NUTS and BOLTS Never Get a Kick out of Being Responsible for Some Tiddly Item in the Rear End of Some Gigantic European Project
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Chronicles of a Wayward Engineer John Tysoe Griffon Abbeye Press Toronto Canada Published in Canada by Touchnaught an imprint of Griffon Abbeye Press The Knottingham Suite 613 25 Earlington Avenue Toronto Ontario Canada M8X 3A3 www.griffonabbeye.com ISBN 978-0-9810781-0-6 © John Tysoe 2009 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Printed and bound in Canada by Ball Media Corporation 422 Grey Street Brantford Ontario N3S 4X8 www.ballmedia.com Technical assistance and cover graphics by Kic-Jam Computer Services www.kicjam.ca I dedicate this book to the memory of my wife Inge, who was the driving force behind anything really worthwhile that I ever did; and to Peter Williams, a working colleague and fellow aviation nut, who first suggested that I should write it; and to my daughter Margaret, who ever since has encouraged me to get on with it. CONTENTS INTRODUCTION / 5 CHAPTER 1: WHY ENGINEERING ANYWAY? / 7 CHAPTER 2: SECOND TIME LUCKY / 18 CHAPTER 3: THE END OF THE BEGINNING / 28 CHAPTER 4: IT’S NOT ROCKET SCIENCE / 45 CHAPTER 5: THE WEST SPECIAL / 65 CHAPTER 6: HANDLEY PAGE INTERLUDE / 73 CHAPTER 7: NORTH TO AVRO / 83 CHAPTER 8: TSR-2 / 126 CHAPTER 9: ALEXANDER BROS / 165 CHAPTER 10: DELANEY GALLAY / 169 CHAPTER 11: ENGLAND SWANSONG / 196 CHAPTER 12: “LET’S GO TO CANADA” / 214 CHAPTER 13: RYERSON FULL TIME / 248 CHAPTER 14: RYERSON HALF TIME / 299 CHAPTER 15: THE BVI YEARS / 333 CHAPTER 16: SUMMING UP / 376 INTRODUCTION started writing this upon my retirement in 1992. It took me a month or two to appreciate what a wonderful invention is I retirement—getting paid for doing nothing strikes me as the ultimate Utopia, although it was well and truly earned, as I hope these pages will show. The original impetus for the book came from my friend Peter Williams, when we were both teaching in the Mechanical Engineering department at Ryerson. We met occasionally in the print room, and while we were waiting for the machine to do its stuff, the conversation always turned to aviation. Peter seemed to be interested in some of my reminiscences of the aircraft business, and one day he said, ―John, this stuff must not be lost. You must write it up!‖ I made some noncommittal reply, but the seed had been sown. As time went by, and I read in papers and books all sorts of rubbish, mostly written by people who weren‘t even born at the time, Peter‘s words kept coming back. When the opportunity finally came, I started to write. After a year or so, I ran out of steam, having concluded that the task of assembling the whole thing into a logical sequence was beyond my capabilities after all this time. Later I decided, after another hint from my daughter Margaret, to forget logic, chronology and other mind-numbing conventions, and to make it a series of essays on segments of my journey through life, which is divided into periods during which I was working for a particular company. Looking back, it occurred to me that I had been present at an historic period of the British aircraft industry, and there are a lot of people—an increasing number, it seems—who appreciate any first-hand information they can get their hands on. Here, then, is a worm‘s-eye view of the golden age of the post- war British aircraft industry, which as far as I am concerned finished in 1964. Anything after that you are welcome to. I could 5 NUTS AND BOLTS never get a kick out of being responsible for some tiddly item in the rear end of some gigantic European project. It may be very efficient, but it isn‘t FUN anymore! I hope I may be allowed a minor footnote. You will find no political correctness between these covers. No attempt is made to pander to pressure groups with their half-baked attempts to ram their juvenile opinions down people‘s throats by inserting stylistic horrors which make otherwise decent prose unreadable. For example, there will be no ―he or she‖, ―his or hers‖, ―himself or herself‖. As far as this writer is concerned, ―man‖ embraces ―woman‖, and this sounds like a good idea, so let‘s get on with the book. John Tysoe Cheltenham, Canada June 2009 ON THE FRONT COVER: TOP: TIGER MOTH CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT: BLUE STEEL STAND-OFF MISSILE AT THE POINT OF RELEASE FROM A VULCAN; HANDLEY PAGE VICTOR; YACHT INGE II; TSR-2; SAUNDERS-ROE SR-53 ROCKET/JET FIGHTER. 6 CHAPTER 1: WHY ENGINEERING ANYWAY? hy engineering anyway? A far different career seemed to be mapped out for me. At school, the West Bridgford W County Secondary School, I was the youngest student of my day, at fourteen, to pass the external London matriculation exams, with distinctions in Art and Architecture, credits in English, French and German, and passes (how, I still do not know) in Maths, Chemistry and Physics. I was all set for a scholarship to Oxford and a career in the Diplomatic Service. This may come as a bombshell to everyone who knows me, but why should I lie at this late stage? It suited me down to the ground. I was in love with the German teacher, who would sit on the edge of her desk, playing her violin and teaching us German romantic songs, while we were all trying to get a glimpse up her skirt. I loved the language, and still do. I never met a German I didn‘t get on with. Also, I liked French, although years later I was fed up to find that most of what I had been taught was totally irrelevant. I will return to this later, but meanwhile will content myself by saying that I know La Marseillaise, which is more than a lot of French kids do. And so I entered the Upper Sixth, the graduating class, and the question of the Oxford scholarship loomed in earnest. BUT...LATIN WAS REQUIRED. In retrospect, it seems that this was the actual start of my engineering career. It is difficult to convey, so many years later, my utter hatred and loathing of Latin, and of the Latin master, a tall, gaunt figure with a large brown lump in the middle of his forehead, who stank of BO and tobacco smoke, as he strode up and down booming Latin declensions in a voice that made the windows rattle. That was enough for me. I went to my form master and said I wanted to transfer to the Science Sixth. He boggled. ―B-b-but you‘re hopeless at science and brilliant in the arts.‖ ―I‘m not going into another Latin class,‖ I said, got on my bike and rode home, knowing that I had blown the whole scene. 7 NUTS AND BOLTS Fortunately my mother, whose memory I still treasure, understood what had happened, came with me to school the next day, and sorted the whole thing out. So at last I left school, having achieved nothing beyond my original school certificate with matriculation, which was enough to qualify me for university entrance. Not that I wanted any more schooling. I didn‘t know WHAT I wanted, but meanwhile I had been discovering the sort of things that turned me on. My last summer holiday before the war was spent in a villa on the south coast. I was on the beach one day when the first of the Empire Flying Boats, Caledonia, came over on a test flight at about 100 feet. I had never seen anything so absolutely beautiful; only two other aircraft have given me the same soul-stirring thrill, the Vulcan and the Comet, making their first slow passes at the Farnborough air show, many years later. Another day, I had a panoramic view of the whole length of the Coronation Scot on a trial run. The magnificent blue and silver streamlined train was the second hit which made me determined to find out who created these wonders. During the course of this ―research‖, as I suppose it would be called nowadays, I discovered that O. V. S. Bulleid was one of the foremost British locomotive designers. I found out how a four- stroke engine works, how an aeroplane flies, and all sorts of other things that came in handy later on. Mum, realizing what was going on, took me to see the head of the engineering department at Nottingham University. This turned out to be Prof. C. H. Bulleid, the brother of O. V. S. Bulleid, and a consultant to Rolls-Royce. I was awestruck! What was I doing, being interviewed by such a man? This gentleman with the yellow moustache (why yellow, I wondered—eventually I found out) was politely charming to Mum, as indeed were most gentlemen, and she soon sorted the others out. He pointed to an engine part leaning up against a corner of his office, then turned to me and said, ―Do you know what that is?‖ ―Merlin crankshaft,‖ I replied immediately. He looked at me thoughtfully, pointed to another corner and said, ―And that?‖ ―That‖ was a rusty old cast iron cylinder with a large toothed rod sticking out of it.