The Quick and the Dead by William Arthur Waterton

Author:William Arthur Waterton
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: HISTORY / Military / Aviation
ISBN: 9781909808812
Publisher: Grub Street Publishing
Published: 2013-02-18T16:00:00+00:00

9

BELGIUM, HOLLAND AND THE ARGENTINE

Despite post-war American influence in many of our traditional markets, hundreds of Meteors were sold overseas. The Argentine was our first customer, France—with, initially, one Mark IV for experimental purposes—the second. Then came Belgium and Holland.

I took the first Meteor to Belgium in October, ’48, with their fighter ace, Colonel Donnet, in the rear seat. It was a trainer, and the Belgians (who, incidentally, produce really first-class pilots) were delighted with it. After being handsomely wined and dined in Brussels, I returned to England by B.E.A. Viking—and was given one of the worst scares I have ever had in an aeroplane.

There were few passengers, but one, a Scot, was “fleein’ drunk” in both senses of the word. The Belgians were reluctant to allow him through Customs, and aboard the Viking his conviviality increased at the expense of the stewardess’s bar.

It was fine all the way to the English coast, but at Dagenham we ran into black, cumulonimbus clouds with their attendant rain, electric storms, lightning and rough air. The approach into Northolt was by instruments.

It was a nightmare ride. At one moment the engines roared full out—then, a few seconds later, came dead silence as the throttles were yanked back. My jaw would fall on my chest under G—then, in a flash, the reverse occurred, and only the safety belt prevented me from being thrown up and hitting the ceiling. We circled, the din of the engines telling me we had missed the airport. Another terrifying try. This time we broke cloud in light rain at well under 800 feet to find ourselves skimming the red warning lights atop the hangars on the north side of Northolt. We shot upwards again, and the Viking hit a colossal bump. I am certain it was the slipstream of another aircraft.

By this time the Scot was as cold sober as yesterday’s porridge. The face of the stewardess was grey; doubtless mine was, too. I said to her: “Your bloke up front has a bad case of twitch, hasn’t he?” To add to my perturbation, she replied: “I’m terrified. He’s already got one prang to his credit. . . . I’ll be glad when we’re down.”

We made it on the third attempt. After an appallingly jerky approach we landed half-way down the runway and ground to a halt, lucky to stop before over-running it. I was never so glad to climb from an airliner, and if I’m any judge, the pilot felt the same way. I learned later that he and B.E.A. soon parted company.

As a pilot it is difficult to sit in the back and suffer silently someone else’s bad driving. By the time a ’plane is airborne I reckon to be able to form a fair opinion of the man flying it. The way he taxies, brakes, turns, and uses his engines are usually sufficient to tell me whether I’m in the hands of a smooth or rough pilot. (In the same way, I claim, when a car passenger, to tell what sort of a pilot the driver would make.

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