A fomer RN Buccaneer pilot from its early Gyron-Junior powered days, Andrew Gleadow, who I met when he was subsequenly working for Peregrine Air Services at Inverness died recently. I thought the following would be of interest to Fox3 and others - it is an article Andrew wrote for Marine Quarterly in 2015.
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It is often said that flying a high-speed jet at low level provides the most intensely satisfying experience available to someone fully dressed and in broad daylight. It is also widely acknowledged that the sensation is so unlike anything else that it can only be understood by another aviator. But perhaps I can trawl from my own recollections just a flavour of fast-jet flying as provided by the early Buccaneers with Gyron-Junior engines. There is not much dispute that the aircraft was a great credit to its designers, and better at its job that anything else flying at the time.
But few people will deny that the engines, selected because there was nothing else available in time to meet delivery targets, were woefully inadequate. It was a political decision that put aircraft and aircrew at risk, and partially explains an attrition rate in service greater in percentage terms than that of the much-publicised ‘Widowmaker’, the F104 Starfighter of the unfortunate German Air Force. (I hasten to add it did not make anything like as many widows, largely because of the splendid job done by the Martin Baker Company, which provided an escape system for those occasions when the Buccaneer crew ran out of height, airspeed, ideas and enthusiasm all at once.) Basically, the aircraft was shockingly underpowered – though at a dinner given at Lossiemouth in honour of the Buccaneer’s thirtieth birthday, a very senior member of Blackburn’s design team told the assembled company that ‘many people don’t understand that without the Gyron-Junior the aircraft might never have got off the ground.’ My long-suffering observer Peter King was heard to say that it only just got off the ground with it!
Once airborne, the Mk1 flew beautifully. The aircraft was supposedly limited to Mach 0.95, but would happily exceed Mach 1 in a dive. I used to do it regularly during test flights until the late Bobbie Burns, then Blackburn’s chief test pilot at Holme-on-Spalding-Moor, told me it was inadvisable because the tail might come off. Takeoffs and landings, however, were occasions when lack of thrust was very noticeable. A great deal of runway was required to get airborne, particularly when heavy and with little natural headwind. After releasing the brakes there was always ample time for a couple of clues of the crossword before the pilot had to put his mind to getting the wheels and flaps up to climb away. When finally you did lift off, however, these actions became urgent if a respectable distance from the ground was to be achieved prior to leaving allied airspace or before nightfall.
Another interesting aspect of takeoff in a Mk1 would manifest itself, particularly at Air Day displays. In an attempt to provide a suitable spectacle for the crowds, successive Commanders (Air) would sometimes launch a ‘Balbo’: every aircraft that was available on the runway at once for a stream takeoff. The Mk1 was unsuited to this for many reasons, but principally because
the intake/engine combination often struggled to supply enough air to the engine compressor to prevent it stalling, particularly if the prevailing wind was not blowing directly down the runway in a placid and well-mannered fashion – seldom the case with up to twenty aircraft immediately in front, all winding up to full power in succession. If you were at the back of the queue, the air needed by your own engines would arrive hot, lumpy, confused and downright irritable. The engines would emit a loud banging and what felt like physical thumping, as if someone was repeatedly hitting the side of the aircraft with a heavy sledgehammer. When finally you did manage to begin your long and tedious takeoff run there was plenty of time to reflect upon whether you really wanted to go flying in this finely-tuned example of the aircraft builders’ art.
Even without other aircrafts’ jet-wash, there could be embarrassing occasions on a carrier deck when trying to taxi forward out of the wires after landing-on. While Lt Cdr (Flying) was becoming apoplectic up in Flyco, trying to clear his deck for the aircraft landing behind me, I sat on several occasions with both throttles fully open, waiting for even one engine to spool up and give me sufficient power to taxi out of the landing area. I was also unfortunate enough to have one engine fail to wind up while attempting to go around from a ‘bolter’ – missing the wires while trying to get the aircraft to stick to the top of the carrier. Bolters and ‘touch and goes’ were often slightly white-knuckle affairs in a Mk1, even with two engines behaving themselves. I am here to tell you (just) that with only one engine it should not be attempted. Our aircraft set off towards the bottom of the South China Sea and Peter and I elected not to accompany it just half a second before it impacted the waves.
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As a final part of our training before we joined an embarked squadron, a few of us were sent to the Royal Aircraft Establishment at Bedford for a confidence-building go on the steam catapult. This was the system normally fitted beneath the flight deck of a carrier, rigged on a disused runway. The airspeed achieved by the catapult tends to be augmented atsea by any natural wind, enhanced by the ability of the ship to steam into it at up to 30 knots (on a good day!). At Bedford you had to accept whatever the wind was doing, and since the catapult was nailed to the ground and not going anywhere there could be no 30-knot bonus. First you had to taxi up the ramp onto the catapult track, some ten feet or so above the ground. A great deal of power was required to climb the ramp. This became a distinct embarrassment when you arrived on the short flat bit at the top. Taking the power off too early could also be a bitunnerving because reversing the aircraft had not been part of the syllabus.
With no wind and a short catapult stroke the horizontal g-force of the launch was stupefying for a first-timer – much higher than could be expected at sea. The mind-blowing acceleration convinced me that something must break, and that I would end my days in a crumpled heap of twisted metal and probably a fireball. As it happened, nothing did break, but the aircraft showed absolutely no inclination to shrug off its earthly ties. Instead it settled firmly and quite heavily on the tarmac just in front of the catapult. This emphatic rebuff somewhat dampened my enthusiasm. Postponement to a more auspicious time seemed like a sensible idea. But I was already committed and travelling at some speed,so it was time to consider my options. The length of runway before me was insufficient for a normal landing run, but some thoughtful soul had foreseen this and provided a steel mesh barrier to keep me from straying into the local council estate. Going into this barrier was known to damage the aircraft somewhat, and could certainly be relied upon to curtail the day’s excitement and prevent me flying home. The alternative was to attempt a normal takeoff. The length of run was not really enough but I had the bonus of the forward speed provided by the ‘device’ to send me on my way. Set against that was the challenge of achieving enough height to clear the barrier. I would like to say my decision to try and get airborne was based upon a cool, analytical assessment of speed, distance, weight, prevailing conditions and aircraft performance. Actually, I did what seemed like a good idea at the time, cleared the barrier by a whisker and landed back for another try.
There were many accusing looks from the boffins who had calculated the trim settings. Everything was checked and recalculated. Exactly the same thing happened again. So much for building my confidence. Six months later, it is 0700 on Sunday and a bright sun shines in a cloudless sky over the tranquil blue Mediterranean. I am sitting in the cockpit of around twenty tons of sleek jet aircraft, about to be catapulted off the deck of HMS EAGLE. I am to practice dropping eight VT-fused high explosive half-ton bombs on a target somewhere. Pre-launch checks complete, I drop my hand to signal my readiness to the launch control officer and await the heart-stopping sudden acceleration to 150 knots in little more than the length of a cricket pitch. Once airborne, there is normally a sense of relief to have left the melee of roaring jets and intricate manoeuvring on a crowded and dangerous deck, even if it is controlled by a highly trained and proficient team. Now you are in charge of your own destiny, playing with one of the most expensive toys in the Queen’s toybox.
This time though, the relief is tempered by a sense that something is seriously wrong. The Buccaneer is notoriously underpowered, but I discover that I can barely maintain a safe distance above the sea, let alone accelerate and climb away. Cockpit indications confirm that one engine has failed. Carrying as I am quite a bit of heavy ordnance under my wings, the situation is serious indeed. There is no option but to jettison the bombs immediately, even though they are proximity fused and have been known to detonate even when set to SAFE. I press the button. There is another heart-stopping moment while I and my observer find out that we are not to be blown to smithereens and the bombs slip quietly into the sea. Now we must choose between dumping most of our fuel and attempting a single-engined landing back on board, or setting off on a lengthy journey to the nearest diversion airfield which, because of fog in Malta, is in Sicily.
We decide to take the latter option, set a course and climb with the one good engine as high as we can in order to achieve the best range. Since it is Sunday, most people to whom we would like to talk by radio are still finishing their breakfasts. For a long time we proceed northwards, unable to let anyone know what we intend or to seek their help and approval. Although it is a beautiful day there is a thick haze and no horizon. We proceed as if in a goldfish bowl, unable to see anything in any direction. These conditions provide the next heart-stopping moment when, after perhaps an hour or so, I glance up from my instruments, my fuel state is giving cause for concern, and we are making calculations of remaining flight time against distance to run to the airfield at Sigonella, jointly operated by the US Navy and the Italian Air Force. There, right in front of me, is Mt Etna, rising above me, directly in my path, really uncomfortably close and totally unexpected.
About then a welcome and friendly American voice establishes contact, gives me permission to use his airfield and guides us onto the runway centreline by radar, since visibility is still very limited. It is then that I make the first of the serious and embarrassing mistakes that come to characterise this whole episode. At a distance of about two miles I think I can make out the runway and duly select wheels and flaps down for a landing. At about half a mile to touchdown the voice in my headphones tells me with a new urgency to make an overshoot. I do so. It transpires that I was about to land not on the runway but on the parallel taxi track, which is under repair and being used as a place to park some bulldozers, cranes, diggersand dumper trucks. I manage to make a visual circuit, only possible on my one good engine since I have practically no fuel left and am very light. We land and taxi in to a hardstanding, extremely thankful to be safely back on terra firma, with damage only to my self-esteem.
Over the course of the next few days we are entertained and accommodated like visiting VIPs, while the ship sends spares and maintenance personnel by helicopter to mend the aircraft. I make the second of my stupid mistakes by misdiagnosing what is wrong – seriously embarrassing because I am an engineering specialist undergoing sea training as part of a long-term programme to qualify as a test pilot. The part I choose is changed, the team working overnight because one of Her Majesty’s capital ships is loitering about waiting for us to get back on board. The engine will not even start. Indeed it turns out to be seized solid, a condition we should have noticed long before we started changing its accessories.
A new engine is flown in, changed, tested and ground run. The aircraft is pronounced fit for return to the ship. This gives me another opportunity to display my astonishing capacity for making a fool of myself. It comes about like this. At that time this aircraft is known among NATO forces to have the ability to fly very fast at low level in order to attack shipping while staying under their radar. This way it can deliver its (nuclear) weapon before its approach is detected. It has attracted a lot of professional interest during our brief stay at Sigonella and I am asked if I will demonstrate this capability before departing to rejoin my ship. I rather reluctantly agree, but once airborne and satisfied that all is well with my newly-fitted engine I decide to show off to the best of my ability. It is still very hazy and visibility is poor while I make a lazy turn after takeoff, intending to circle the airfield, line up on the runway I have just used and fly along it low down and flat out to put on a good show.
While winding up to full speed, however, two things happen for which I am unprepared. The first is the appearance dead ahead of a large flock of birds, predominantly above me. Instinctively I adjust my height to pass beneath at least most of them. This means that I am flying even lower than I intended, and rather lower than could be seen as sensible in such conditions. The second is the realisation that the distraction has caused me to lose sight of the airfield. There follows a second or two during which I contemplate making a complete ass of myself by performing a fast low pass over the wrong part of Sicily in front of the US Navy. Just in time the calm voice in the rear cockpit calls ‘control tower – left ten o’clock’. I haul the aircraft around to pass close by and below it at what is by now very high speed indeed. Reader, you must bear in mind that my knowledgeable audience on the ground is aware of what I am trying to do and is peering expectantly into the haze along the extended centreline of the runway.
A Buccaneer flying at nearly the speed of sound makes a virtually silent approach, the accumulated thunder of its engines at full power arriving at the same time as the aircraft. Because of my erratic approach I am arriving from behind the spectators clustered in the control tower, very close and low and from a direction they do not expect. It is some few seconds after we pass before we hear an air traffic controller press the transmit button and exclaim, ‘Jeezus, that was a great low pass.’ He sounds as if he has not breathed for a while. Perhaps they think it has been planned that way. We duly return to the ship. I can truthfully say, as aviators often do after lucky escapes from serious mishaps, that I learned a lot during that extended sortie.
The helicopter pilots' mantra: If it hasn't gone wrong then it's just about to...
https://www.glenbervie-weather.org
A different kind of radar threat is the very-long-wave over-the-horizon (OTH) radar, typified by Australia’s Jindalee OTH Radar Network (JORN), Russia’s Rezonans-NE, and China’s OTH systems. Again, processing is the key to increasing the accuracy and sensitivity of these systems, typified by the Phase 5 upgrade to JORN.
Always enjoyed a good flypast. 
which resulted in the car being stuck in the ditch and the caravan on its side some way behind - TRIPLE POINTS! 
but a serious interview without coffee later that day 
They were like that to midshipmen - the old method was to 'kick them from a*sehole to breakfast to knock them into shape'. Ah - happy times! I'm the boy at Sharkey's feet. The other midshipman (Royal Malaysian Navy) rose to become their first 4*: