddenly shouted out: It won’t stop!

He then bailed out of the runaway plane and held onto it with his suede shoes dragging along the ground. Everyone present then threw themselves onto the booms. This caused the plane to tip nose up; the bumpers dragged along the ground and we managed to stop the plane just before it reached the wall at the far end of the compound. Geoffrey then told us that he had lowered the undercarriage at altitude to see what would happen. We told him what had happened. One of the brake hoses had frozen solid and snapped in two. The spec of the rubber was changed straight away.

There were a number of occasions when the high-pressure fuel hose on the engine burst during flight. Geoffrey Pike had to make a forced landing at Benson and later at Hatfield where he wrote off LZ548/G. He hit a post on the edge of the runway after gliding all the way from High Wycombe. The same problem caused Geoffrey de Havilland to make a dead-stick landing at Hatfield and again at Cranfield. On the latter occasion Geoffrey Pike flew myself and two fitters to Cranfield with a new hose. Our flight, in a Mosquito, was not too comfortable. The two fitters squeezed together in the cockpit, while I was locked in the rear fuselage (in the dark).

The arrival of the jet caused great excitement at Cranfield, as they hadn’t seen one before. After the new hose had been fitted and Geoffrey was about to leave the CO asked him if he would give a demo to the crowd that had gathered. Geoffrey told him that much as he would like to oblige, he was not allowed as the aircraft was still on the secret list. He then took off and disappeared into the distance. Moments later he re-appeared making a high-speed run over the airfield. When he reached the crowd he turned and doing a series of rolls, left in the direction of Hatfield. Later, on being asked, What do you do when the engine cuts out? He replied, I glide in.

During the final build stages the DH.100 prototype was in a secure section of the Experimental Department. One day there was a knock on the locked door. I opened it to find Sir Geoffrey De Havilland who asked, Do you think that I could come in? I said that I was sure that he could. He continued, Only I have my friend Fred with me. I peered through the doorway to see who this ‘Fred’ was. It was Sir Frederick Handley Page!

Chapter 2

KHARTOUM TO KAI TAK

RUFUS HEALD

Rufus Heald.

As fighter squadrons in the Middle and Near East looked to re-equip their ageing airframes, de Havilland were quick to realise the potential the export Vampire could offer. In late 1947, the final Mk.1 to roll off the production line was sent to Khartoum in northern Africa for assessment, which commenced in 1948. Over the next six months, three RAF test pilots from the aircraft evaluation establishment at Boscombe Down conducted a rigorous programme of ‘tropical trials’ designed to assess the Vampire’s suitability to operate in tropical climates. It was here at Khartoum, early in 1948, that Rufus Heald – flying Hawker Tempests with 213 Squadron – first encountered the Vampire.

The aircraft was to feature further in Rufus’ flying career. After initially learning to fly the single-seater for himself in 1951 at RAF Driffield, Yorkshire – followed by the operational conversion unit (OCU) at RAF Chivenor, Devon – Rufus was posted to Hong Kong. While serving with 28 Squadron, RAF Sek Kong, he was to experience the drama and dangers of ‘dead-sticking’ a Vampire FB.5 for himself. After thirty-eight years in the RAF, Rufus was awarded an MBE for services to flight safety and survival equipment, and logged his 10,000th flight hour in 1987.

I was in Khartoum, flying Hawker Tempests, and somebody had flown down from England in a Vampire for the purposes of completing its tropical trials. On this particular day, the Vampire test pilot had gone up to conduct some fuel consumption tests at around 30,000ft. However, he must have got so engrossed in his test work that he hadn’t realised how long he’d been airborne, nor the range he’d require to make it back to base; essentially, he’d forgotten to turn around in time. I happened to be airborne in the Tempest, down at about 7,000 or 8,000ft, when I heard a voice over the radio: Khartoum approach, we’ve got a bit of a problem – I’ve just calculated our fuel consumption and I don’t think we’re going to get there.

I knew that bit of the Nile well and although there were no airfields south of Khartoum, I knew what his inbound track was, and thirty to forty miles south of his position was the wing’s bombing range which had a large, flat, hard surface at its centre. (I knew the surface well because we used to race trucks on it; there was a guest house where’d we’d go to stay for the weekend, entertain ourselves shooting crocodiles, and then when we’d got over our hangovers on the Saturday morning we’d take the three-ton trucks racing.)

With fifteen months of ‘tropical’ trials completed, Vampire VG703 arrived back at Hatfield in October 1949. One flight from Singapore to the Tropicalisation Experimental Station at Khartoum was some 6,100 miles. (via Steve Bridgewater)

I called the Vampire pilot up on the radio – he clarified that he had a problem, and suggested I didn’t interrupt – but I told him that if he kept slightly right of his track, he’d pass over the bombing range and would be able to land on the hard surface. He’d initially announced his intention to attempt to bail out, but this was by no means an attractive prospect and it seemed far better to land than to fall out of the sky. Thankfully we had some direction-finding equipment at Khartoum, so I got the tower to provide him with the heading. Then I did another important thing: I shut up (there is nothing worse than someone prompting and suggesting). Another Tempest went ahead to show him where he could drive his aeroplane onto and the Vampire ended up gliding in, having already selected undercarriage down before the engine stopped, leaving the reserve hydraulics to enable him to put the flaps down. We told him which way the wind was blowing and he lined up, our Tempests circling around him like a pack of vultures, and managed to make a successful landing – not so much as a scratch on him – before climbing out and waving. As I would find out myself later on, the Vampire really was an excellent glider.

Meanwhile, I carried on flying to Khartoum who sent a refuelling vehicle and a truck towing a trolley-accumulator (the Vampire used so much power to get going, you would always need an external power supply rather than relying on internal batteries). With his tanks now half full of fuel, the pilot did a walkaround, started the engine up, then off he went. We caught up with him in the bar later – which is the usual place to find me – and it cost him a beer. I don’t think he’d realised on the radio that when I’d been interrupting him, it was to help him, not to jeer. If he’d landed straight ahead, he might have touched down on sand; then again, he might not. Fortunately, I was able to direct him to the hard surface, which was by far his best option. Quite unlike flying back in England at the time, when there were airfields everywhere. Needless to say, he didn’t mention it in his later report. Of course, as it was technically a civilian aircraft, we didn’t get what we really wanted – a flight in his Vampire!

A Vampire of 213 Squadron in Khartoum. (via Bruce Gordon)

In February 1951, I went from Khartoum to RAF Driffield in Yorkshire to learn how to fly the Vampire for myself. My instructor, Fl Lt Pete Marman, was also tasked with piloting the prototype two-seat Vampire which was undergoing trials at Driffield at the time. I only flew single-seaters, dual instruction having been on the Meteor, which was a totally different aeroplane to handle. Having completed my conversion training, I was posted to the operation conversion unit at RAF Chivenor, Devon, at the end of which I was sent to join 28 Squadron at RAF Sek Kong. Flying in hot air made a huge difference to performance – it often felt more like a Turkish bath inside the cockpit than a Turkish bath itself. This was when I experienced my first Vampire crash.

On 17 October 1951, I’d taken off from the small airfield at Sek Kong on what was an unusually cloudy day for Hong Kong, with the intention of doing some general handling and aerobatics. I was above cloud at about 10,000ft, south of Kowloon and land-side of Hong Kong island, when all of a sudden there was a lurch – or at least I think there was, strange things happen to your memory during moments of high stress – followed by a profound silence. Dash and double drat, I said to myself, or words to that effect: it wasn’t what I wanted at all. At first I thought a wing had come away, but the engine was eerily quiet and the rpm gauge read zero. Without an ejection seat in the FB.5, I had to consider what I was going to do: you had a chance if you tried to bail out, but as I didn’t much fancy the thought of hitting the aeroplane’s tail, I thought I’d better ride the stricken Vampire down and land onto whatever soft ground I could find. The Timo Shan mountain isn’t very soft, but I wasn’t thinking very clearly at that point and noticing the cloud beneath me, I couldn’t have bailed out even if I’d wanted to. Fortunately, as I already knew, the Vampire is a superb glider. So we glided on, whereon we popped out of cloud to a pleasant surprise: the sight of the harbour spread out below, and the runway which points straight at Lion Rock. I thought to myself: I’ll land it there.

Rufus Heald’s ‘summary of flying and assessment for course commencing 1951’ notes: ‘Don’t become overconfident!’ (Rufus Heald)

I brought the undercarriage down early in the hope that the windmilling engine would put just enough energy back into the hydraulic system in case I needed it. It turns out we had just enough to get the gear down. I came round in a big, broad, general sweep over Lion Rock and when I was sure I could make the airfield, I selected full flap. Absolutely nothing happened – there wasn’t the hydraulic power, that must have been destroyed along with the engine – but as it wasn’t going to help me, I quickly ignored it. Instead, I resorted to flying astonishingly badly: chucking the aeroplane around, doing anything I could think of to increase drag, as I was still coming in far too fast.

A T.11 of 50 Squadron in Kai Tak (three years after Rufus’ crash). (via Bruce Gordon)

I’d spoken to air traffic control in Kai Tak to let them know what was going on and they’d not only shut the airfield’s second runway, they’d also closed the main road to vehicle traffic: the runway cuts across a road, and a line of cars was queuing at red lights as I hurtled closer. I was still going pretty fast halfway down the runway, and at the end I could see a ten-foot-tall concrete fence. Well aware that I was sitting in a balsa-wood box with a bloody big jet engine and a fuel tank behind me, I really didn’t want to become the jam in that sandwich – and, if I survived, likely die in the ensuing fire. Apart from raising the undercarriage, there wasn’t much I could do to reduce drag. Then I had a brilliant idea: to apply full aileron so that when one wing hit the ground, it would turn me around. In fact, I was almost going backwards when we hit the fence; the broken engine made the hole, and after that I rather lost control. I continued sliding along on my belly up the hill, slowing down, until I went into the side of a farm building with a bang.

There didn’t seem to be much of the Vampire left in front of (or around) me at this point, so I unstrapped myself from the bulkhead, put my feet down and waddled away, parachute still on my back. I’d walked all of a matter of ten paces before a thought crossed my mind: damn stupid cabbages – why were they growing sideways? I must have started staggering back down the hill before I’d keeled over and hit the ground, which I did fairly hard, and the blow to the head I’d received in the crash had caught up with me. I stayed on the ground, thinking I was blowed if I was going to do any more; I’d done enough.

In the fullness of time, an emergency ambulance arrived: they stopped at the bottom of the hill where the runway ended, obviously looking for the poor pilot. A local Chinese man, who must have been a farmer, was pointing out my direction. I was lying in the cabbage field, not really moving, and one medic shouted to his partner: He’s over here, Fred, he’s knocked his f***ing head off! Then he looked down to me and asked, loudly, Are you all right sir? which I thought was a ridiculous question, especially since I was still lying in a pool of blood from a large head wound, just looking at the cabbages. His colleague arrived with a folding stretcher (which was about all they had), eased me onto it, carried me down to the ambulance and drove me to the RAF medical centre. Here I was attended to by two Princess Mary’s Royal Air Force nursing sisters; one of these delightful young ladies cut my hair off, while the other cut my clothes off. They patched me up and I was sent to bed for several days. However, unlike the cut in my head, Vampire WA263 was beyond repair.

Chapter 3

LONG BEFORE LIGHTNINGS

ROBBIE ROBERTSON

Robbie Robertson (standing) with Flight Lieutenant Bruce Wingate (seated). (Robbie Robertson)

The first permanent airfield to be built on the island of Malta was RAF Hal Far, constructed in 1922. In April 1944, Hal Far was transferred to the command of the Fleet Air Arm under the name HMS Falcon. In anticipation of the arrival of the first jet aircraft, the airfield was closed for three weeks in 1950 to allow the runways to be resurfaced. In September 1951, 185 Squadron was newly re-formed at Hal Far (as an RAF squadron on a naval air station) and began operations in October with the arrival of the aircraft.

After successfully completing his OCU, Robbie Robertson volunteered to go out to Malta to help re-form a Meteor squadron. However, upon arrival, he learned that the squadron would be equipped with the Vampire FB.5; a type he had never seen before. Throughout the short life of the