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. I thought for a moment. ―I think it is a rack and pinion gravity engine by, er, Trevithick.‖

8 WHY ENGINEERING ANYWAY?

―Newcomen, actually,‖ he said, handed Mum a sheaf of papers, said, ―Registration is next Monday starting at 9 A.M., and to me, ―I‘m sure you will do well here.‖ And that was that. Mum was as pleased as Punch that at last I was started in a direction which she, at any rate, thought would lead somewhere. For my part, I did not relish the idea of another three years in classrooms, yet this seemed different somehow. On registration day the actual business of registration was completed in an hour, giving me the rest of the day to wander around the bewildering variety of clubs, associations and whatnot, all clamouring for my attention. There was the Communist Society(!), the Entertainment Society (Ensoc), Rowing, Soccer, Rugger, Table Tennis and Rifle Clubs, the Christian Fellowship...the list was endless. It took me the whole day to weigh them all up. Finally I joined the Rifle Club, and was making my way to the exit when I struck pay dirt. ―Nottingham University Air Squadron‖ said a modest sign, giving an address in Beeston, a suburb of Nottingham just south of the university. It was too late in the day by then, but I resolved to pay them a visit as soon as possible. Incredible! I had not even realized that there were any university air squadrons other than at Oxford and Cambridge, and for years I had looked longingly at pictures of Avro Tutors emblazoned with the university crest flying in formation, envying the young men flying them. Now, here was one on my doorstep! On the first day we spent the morning being shown where everything was, collecting our timetables, finding out which books we were supposed to have and so forth. We were finished by noon, so I grabbed a quick bite in the refectory (no canteens for us—it was ―refec‖ and you‘d better remember it) and rode over to 72 Broadgate, Beeston. There was the RAF ensign fluttering in the breeze atop a large mast. The HQ, a gleaming white, elegantly restored country house, had that faint aroma of frequently applied floor polish which I have always associated with Air Force buildings from my time as an air cadet. The door said ―Flt Lt J. Spearing. Knock and come in.‖ Behind a desk sat an immaculate RAF officer. I told him my name, and said I wanted to join the squadron. Courteously, he invited me to be seated, then said, ―Why?‖

9 NUTS AND BOLTS

―Because I want to learn to fly.‖ ―And why would you want to do that?‖ ―Because this is how I want to play my part in the war when the time comes. I have always been interested in flight, and hope to make my career in aviation when it‘s all over.‖ ―Do you know anything about the RAF?‖ I knew everything there was to know—its history, its command structure, and details of every aircraft in service—so that part didn‘t last very long. Finally he said, ―Are you aware that, if we teach you to fly, you will be under contract, at the end of your studies, to enter the RAF as a pilot?‖ I looked at him in some puzzlement. ―But sir, that is what I was going to do anyway.‖ ―Good show, Tysoe,‖ he said. ―First parade is next Tuesday. See you then.‖ In case anyone is going over the edge with boredom at all this recounting of interviews, I am trying to tell you where I‘m coming from. Many years later, when I found myself responsible for interviewing and hiring people, these two interviews, with Prof Bulleid and Flt Lt Spearing, were still at the back of my mind. They both knew just what they wanted, and how to recognize it. Having found it, they acted immediately. You Human Resources people out there should try it sometime—it really works. It is, of course, heavily dependent upon the interviewer knowing what he is talking about, which unfortunately is not always the case. And don‘t get me started on psychological profiling or personality testing or any of that nonsense, or we‘ll be here all night. This is not to knock the profession of psychologist, merely to protest the gross misapplication of the science in a field with which I am familiar, namely the selection of engineering staff. Evidence will be provided to support this contention when the time comes. Why Nuts and Bolts? This is the legacy of a friend, Charlie, who was even more of a romantic than I am. We went through university together. To him, aerodynamics was everything; the flow of air over shapes created by pure intellectual reasoning, resulting in that phenomenon which originally drew us together, heavier- than-air flight. He was crazy about gliding. He once said to me, ―You know, I couldn‘t stand the kind of nuts-and-bolts engineering that we seem to be headed for.‖ I kept in touch with him, and

10 WHY ENGINEERING ANYWAY? recall my delight when I heard that he had obtained the job of his dreams—chief engineer of a firm which manufactured high- performance sailplanes. Later I was saddened to learn that he had taken an overdose. So much for fulfilling one‘s life ambition too early. We were encouraged by Prof Bulleid to take vacation apprenticeships—after all, we did have two months off in the summer, and it seemed a good idea for us to obtain some practical experience. The Prof had a number of local contacts, and I was referred to the Nottingham City Transport bus maintenance department. Doesn‘t sound very exciting, does it? But it gave me some insights which have endured. Upon arrival I was taken to the workbench of a diesel engine fitter called Harry Jackson, who had just received a huge, oily AEC diesel engine for overhaul. The memory of this man has stayed with me, and I tended to use him as a standard when dealing with similarly placed people in later years. He was invariably polite, and explained to me in detail everything he did. He even let me do many of the jobs, although some he kept for himself, such as the scraping-in of white metal bearings, which is not a skill you can pick up in five minutes. He had an assistant, Fred, who clearly thought that Harry was just a couple of rungs below God. Fred did all the menial tasks—washing parts in paraffin, fetching the tea, keeping the bench tidy and so forth, and seemed perfectly happy. I recall the way in which Jackson would lay out the parts in the appropriate sequence, attaching location identification labels, and generally handling them with the kind of professional skill and care which I usually associate with brain surgeons and concert pianists. He showed me how to clean and test the injectors, how to fit piston rings and what they were all for, how to insert the pistons into the cylinders, how to handle micrometer and slip gauges...my goodness, I found out more about engineering in those six weeks than during any similar period, before or since. Nobody ever hassled Harry. Nobody ever had the temerity to tell him to get a move on. He took his own sweet time over everything, and the climax came when the engine was carted away and put back in its bus. Harry was out there when it was first started. With everyone standing around, he lay on the ground under the tailpipe and sniffed the exhaust. When he got up and

11 NUTS AND BOLTS gave a brief nod, the sense of relief was palpable. I gathered from subsequent chitchat that, if he hadn‘t been satisfied, the engine would have had to come out again, and the whole process repeated. So, next time you are caught behind an overloaded truck crawling up a steep hill belching great clouds of evil-smelling black smoke, bear in mind that it doesn‘t have to be this way. When looked after properly, diesels run as sweetly as sewing machines. To invoke an old adage: ―Where are the Jacksons of yesteryear?‖ I‘m glad to have had the privilege of meeting a few, who will be introduced as they come to mind. I do, however, worry that they are an endangered species. The ―Industrial Age‖, I am reliably informed, has come to an end, having been replaced by the ―Information Age‖. Who, then, is actually going to MAKE things? My intermediate university year (the one during which they kick out the obvious misfits) passed fairly comfortably, much of the stuff having been done in the Upper Sixth, following my turbulent transfer from the arts to science. I have memories of a course called ―Engineering Science‖. I was rather puzzled at the time, because to me the terms are mutually exclusive. As far as I am concerned, scientists devise formulas which engineers then use to make things. If you don‘t like this, you are not going to like a lot of what follows, so be warned. The course was run by a man of the cloth, Rev. Greene. I admired him as a man, and as a teacher, for he obviously knew his subject, and was very good at explaining it in clear, well-reasoned terms which even I could understand. I remember him, resplendent in his dog collar and academic gown, striding back and forth proclaiming that centrifugal force was a myth, which existed only in the minds of engineers. He was obviously grinding some kind of axe, but to this day I cannot figure out what it was. I felt fairly confident about tackling part one of the actual degree course. Meanwhile, I looked around for a suitable vacation apprenticeship. This was June 1945, by which time my parents had moved north to Manchester so that my dad could take over the day-to-day running of the family firm, of which more later. Since I was in digs, and only too anxious to get away, the obvious choice seemed to be Avro, which was quite close to my parents‘ new home. I started there at a very interesting time. They were in full swing producing a run of 600 Lincoln bombers which were to

12 WHY ENGINEERING ANYWAY? form ―Tiger Force‖, with a view to joining the Americans in bombing Japan into surrender, from bases in Burma. What really intrigued me was that they were painted white all over, and I often wondered later whether someone at the top had briefed them on what they might run into. The official reason was ―to reflect heat in tropical conditions‖. Fair enough, but I cannot recall any other aircraft in the region being given the same paint job. I never liked the Lincoln, regarding it as a blasphemous desecration of the Lancaster, with ten feet added to each wingtip and an extra section in the fuselage. This impression was confirmed during my first inspection. It did, however, have 20-mm cannon and 50-calibre machine guns in its defensive armament—an improvement on the .303 peashooters with which the Lancaster had to defend itself against the German night fighters with their 20-mm cannon. Experience is a hard school... What really got my goat about the Lincoln was that stupid bay window they had in the nose. This monstrosity, apart from probably knocking 20 mph off the speed, was very difficult to install. It was made of tubes which were welded together in a jig. When removed from the jig, to everyone‘s surprise except mine, it went SPROING!!! and some poor guy spent all his working day attacking these things with a hammer until they fitted the attachment points on the aircraft. How the (presumably) pre-cut Perspex panels were then fitted into the battered frame I never found out. While at Avro, I witnessed the rollout of the last Anson to be built. It was quite a sight, resplendent in its gleaming silver-doped fabric covering. You could smell the dope from a long way off. I was told not to go too near the dope shop—the people who worked there got an extra ration of milk to mitigate the harmful effects of inhaling the fumes. Being an ardent aeromodeller I made a note of this, and I‘m glad to say that my hobby doesn‘t seem to have done any damage (although some may dispute this). To digress a little, when I arrived in Canada and started to collect stuff to restart the hobby, I went to a convenience store (or smoke shop, as they were then called), and asked for six tubes of model airplane glue. I was regarded with DEEP suspicion. I was so obviously taken aback that the shopkeeper relented and told me about glue sniffing. Later I heard that a good friend had been questioned by

13 NUTS AND BOLTS the police for trying to buy amyl nitrate. He had to get the president of the Model Aeronautics Association to explain that amyl nitrate was an ingredient of homemade fuel for model aircraft engines. I often wonder what else is inhaled by these bounders in their desperate efforts to alter what passes for their minds. Don‘t tell me—I don‘t want to know. I just wish they would stop it. Not for their sakes, but for mine. Anyway, to continue... Early in August, you remember, the Americans dropped a couple of big ones on Japan, and the war was finally over. So, too, was the Tiger Force contract. Another company significantly affected by the sudden cessation of hostilities was Flight Refuelling Ltd., run by Alan Cobham, one of my childhood heroes. They had the contract for the entire Tiger Force in-flight refuelling equipment, to be fitted to a tanker fleet of 600 modified Lancasters. Cobham had expanded his company at the request of the Ministry, specifically to undertake this project. In his autobiography, A Time to Fly, he wryly tells how, shortly before the lautenboomers went off, the man from the Ministry bought him a drink, said, ―Jolly good show, Cobham,‖ and told him to kindly wind up his company since his stuff was no longer required, the Americans having captured an island only 400 miles from Japan. He did nothing of the sort. He turned his boundless energy to carrying out a series of transatlantic flights using in-flight refuelling, in conjunction with Air Vice-Marshal Don Bennett, the man who started the RAF Bomber Command Pathfinder Force. The idea was that an airliner could take off with a light fuel load, which meant that more passengers could be carried. When safely cruising along, it could be topped up with enough fuel to meet its operational requirements. He also diversified into producing equipment for all aspects of fuel handling, some of which I used in later years. However, as he points out in his book, he had spent most of his life trying to advance civil aviation through in-flight refuelling, and had failed completely, since it isn‘t in use at all. The fact that it is a major operational technique in the air forces of the world, using equipment based on his designs, does not cheer him up one bit. Many years later I picked up his trail again in the British Virgin Islands, whence he had emigrated in the fifties, having become totally fed up with the way things were going in England. There are traces of his work all over the BVI.

14 WHY ENGINEERING ANYWAY?

September rolled around, and with it my first taste of an engineering course. I realized with a sinking feeling that it was going to be a struggle. The main problem for me was that it was totally uninteresting. The profs were all brilliant people in their respective fields, but were quite unable to explain anything, or generate any kind of enthusiasm. This awful experience ultimately stood me in good stead, but that‘s a long way in the future. As usual, Bernard Shaw has something to say on the matter. Here are two of my favourite lines from his neo-Shakespearian Elizabethan blank verse play, The Admirable Bashville:

Bid the professor quit his fraudulent pedantries And do I‘ th‘ world that which he would teach others

Of my first classes, perhaps Electrical Technology was the worst. The prof had a list of qualifications as long as your arm (we used to call them ―badge hogs‖ in the Boy Scouts). He spoke very rapidly in a high-pitched, squeaky voice which could not be heard at the back. His board work was atrocious, and I don‘t think any of us had the slightest idea what he was talking about. The textbook, written by him and our required reading, was no better. On bad days I can still conjure up page after page of meaningless diagrams of lap windings, wave windings, three-phase vector diagrams and the rest of the gobbledegook. At the end of the class he would tell us to do certain problems from the book, but these were never gone through in class. He would then disappear, and we never knew where to find him to ask for help. Then there was mathematics, and I found out why Prof Bulleid‘s moustache was yellow. He would start at one end of the huge board with a third order partial differential equation, and a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth. We didn‘t have a clue what he was doing, but watched, fascinated, as the mystic symbols crawled across the board and the ash on his cigarette got longer. The entire focus of our attention was whether the ash would drop off before it reached his moustache. Sometimes it did, sometimes it didn‘t. The problem was that he would rub the board clean before we had a chance to copy the stuff into our notebooks, and start on something else.

15 NUTS AND BOLTS

Thermodynamics was perhaps the strangest thing of all. It formed the basis of my entire engineering career, but my introduction to it was a disaster. The prof was a retired colonel, now the head of the Nottingham Smoke Abatement Society, and had written the textbook that was our required reading. I well remember, in the chapter on thermodynamic cycles for heat engines, the statement that ―no application can presently be seen for the constant pressure cycle‖. I knew from my own reading that the constant pressure cycle was the basis of operation for the jet engine, and I also knew that, just up the road at Hucknall airfield, was a Rolls-Royce jet engine test facility. I had seen over West Bridgford their Wellington flying test bed with a jet engine in its tail trailing a great plume of smoke, escorted by a captured Me 109 painted bright yellow. I also knew from a friend at Farnborough that the Gloster Meteor jet fighter had just entered RAF service. This was brought back to me recently when I read that a California science textbook of the seventies contained the immortal sentence: ―Some day men may land on the moon.‖ No wonder kids are fed up with school! The prof‘s lectures consisted of reading verbatim extracts from his textbook, in a nasal monotone. I was so stupefied with boredom that I couldn‘t take in a thing. Such lab work as we did took place in a rented basement on Shakespeare Street in downtown Nottingham. Thither I would pedal on Saturday mornings, where I would determine the heating value of a fuel using a bomb calorimeter, or investigate the properties of steam with a small boiler, or maybe calibrate a pressure gauge. The man in charge was an ebullient Yorkshireman called George Nicholson, who fancied himself on the trombone. Fantastically enough, I renewed my acquaintance with him many years later, when we were both profs in Canada. The lab was quite close to the Theatre Royal, whose mainstay was a Shakespearian actor, Donald Wolfit—Nottingham‘s attempt to produce a home- grown Laurence Olivier. He was known in my circles as ―the man who put the ‗ham‘ in Nottingham‖. My rather miserable second academic year ground to a close. I sweated through the exams, certain that I had made a pig‘s ear out of the whole thing—a conviction that turned out to be only too accurate.

16 WHY ENGINEERING ANYWAY?

My depression was eased for a time when I did my first solo, on June 16, 1946. It had taken so long because, when I first joined the squadron, it had no aircraft. The one it supposedly had on strength, an ex-Royal Navy Tiger Moth, BB693, had been stored in the gym for a long time. When it was resurrected, the fabric covering was as brittle as glass and the bright yellow paintwork had craze cracks all over, so the whole thing had to be re-covered. There was a shortage of tradesmen to do this, since everyone was being demobbed, and for the first year we had to be content with air experience flights provided by Polish pilots at nearby Hucknall, flying Harvards and Miles Masters. As anyone who has flown with a Polish military pilot will tell you, these can be interesting experiences. Their favourite pastime was a high-speed beat-up of the Grantham canal at zero feet, the canal usually being lined with anglers. Whatever anyone might say to the contrary, one‘s first solo is one of the two high points in life, the other of course being...well, I won‘t go into that now. Shortly after this spiritual uplift came the dreaded letter informing me that I had ―failed to satisfy the examiners‖. Oh well—maybe it will be better the second time round; at least I will be mentally prepared for it. I was completely flabbergasted when my calling-up papers arrived. The war had been over for a year! What on earth did they want me for? I‘ll draw a veil over the next two years, which to me were a complete waste of time. Strangely enough, this was the only period between 1944 and 1980 when I did no flying at all.

17

CHAPTER 2: SECOND TIME LUCKY

t was now 1948. What progress had I made towards becoming an engineer? None, some would say, and they would probably I be not too far from the truth. I had, however, made progress in a few directions which pleased me greatly. First and foremost, I had learned to fly, albeit at the cost of part one of my degree. Also, during the following otherwise wasted years, I had improved my shooting skills. I got a great bang out of that, and still do. Everyone makes his own choices in life, and I had made mine. So, I presented myself at Nottingham University once more, this time armed with an F.E.T. grant (further education and training), for which I was eligible after my conscription (sorry, National Service). The situation was now significantly different. My fellow students were, for the large part, straight from the war, and they wouldn‘t take any b-s from anyone. The first sign of this was on the first day, when the dean was briefing my class, and mentioned that jackets, ties and gowns were to be worn at lectures. An incredulous, ribald hoot went up, along with many two fingers of scorn and remarks like ―shove it‖, ―get stuffed‖ and so forth. Fortunately the silly old duffer didn‘t pursue the matter, otherwise I‘m afraid they might have taken his trousers down and—well, you know. And if you don‘t know, I‘m not going to tell you. This was more like it. I was exempted from the intermediate year, having already passed it, so I could, theoretically, graduate two years from now. If I did well enough in part two, I would be eligible to stay on for another year in the honours class. Not ruddy likely, I thought. As soon as I got a piece of paper saying how clever I am, I would be out of there, and spend the rest of my life cashing in on it. And that, with a few hiccups here and there, is what finally happened. The first year was a repeat of part one which, as mentioned previously, I failed because learning to fly took precedence over study. Also, and this is very important, in between my being kicked

18 SECOND TIME LUCKY out of the programme and returning to it, a significant change had taken place. From being University College, Nottingham, one of London University‘s external colleges, the place had been awarded its full charter, and was now Nottingham University. ―So what?‖ I hear you cry. Under the old regime, all the exams were set, marked and moderated by the London University Examining Board, whereas now the resident professors set and marked their own exams. It will be apparent that, previously, the teachers had to attempt to second-guess the external examiners, and if they got it wrong we were screwed. Now, however, I reasoned that no prof in his right mind would set an exam question on something he hadn‘t taught us. In this optimistic frame of mind, I set out on my second try for part one of the mechanical engineering degree. This time, having done it all before, I was beginning to get a handle on some of the more relevant (to me) subjects like Strength of Materials, Theory of Machines, Hydraulics, and particularly Engineering Drawing and Design. (It may astonish some of you recent arrivals, but at one time engineers had their own drawing boards. I must have been one of the last of these, and it brought me into conflict with more than one chief draughtsman, as will be related.) Some other subjects, mainly Mathematics and Electrical Technology, were a total mystery, and still are, but I had worked out an approach to this problem. What I did was to learn by heart the answers to three questions which seemed bound to turn up in some form—they were called ―bankers‖ in those days—and if two of them were on the paper, since we were required to answer four out of eight, I would get fifty percent and therefore pass. It worked. The one subject which really gave me a jolt was a brand new one called Industrial Administration, which Nottingham was one of the first to introduce as a major. I didn‘t see the point, since I had no intention of being an administrator of any kind, but it did crop up much later, under rather peculiar circumstances, as will be related in due course. I can say that, at the time, I was truly appalled. The teacher was a stern, unattractive woman in a stern, unisex business suit, who introduced us to the intricacies of time and motion study. I still remember the impact this had on me. We were

19 NUTS AND BOLTS taken through a typical study of a lathe operator who received a boxful of parts upon which he performed some operations before passing them down the line to the next machinist. I have a horrible vision of this woman standing over some poor sod with her stopwatch and clipboard, making notations like ―picks up part from bench, carries it to lathe, grips it in chuck— 6.03 seconds‖; ―starts lathe, turns diameters A and B—27.15 seconds‖ and so forth. I began to have glimmerings of what the Luddites and the Tolpuddle martyrs were all about. Later, when I found myself on the shop floor for a spell, I got a different slant on all this, which made me feel a bit better about it, but we‘ll get to that in the next chapter. That‘s enough of the academic side for the moment. I rejoined the Air Squadron, and there things started to happen fast. Several changes had been made. Instead of being some vague entity which regular Air Force people didn‘t quite know how to deal with, I was now Cadet Pilot Under-Officer Tysoe, RAFVR, with a crisp battledress uniform complete with white flashes and fancy shoulder badges. To say that I was as chuffed as little mint balls would have been the understatement of the century. Half the squadron consisted of ex-service types as mentioned previously—a very interesting lot, straight from the war, who could take one of the squadron‘s Tiger Moths any time they wanted. The only time when they ever received a check was when we were issued with Harvards for our summer camps, and then the CFI checked them out very carefully indeed, because if one of those got bent it would never, ever be replaced. There were Battle of Britain pilots, bomber pilots with three tours of operations, and a Scotsman, Red, a flying officer who had commanded a Catalina flying boat on anti-submarine patrols in the Indian ocean, among other things. We became good friends, and he invited me to join him in a student residence he referred to as the ―Stagger Inn‖, an old, rambling town house in the middle of Nottingham, populated by about twenty ex-service men. Thus began the most memorable period of my university career. I joined the Rifle Club, and was invited to do a test shoot under the supervision of one of the Army Officer Cadet Corps, the brown job equivalent of the Air Squadron. I did a good shoot, and then:

20 SECOND TIME LUCKY

―Do you think you could do that under match conditions?‖ ―I don‘t see why not—it might be less stressful than having you breathing down my neck.‖ I joined the team to shoot against Manchester in the Inter- University league, and did well enough for us to win. Later, I was approached by the same chap, who bought me a drink, discussed this and that, and finally asked if I would consider running for Rifle Club Captain in the forthcoming elections. He was very persuasive, and on the appointed day I found myself sitting in front of a large gathering of enthusiasts, not really taking the whole thing too seriously. Then my mentor proposed me with a speech which, without actually lying, manipulated my modest accomplishments to make me sound like Daniel Boone reincarnated, while subtly hinting that none of the other candidates knew which end of a rifle to get hold of. We discreetly retired, the ballot papers were distributed, we were called back in, and I had won by a landslide. I found out later that his object had been to unseat the present incumbent, the son of a high-ranking Army officer, whom he hated. Then the sonofabitch announced ―Mr. Tysoe will now tell you his plans for the future operation of the club.‖ I hadn‘t bargained for that! If I‘d had five minutes to think about it, I would have wet myself and gone into hiding, but there they all were, obviously looking forward to what I had to say. I decided to brazen it out, and to hell with the consequences. Under my leadership, I said, we would continue successfully to compete in the Inter-Universities Challenge Trophy (I had no idea whether we had ever won it), we would continue with the postal league, but above all I would make sure that the University Air Squadron secured its rightful place as a major group in this club, at present dominated by the Army. They loved it! I got a round of applause, then everyone started moving off to their next class. At the door, I was accosted by a pert, petite young lady who said, ―I have been looking forward to meeting you.‖ This REALLY knocked me for a row of skittles. It was the first time any girl had ever said that to me—usually it was the other way round. We both had classes to attend, so it was arranged that we would meet later for a drink. In the drawing office that afternoon they were all looking at me with interest, and one of them said, ―Hey—you were quick off the mark.‖ I wondered what was going on. It turned out

21 NUTS AND BOLTS that the young lady in question had been headlines in yesterday‘s papers: ―Woman pilot enrols in course at Nottingham University.‖ This was the first time such a thing had ever happened, and I seemed to be the only one who didn‘t know about it. At the time, my only reading was aviation magazines, and occasional desperate assaults on the rotten textbooks which, I remain convinced, were a major barrier preventing me from finding out anything useful about engineering. After classes we went out for a drink, myself being slightly more mentally prepared. I established that she was reading Molecular Biology or some such brainy thing I had never heard of, and she had held a private pilot‘s licence since her eighteenth birthday. However, I was soon left in no doubt that there was some serious stuff going on. She informed me that she had asked around as to who would be the one to see regarding a flying matter, and they had all indicated me. At the time I was riding quite high. I had been selected to represent the squadron in the Hack Trophy, an annual flying competition to determine the best university air squadron pilot, for a trophy donated by W/Cdr Hack. I was in charge of the squadron rifle team, which went in for every major RAF shooting event. I was the squadron artist, and had submitted a design for the squadron crest to the Royal College of Heralds, which had been adopted with some alterations. Nobody had yet beaten me at ping pong, which was our favourite recreation while waiting for the weather to clear. I soon discovered the reason for her interest in me. She had a burning ambition to become the first RAF woman pilot, and wanted me to introduce her to my commanding officer, to find out whether she could join the air squadron. This really put my mind in a spin. I tried to imagine Robbie Hewitt‘s reaction, but failed. To the best of my knowledge the subject wasn‘t even mentioned in KRs and ACIs (King‘s Regulations and Air Council Instructions), but this was most likely because the question had never cropped up before. Although half the pilots in the Russian Air Force were women—who were quite prepared to ram you when their ammunition ran out—in the more civilized parts of the world, women aviators were relatively few in number, and were in the public eye because they were outstanding, exceptional people. Names like Jean Batten, Amy Johnson,

22 SECOND TIME LUCKY

Jacqueline Cochran, Hanna Reitsch, spring to mind. In England, the connection to the RAF was through the Air Transport Auxiliary, in which these outstanding women would ferry anything from Spitfires to Lancasters from factory to squadron. We would be invoking the time-honoured principle that, if a thing is not specifically forbidden, it is allowable, although I doubted whether the desk-bound troglodytes who ran the Air Ministry would see it that way. Nevertheless, I did my best. I took her to all the squadron parties, and made sure she got close to Robbie on every possible occasion. She, for her part, engaged him in lively, animated conversation sprinkled liberally with flying topics. I could see that he was pleased and impressed by all the attention, particularly from such a presentable young lady. Also, if I may modestly say so, he thought quite highly of me, and the fact that I was squiring her around must mean that she was an okay type. While all this was going on, the old chemistry worked its magic with us, and so began one of the happiest periods of my life to date. We loved being together, we went everywhere together. She took me to her home for the weekend where I met her parents— wonderful people. She took me for a flight in a Hornet Moth at her Denham Flying Club. She flew with total concentration, by the book, and despised ―throttle benders‖—her name for pilots who thrashed the engine. When she let me fly it, I was subject to a closer scrutiny than that of ―Tuppy‖ Jarvis, my current instructor. I had to watch my step. Her pre-flight inspection lasted five minutes, and another of life‘s lessons was learned. The RAF ―Kick the tires, light the fires, last one off‘s a sissy‖ approach doesn‘t work in a civil flying club, where members have to pay for their own repairs. One of our most intimate moments occurred just after my first flight in a Meteor. It happened like this: One of my degree requirements was to write a thesis, on a subject of my choice, which had to be approved by the Dean. I chose ―High-Speed Flight‖, which was accepted. I then heard that the Home Command communications flight at our Newton airfield had acquired some Meteor T7s, the two-seater training version of the first jet fighter to enter RAF service in WWII. If I could use my thesis requirement as a lever to get some time in one of these, I could include a good section on ―compressibility effects on the

23 NUTS AND BOLTS control and stability of aircraft‖, citing personal experience, which should blow their doors off. I told Barbara about it, and I could see she didn‘t think much of my chances, but asked me to let her know straight away if I managed to pull it off. Fortunately, Robbie was quite taken with the idea and made the necessary phone calls, so that one memorable afternoon I found myself standing by this gleaming silver machine, talking to the pilot. He was a flight sergeant, who clearly didn‘t think much of officers, and, by extension, officer cadets, but had been told by his boss to ―do what this intellectual twit wants‖. When I asked him if he would kindly take it up to the critical Mach number (which I knew to be 0.82— higher than the standard fighter because the nose was longer to accommodate the extra cockpit: just like a sailboat really, where the hull speed depends on the waterline length) he heaved a sigh and told the ground crew to take the ventral tank off. This was a huge thing, which would have given him a whole hour in the air. How long we would have without it I didn‘t want to know. In for a penny, in for a pound. Go for broke... When I was securely strapped on to my ejector seat, complete with parachute, anti-g suit, oxygen mask and God knows what else, he said in a neutral tone, ―If I say ‗eject‘, pull down that blind and get out. Don‘t start discussing it, because I won‘t be here.‖Off we went. He got up to 10,000 feet in a couple of minutes and said, ―Accelerating.‖ I watched the Machmeter, and sure enough, when it got to 0.82 the aircraft started to snake from side to side, as I had anticipated. I immediately said, ―Thank you very much—that was just fine.‖ I could sense the relief, and as he throttled back he became quite friendly. ―Anything else I can do for you?‖ I told him a loop would be great. That was more like it—10,000 to 15,000 and back again. What a ride! ―Got to go back now‖ he said. So in we came, over the hedge at 120 mph, more that twice my usual, and touched down on the grass smooth as silk on the huge Dowty levered suspension undercarriage. After thanking the flight sergeant profusely, I made haste to get back and tell Barbara. She was in the lab, doing something with a microscope and a load of electronic gizmos, and normally I wouldn‘t have dared to interrupt, but when she saw me gesticulating frantically at the door

24 SECOND TIME LUCKY a great smile broke out, and there she stood. We arranged to meet later, and that evening we were closer than at any other time. I told her all about it. I fished out a copy of pilot‘s notes for the Meteor T7 which I had liberated from somewhere (don‘t ask—don‘t tell), and memorized before the flight. We went through it together; her eyes were shining, and she was positively radiant, hanging on to every word. It was easy to tell what she was thinking, and I had the uneasy idea that I was not the main item in her thoughts. Nevertheless, I couldn‘t help hoping that she would be able to fulfil her ambition. The way things were going, I thought it best not to mention certain mental reservations I was beginning to have about the whole business. I was glad to have had the experience, because it enabled me to make the most important decision of my life, as will be seen in the next chapter. To get back to the academic side, I aced part one of the degree, partly because I had done it all before but, most importantly, most of the profs were ex-military, who knew how to instruct. Here I wish to make an important point. Whereas most people in the education business seem to think it is important to understand the basic principles and be able to apply them by the power of thought to a given situation, my basic philosophy has always been that the most important thing is to get the right answer, but let that pass for the moment. As an aside, one of the first year exercises in the Theory of Structures course was the calculation of snow loads on various building roof designs, which I found to be a very straightforward matter. It seems, however, to be quite beyond the grasp of many consulting engineers in Canada, to judge by the number of roofs which collapse under accumulations of snow. After all, it‘s been snowing during Canadian winters ever since the place was discovered, and probably before that. It was now 1949, and I would be out of there in 1950. In your dreams! As the dreaded finals approached I was feeling quite confident. I had memorized my bankers—my approach to problems, while perhaps not always hitting the nail right on the head, was at least beginning to look fairly plausible. Then disaster struck. Three weeks before the finals I came off my motorbike, dislocating my left shoulder and splitting the femur right down the middle to the

25 NUTS AND BOLTS halfway mark. The doc said the whole shoulder/arm assembly would have to be in plaster for six weeks. I am left-handed; the only thing I can do with my right hand is hold the control column. There I was, three weeks before the most important exam of my life, with my writing arm completely immobilized. I got down to the task of attempting to find a way round this problem. First, I figured out how to work my slide rule by jamming the stock between the plaster and the desk, and manipulating the slide and cursor with my free hand. (Did I hear someone say, ―What‘s a slide rule?‖ Oh, go and look it up in a museum catalogue. I‘ll give you a hint—it was used to design every engineering project up to the Concorde, so put that in your pipe and smoke it.) Writing was a different matter altogether. At first I couldn‘t even hold a pen properly. Then, all I could produce was a semi- literate scrawl. If my concentration lapsed only slightly, I found myself writing from right to left. It was all a bit frightening, and naturally while thus engaged I could not follow my usual path of last-minute cramming. Not that I ever picked up anything useful, but it was good for clearing the mind of things like sex, beer, flying, shooting and all the other stuff that makes life worth living. Predictably, once again I ―failed to satisfy the examiners‖, so there went another year. During my second final year, Barbara transferred her allegiance to Johnny, a pal in the air squadron—probably because she got frustrated at the failure of my efforts on her behalf. I never saw her again, and much later I found out in various roundabout ways that Robbie Hewitt, the crafty blighter, had pulled a few strings, called in a few favours, and got her into a nearby RAFVR training unit, thereby keeping his nose clean, and at the same time getting her off his back.

‗Tis all a checker-board of nights and days Where destiny with men for pieces plays; Hither and thither moves, and mates and slays, And one by one back in the closet lays.‖ (See next chapter)

And so, the second time around, I aced the final exam. My mum and dad came to the convocation, bursting with pride. To me

26 SECOND TIME LUCKY it was the usual cock-up. The graduates were introduced by the Electrical Technology prof previously mentioned, who was also the Dean of Engineering. He read out our names in his silly high- pitched squeaky voice that nobody in the audience could hear. We marched up and were allowed to shake the hand of Hedley Pickbourne, Registrar, who was only one rung below God. The miserable, penny-pinching bastards didn‘t even present me with a fancy scroll such as every degree-granting institute has awarded since time began. I had to go to the office and pay one-and-six for an uninspiring bit of fake parchment. Funnily enough, I only had to show it once in my entire career, but it got me a job, so I suppose it was one-and-six well spent. When it finally came my turn to present graduates at a convocation ceremony, I kept in mind the memory of this fiasco, and like to think I gave the audience its money‘s worth—but that‘s a long time in the future. One tricky question remains: Do I have a five-year degree or a three-year degree?

27

CHAPTER 3: THE END OF THE BEGINNING

t last, I had the piece of paper which would enable me to get a job. No more classes! Out into the real world! It A should be pointed out that this thought process had required considerable mental adjustment. When I had signed on in 1944 the future was not a top priority. All I wanted to do was to get up flying and take out as many of the Nazi buggers as possible, until maybe one of them got me. This outlook was shared by many in my group. You can sneer or snigger or whatever, but if you weren‘t there at the time you cannot possibly imagine the atmosphere which would generate this kind of thinking. Now that I‘m 81, sitting on my deck with my gin and tonic, watching the flowers grow, I can pontificate about it: ―War is stupid...if everyone refused to go to war there wouldn‘t be any war...‖ but I know it‘s not true. We would do it all again. Look around you! Well, I won‘t follow that train of thought. The point I‘m trying to make is that here I was, suddenly facing 40 years of having to earn a living. I still didn‘t know what I wanted to do. Oh, I knew what I wanted, all right. I wanted a sports car, a pad in town, and a popsie. Therefore, the obvious thing to do was to get the job which paid the highest salary. This is what led me to Frigidaire, in London. Four hundred pounds a year seemed to be the going rate for newly graduated engineers (yes, chum—a YEAR. But, with houses and cars and such priced accordingly, it made sense at the time). In addition, Frigidaire was offering another 200 a year in the form of expenses, which, being tax free, was worth a lot. There were also some nebulous bits about a promising career in the management structure of General Motors, at that time the largest corporation on earth. Rather to my surprise I got the job, starting in September. I was required to do an initial ―management training course‖, which turned out to be a post-graduate apprenticeship— three months in each department for two years. How different my life would have been, had I sought a specific job in pursuit of a preordained career!

28 THE END OF THE BEGINNING

I spent what I thought would be my last free summer in a riot of self-fulfilment. First came my last air squadron summer camp, at RAF Upwood, near Peterborough, where I was privileged to lead the whole squadron, now completely re-equipped with Chipmunks, in formation flying practice. Next, I went with the squadron rifle team to Bisley, where we didn‘t make much headway in the King‘s Prize—nobody did as long as S/Ldr Willett was there—but managed to win the Kingsley Wood Challenge Trophy, the rusted, flaked remains of which reside in my desk as I write. Finally, I went with a couple of pals for a week‘s sail charter on the Norfolk Broads. This was my first experience of handling a sailboat, but it was by no means to be the last. I read recently of a proposal to move the East Anglian sea defences further back to a better location, so that the Broads would be allowed to go under ―when global warming makes the sea level rise‖. This, according to the Telegraph, would mean that Potter Heigham, my favourite village in the area, would be inundated. I have plenty to say about global warming, but not here, or I‘ll never finish the book. The point is that, global warming or not, if the defences are not maintained, the next North Sea surge will inundate the Broads anyway, like the one that drowned Canvey Island in 1953. Personally, I think that the gibbering idiot who thought that one up requires professional help. In earlier, pre-PC days, I would have said he should be put up against a wall and shot, but that might get me into trouble, so better not. I went back to the air squadron to collect my log book and sign out, prior to being transferred to an RAFVR unit. Robbie Hewitt took me aside and informed me that he could pretty well guarantee me a permanent commission in the RAF, if I would sign up for their three-month jet conversion course. I thought hard about this. I thought about my urgent need to start earning money. I didn‘t like the idea of losing the chance to secure what seemed to be a first-class job. I thought about my time in the Meteor, and how flying like this was not much fun any more, what with having the cockpit canopy closed all the time, sitting on a seat filled with high explosive, watching the fuel gauge going round as fast as the second hand of the clock, and approaching to land at 120 mph. I thought about the RAF‘s insane obsession with low-level aerobatics. Politely I turned down the offer.

29 NUTS AND BOLTS

The reaction of the authorities was instant and ruthless. I was stripped of my officer cadet‘s flashes, busted to sergeant, and brusquely told to report to No. 1 RFS (Reserve Flying School) at Panshanger, in Hertfordshire, immediately upon arrival in the area. Shortly thereafter, I heard that two of my friends had been killed during the course. One had tried to roll a Vampire at 200 feet, the other had undershot in a Meteor, misjudged the slow response of a jet engine to sudden throttle opening, hit the boundary wall and disintegrated. Who can tell what may happen? The one incontrovertible fact is that I am still here. All else is conjecture. And so I started my working life as an engineer. There were four of us doing the same course. We were all allocated different departments, and my first was the factory floor. Before getting to that, an awful incident must be related, which occurred shortly after I started. Having disembarked from the underground train, I was making my way along the Edgware Road towards the plant when the personnel manager (as they were then sensibly called), R. .H. Ormsby, the man who had interviewed and hired me, and one of nature‘s gentlemen, fell into step beside me. He asked how I was getting on, then fished out his morning paper and said I might be interested in a news item. There it was: ―RAF woman pilot killed in Nottingham air crash...‖ With a photo. It was Barbara! The universe reeled. I tottered over to the wall, clung on to something to stay upright, and just stood there. Ormsby took me by the arm. ―I‘m so sorry,‖ he said. ―Would you like the day off?‖ No—she wouldn‘t have wanted that. ―Then come and have a cup of coffee in my office. I‘ll tell them you will be a little late because I wanted you to fill in some papers or something.‖ I went back that weekend to witness the last rites. An RAF guard of honour fired a volley over her Union Jack-draped coffin, which they then bore into the chapel, where she was cremated, and her ashes were scattered in the part of the local wood where she used to play as a child. As soon as I read the accident report—the usual unhelpful, ass-covering load of b-s—I knew what had happened. It appears she was practising spin recovery in a Prentice aircraft, with instructor so-and-so (with whom I had a nodding acquaintance). The Percival Prentice, the foulest, rottenest flying machine ever

30 THE END OF THE BEGINNING devised. It was designed to the requirements of some desk-flying birdbrain in the Ministry, who thought it would be a prime wheeze to seat the trainee pilot and instructor side by side in front, with another trainee in the back, busy absorbing the lesson so that he would be well prepared when his turn came. The idea was to reduce the time taken to train a pilot, but it was a non-starter from the word go. The relationship between trainee pilot and instructor is an intensely personal one. It‘s not like training navigators, where you can sit six of them in a row in an Anson, and ―teach them how to draw a line from A to B and look blank‖, as a navigation instructor once described it to me. The requirement had spawned this atrocious aircraft, with a great wide windscreen and a huge cupola which, as anyone who knew the first thing about it could instantly see, would disrupt the airflow over the tail surfaces if given half the chance. What had obviously happened to Barbara‘s plane was that, when the rudder effectiveness decreased as the spin developed, neither she nor her instructor, both being of short stature, could apply sufficient rudder pressure to enable recovery in the altitude available. Finally, I picked myself up and got back in the race. One of the first lessons I learned on the factory floor concerned the properties of cutting oil. I knew already that it smelled awful, and in the automatic lathe section it was everywhere, including all over the floor. I was wearing my crepe-soled shoes, and at the end of the day they had swelled up like balloons, making walking a bit tricky. The operators clearly found this funny. I decided to try and make the best of it, so I put on an act. ―Oh my goodness,‖ I cried, ―there go my brothel creepers. What shall I do?‖ This broke them up, and from then on they were quite friendly. Most interesting was my first encounter with time and motion study in action. The person concerned was called Joe, and everyone on the floor referred to him as ―Joe the Baptist‖, presumably because of his endless stream of filthy jokes. Down he would come with his clipboard and stopwatch, just like Ms. Whatshername at Nottingham, only more pleasant company. He explained the bonus system, which to me sounded a bit like Alice in Wonderland. The workers were allocated their hourly rates of pay depending upon what job they were doing. The time taken for them to do this was

31 NUTS AND BOLTS measured, and from that a required hourly rate of production was established. The amount by which they exceeded this was reflected in a percentage increase in their hourly rate, the ―bonus‖. The inevitable result, as I would have thought a kid of ten could have foreseen, was, as Joe put it, ―When I‘m around, they move like slugs on the bottom of an ocean of treacle, and when I‘ve gone they spring into action like Olympic athletes. I know they do this, and they know that I know, and we get along fine.‖ He told me about the man whose sole function was to wash castings in paraffin. ―I think he‘s running about 900 percent at the moment. He has a wife and three kids, and he needs the money.‖ He also told me about the one man in the place who could handle the fibreglass insulation without contracting dermatitis. If he had a sick day, the production rate went down, because everyone else had to dress up like a firefighter before they could touch it. We management trainees had a meeting every week, when we would be indoctrinated into management methods. Sometimes we had role-playing sessions, which always struck me as rather ridiculous. One would be the general manager, another would be the union leader, then there were the personnel manager, the shop steward (ever see Lucky Jim?), the works manager, and so forth. Some smarmy consultant would pose a management-type problem which we had to settle between ourselves. When I was cast as the personnel manager, I managed to have the whole plant out on strike, the general manger besieged in his office by irate pickets, supplies at a standstill because of other unions coming out in sympathy...need I go on? As the saying goes: ―It‘s only a game.‖ I wasn‘t thrown off the course, as I should have been, but it certainly reinforced my conviction that management was not for me. A significant event occurred during my stint in the ―Specials‖ department, an offshoot from the main factory, whose function was to produce one-off items for special applications. I was sent to the Trostre tinplate works in South Wales, to supervise the replacement of a heat exchanger, the first one having been condemned because its protective covering had started to crack, not being suitable for the environment in which it was operating. This was the first of several cock-ups which I observed during my years at the company.

32 THE END OF THE BEGINNING

I was driven down there by the technician who had installed the thing in the first place, and who knew perfectly well what to do. The only reason I was there, as far as I could see, was that the Steel Company of Wales, the nationalized group that ran things down there, required the attendance of an engineer, and not wishing to waste the time of a real one, the company sent me. I was quite content with the arrangement, and by this time had developed the knack of making friends with the people who actually did the work, so it was a pleasant trip. The significant bit was a kind of ―Road to Damascus‖ revelation that hit me while I was having a look round. The colossal plant, which must have been half a mile long, had been built at a cost of several millions, and had thrown the entire population of the valley out of work. During the visit I met three people—the chap who ran the place and two others who were actually doing something. One was sitting at an instrument panel, the other was wandering round with an oil can. Raw steel went in at one end, and from the other end emerged huge rolls of tinplated sheet steel, to be loaded on to waiting goods trains. I thought about this. Presumably they did it to be able to produce tinplate more economically. But at what cost? They had deprived a lot of people of the thing a man needs most out of life—the opportunity to earn his living by doing a job he‘s good at, so that he can hold his head high and support his family. There they all were, on the dole, living off government handouts. What must that do to a man‘s spirit? And why? Could it be because every other country is doing it? Is the whole world barmy? I thought back to my earlier ruminations about the Luddites. They could foresee what was coming when they went around smashing machinery, which is more than can be said for the cement-headed cretins who are in charge of things these days. If this is the best Homo Sap can come up with, I thought, the sooner the big one hits and gets rid of us, the better. Then, perhaps, another species can take over, and do a better job. Powerful stuff, yes? Not what you‘d expect from an engineer, perhaps. Well, I earned my living at it and never got fired, or even laid off, so I must have done something right. My last days on the shop floor were spent in the tool room, where I was apprenticed to Percy, a serious-minded individual who took pride in showing me how he set things up, how he did his

33 NUTS AND BOLTS measurements, and a whole lot of other stuff. While I was there, he received a large round casting worth, I was informed, several thousand pounds. His job was to turn three diameters—outside, halfway in, and a small spigot in the centre. He set up the drawing—a miserable affair, I thought, obviously a print off a print, full of sellotape patches, with some of the dimensions barely legible—and started work. After a couple of days he was finished, and sent it off to inspection. Back came a terse note to his supervisor, condemning it because the centre spigot was supposed to have an offset of an eighth of an inch, whereas he had turned it concentrically. The whole thing was a write-off. I felt awful. I never found out what happened after that, because my time was up, and I ―went upstairs‖. The incident was another bit of baggage I had to carry through life. If he hadn‘t been so keen on showing me around, would he have noticed it? Probably. It certainly widened the ever-growing gap between me and the chief draughtsmen of the world. If I had done the drawing, it would have had a large note right in the middle, with an arrow pointing to the offset. But then, I was already sick and tired of the first-and-third angle projection nonsense. All the drawings I ever did bore the legend ―view on arrow ‗A‘‖ and so on, which put me at odds with all the drawing office procedures ever devised. I didn‘t do it deliberately to annoy them—let‘s just say our philosophies of life are different. One more incident took place while I was down there. Part of the roof gave way, which brought the assembly line to a standstill for a time. I should explain that the building dated from the Great War, and had been used by Handley Page to build the 0/400 and V/1500 bombers, Trenchard‘s ―Bloody Paralyzers‖, which were going to bomb Germany into submission, except that the war finished first. The Frigidaire assembly line was in the form of a rail suspended from the roof, along which the refrigerator cabinets moved, hanging from little trolleys. No thought had been given to strengthening the roof, and with several tons of refrigerators hanging from it, something had to give, eventually... My first assignment upstairs was in the Sales department, and here occurred one of the funnier cock-ups, which lingers in my memory to this day. A big meeting was called, of all the sales reps in the dealerships across the country, to witness the introduction of

34 THE END OF THE BEGINNING the latest model of the nine-cubic-foot cabinet. There it stood on the stage, with the Sales Manager beside it. He read the eulogy, and I wondered when the Household Cavalry trumpeters were going to sound the Tantivy (remember the Ford Edsel?). He opened the door to show the latest breakthrough in interior design (it looked exactly like all the rest, to my untutored eye), and there was obviously a lot of b-s going on for the benefit of the dealers (they needed all they could get—ever try selling refrigerators in England in the fifties?). He swung the door shut, and it rebounded open! I can still see his face, and wondered what thoughts were churning through his mind. With Herculean self-restraint he grasped the door handle and rammed the door shut, holding it until he was certain it would not open again. He then continued his presentation, but he‘d lost them. They were muttering among themselves, glancing at their watches... It transpired that some genius in the American head office had conceived the idea of reducing, by one, the gauge of sheet metal used throughout the Corporation, thereby decreasing the tonnage required by an enormous amount, thus maximizing profits. But—it didn‘t work out like that, as he would have been made to realize if he‘d bothered to consult an engineer. Sheet metal suppliers have their rolling mills preset to the EVEN gauges, so if an ODD gauge is ordered, the price goes up considerably, due to resetting charges. Also, in the case of the refrigerator door, it had lost its inherent stiffness given by the turned-over edges, and ―oil-canned‖ such that it could not stay flat. I found out by snooping around that a panic ―fix‖ had been devised, which consisted of spot-welding a stiffening bar diagonally across the inside of the door. Never did I discover the fate of the imbecile who thought up the idea. To judge by what happens nowadays, in all probability his bonus was increased. I was conducted to the sales office, where I was introduced to a young lady named Marina, who would show me how orders were handled. I sat down opposite to her and looked into her eyes, and my mind skittered off to the other side of the universe. I was totally and utterly smitten, as they say in Lancashire. If it‘s never happened to you, there is no way I can explain it, and if it has, you don‘t need an explanation. A slow smile spread across her lovely face, as she launched into some gobbledegook about pro-forma invoices or

35 NUTS AND BOLTS something. I asked her after the session if she would like to come out with me for a drink after work, muttering something about being interested in a career in sales, and wishing to learn more, outside the confines of the office... To my joy, she agreed that it sounded a good idea, and so began a relationship which was a fascinating interlude in my life. As will shortly be seen, it was doomed from the start, due to what I can only think of as predestination, but neither of us knew that at the time.

O Thou, who did‘st with pitfall and with gin Beset the path I was to wander in, Thou wouldst not with predestination round Enmesh me, and impute my fall to sin?

My next stop was the jig and tool drawing office, where I met Peter V, who was destined to play a large part in my life until the eighties. I was allocated a drawing board, and struggled with the design of a punch and die set for producing refrigeration compressor reed valves. Sitting here, I can hardly believe that this thing was actually made, to my drawings, and started to produce reed valves. I snaffled the first one as a memento, and have it still—somewhere. As I wandered round the drawing office, seeking the advice of various draughtsmen who had been pointed out to me, I passed this chap‘s board several times, and noticed him looking at me with curiosity, obviously wondering what I was doing there. I then began to glance at him occasionally, for he was behaving in a manner I had not previously observed in this organization. He had a four-foot length of dead straight copper tube, by his board, which I recognized as a core tube of a condenser before the fins had been soldered on to it. With this he would blow wads of paper on to the back of the neck of some draughtsman a few boards ahead, who would jump and feel his neck, probably thinking he was under attack by a wasp or something. At other times he would start whistling ―Colonel Bogey‖ (the movie Bridge Over the River Kwai was doing the rounds at the time), until the nearest draughtsman would tell him to ―shut the **** up!‖ I came to the conclusion that he was just about as fed up as I was with the business of mass-producing refrigerators, and thought no more about it...

36 THE END OF THE BEGINNING

Until, one evening, I was in a basement jazz club off Oxford Street, listening to Johnny Dankworth and his Hot Seven (I caught up with him again, years later, when he had teamed up with the gorgeous Cleo Laine and they were on a world tour which passed through Toronto). Suddenly I caught sight of this chap from the jig and tool drawing office, jiving with some good-looking chick. He spotted me at the same time, and left the dance floor, asking very politely if it would be all right for them to sit at my table. I was not about to demur, because this was getting interesting. If he was a jig and tool designer, my hand was a hacksaw. He cautiously approached the subject of my presence in the jig and tool drawing office, and, being pleased that anyone was interested enough to ask, I explained the whole thing to him, omitting the dodgy bits, because, after all, if he WAS a spy for the administration, to see how we management trainees were doing, I didn‘t want to shoot myself in the foot. As it turned out, the conversation carried on to the performance of various sports cars, space travel, science fiction, jazz music...at some point, the chick wandered off to seek pastures new, and neither of us noticed or cared. So began a friendship which lasted a quarter of a century, but I don‘t want to go into it any further right now, because we are very nearly at the most important bit. My last stint of the course was in the Development department, which appeared to be manned by one friendly chap called Roger, who spent his days running refrigerators festooned inside and out with thermocouples and pressure gauges and taking copious notes, presumably to guide the people who were responsible for the inscriptions telling you where to put the butter, veggies and so forth. Shortly after I arrived, the character who supposedly ran the place came to see me, and asked me if I knew what back pressure was. I thought about this. If he had asked me what THE back pressure was, I could have answered, ―Sorry, I only just got here, and haven‘t had time to measure it yet.‖ However, asking me if I knew what back pressure was sounded as if he was testing my knowledge, so screw that. At that moment, I laid the foundation for a technique which stood me in good stead, with subsequent refinements, for the rest of my career. I forced my brain to absorb the following reply: ―I have a degree in mechanical engineering.

37 NUTS AND BOLTS

Are you trying to start something, or what?‖ I then, I hoped, transferred this message to my facial expression (the whole process took less than a second). I looked him straight in the eye and said, ―Yes.‖ It must have worked, because he just shrugged and buggered off, leaving us to it. Roger, poor guy, must have led a boring life doing this stuff, but I guess it suited his placid disposition as, quite frankly, he didn‘t strike me as the type with a burning ambition to set the world on fire. He was keen to discuss things with me, and was obviously wondering how someone like me could have ended up watching him taking his pointless readings. I told him all about it, bringing him bang up to date. At this time I was flying most weekends with No. 1 RFS at Panshanger, and was a member of the de Havilland Flying Club, a courtesy the firm extended to VR pilots. At the time they had two Tiger Moths and the first two Canadian built Chipmunks, which had been sent over for assessment prior to being adopted by the RAF as its basic trainer. I would take anyone for a flight who would pay half the cost, and casually asked Roger if he would be interested. He fairly jumped at the chance, and asked if it would be all right if he brought his girlfriend along, as he was teaching her to drive, and it would be a good run for her. I sensed that he was looking to impress her, too. All the same to me, I said. The following weekend, October 4, 1953, found me at Panshanger, having booked a Tiger Moth for an hour. Up came a Ford Popular, and out stepped Roger, followed by a tall, striking- looking woman whom he introduced as Inge. ―Hello‖ she said, shaking my hand. ―Hello,‖ I replied. ―Ready, Roger? I‘ve only got it for an hour.‖ We walked out to the flight line, and stopped in front of the Tiger Moth, where a mechanic was standing by to swing the prop. Roger took one agonized look at the open cockpits, the canvas-covered wings, the bracing wires, struts and control cables, turned a pasty colour, and croaked, ―I‘m not going up in THAT!‖ Oh bloody hell, I thought. I should have told him a bit more about it. But Inge interrupted this train of thought. ―I would like to go,‖ she said, ―if that would be suitable.‖ I shrugged. ―Suit yourself.‖ I would have to pay for the damned aeroplane anyway, whether it flew or not. I looked at Roger, who nodded, poor sod.

38 THE END OF THE BEGINNING

I showed her how to get into the front cockpit without putting a foot through the wing fabric, got her settled in with her straps nice and snug, handed her my spare headset and told her about the natter tube. For some reason this made her smile, so I smiled back, thinking maybe she was amused at my way of speaking. It wasn‘t until several months later that I discovered ―natter‖ was the German word for viper. At that time, all the VR aircraft had been equipped with electrical intercom, but most of their civil counterparts still had the voice tube. This consisted of a mouthpiece into which you shouted, the sound being carried by a bifurcated tube to diaphragms in the recipient‘s headset. A bit primitive, but you could always throttle back if it became too lousy. The mechanic swung the propeller, the gipsy major started first time, and while doing the engine run-up I asked if Inge if she could hear me okay. ―Yes, thank you.‖ So far, so good. Off we went. I circled the field as we climbed to 3,000 feet, and pointed out Roger, standing by his car, looking at us. After some stooging around, with me pointing out local landmarks, I asked if she would like to try some manoeuvres. ―Yes, please.‖ So I started with a stall turn, one of my favourites, where you lift the nose high until the airspeed falls right off, then boot on full rudder and fall gently sideways into a dive, at which point you throttle right back, and in the ensuing zoom, if you get it right, you can finish up not too far from the altitude at which you started. I love the first bit, when everything goes a lot quieter, you stop being buffeted by the slipstream, and you can hear the throbbing of the wind on the wing canvas. The only thing you have to watch is that it doesn‘t accidentally develop into a tail slide, because if that happened the rudder would come off—or so I had been informed, and I had no wish to check this out experimentally. Anyway, that was all right, so I did one the other way. ―Anything else I can do for you?‖ ―Does this machine loop the loop?‖ ―If you ask it nicely.‖ So I did a loop. My hour was nearly up, so I made tracks towards the airfield. Then, ―Is that all you can do?‖

39 NUTS AND BOLTS

I thought about this. I said, ―That‘s all I‘m doing with you, chum. I wanted to give you a pleasant ride, not put you off flying for life.‖ ―As you wish.‖ Down we came. I helped her out, she asked a few questions about the aircraft, took my hand and said, ―Thank you very much. That was very nice.‖ On the way back to their car, I managed to get Roger alone for a few seconds. ―I admire your taste in women,‖ I told him. I think it cheered him up a bit. When I reported back to the development lab the following week to finish my time as a trainee, Roger was in pensive mood. He thanked me for doing the flight, and I started to apologise for my lack of consideration. ―I would have booked a Chipmunk if I‘d realized... ―No no no‖ he said. ―Something good came out of it.‖ He then told me what had happened on their way back. He told Inge what I had said to him, and asked her, ―What did you think of him, then?‖ ―Think of him?‖ she replied. ―I‘m going to marry him!‖ Hell‘s teeth! This was getting a bit out of hand! He went on to tell me that she was a nurse at Charing Cross hospital, and had been assigned day care nursing duty for his sister, who was suffering from some awful thing. Being a nurse, she was entitled to free tickets to London concerts and shows, and had obtained a couple for a Beethoven concert at the Festival Hall, with Flash Harry (sorry—Sir Malcolm Sargent) conducting the London Philharmonic, I think it was. Roger wondered if I would go instead of him as he couldn‘t stand Beethoven, but she was crazy about him. I could see his point, having already established that his musical taste was centred around skiffle (―Cement Mixer‖ and ―Freight Train‖ spring to mind). For my part, I could take Ludwig or leave him, as I was going through a Chopin phase, but was always open to suggestions. Besides, I suddenly realized that the thought of an evening with Inge gave me quite a thrill. It took me all of half a second to thank him and agree to do it. As I was leaving the lab for the last time, to take my place in the ―management structure‖, he turned his soulful gaze on me and said, ―You know, John, if you marry her, she will be your slave for life.‖ Well, I didn‘t particularly want a slave, but as things turned

40 THE END OF THE BEGINNING out he was thinking along appropriate lines—he just happened to hit on the reciprocal. I‘ll leave it there for a bit, so that we can get to the end of the Frigidaire episode. For some reason which now eludes me, I started my corporate career as a planning engineer. An early experience in this position was one of my most bizarre encounters to date. I was made responsible for the procurement of production facilities for a certain section of the machining department devoted to drilling holes. One day the foreman came up to me and said, ―We‘ve only got one 1/16 drill left. I put in a requisition a week ago. If this one breaks we‘ll have to stop the line, so better get your skates on lad, ‗cos it‘ll be your fault.‖ I bit back several obvious rejoinders and shot up to my office, where I went through all the tool orders I had issued since starting there. Here, another explanation is necessary, for those born after computers were invented. At one time, every item required for production—drills, lathe tool bits, milling cutters and so on—was entered on a card in an index file. Every time a requisition was received from the shop floor, the number issued was entered, and when the total quantity reached a certain minimum value, it was the responsibility of the planning department to reorder. An eighth-grade dropout could have done the work, but a lot of stuff in the corporate world doesn‘t make much sense. This was just a drop in the bucket. To my relief I found my copy of an order I had sent a month ago to the tool store, for 500 1/16 drills. I took this down to the tool store and presented it to the man in charge, an abrasive character called Griffin, whose purple-veined face and quick breathing indicated to me that he would not have to endure the trials and tribulations of this vale of tears for much longer. To my utter surprise he went for me. ―Who do you think you are talking to? If I had to read every stupid bit of paper that comes in here I‘d never get anything done...‖ I stood there, totally gobsmacked for a few seconds, listening to this nonsense, then my brain kicked in. I dashed out of the building, jumped into my car, and roared off down the Edgware Road to the nearest ironmonger (all right then—hardware store), where I purchased their entire stock of 1/16 drills. I shot back to the factory, strolled nonchalantly to the drilling section, and handed

41 NUTS AND BOLTS them to the foreman, who scowled and said, ―About bloody time.‖ No paper trail—nothing. Next time they ran out, some other sucker could handle it. It certainly was not going to be me! That was enough. This was not for me. I had heard on the latrinograph/grapevine/watercooler scuttlebutt/jungle telegraph that, since the market for refrigerators in England had just about disappeared, the head honchos had decided to diversify, and one of their more unbelievable decisions was to sub-contract work from the aircraft industry. Specifically, I had heard, they were talking to Hawker Aircraft Ltd. about producing elevators for the Hunter, which was at that time the mainstay of Fighter Command, and had been ordered by many other air forces. I went to see the works manager and told him I wanted a piece of the action on the Hunter elevator sub-contract. He looked at me with interest and said, ―Why?‖ I explained that I was an RAF reserve pilot and knew a lot about aircraft, citing my time at Avro, and thought I could make a contribution to the project. Fortunately he didn‘t ask the obvious question (What the hell are you doing here, then?). Readers already know the answer to that, and it was none of his business anyway, so it was just as well. To my relief he approved, and told me to get myself down to Hawker and pick up the drawings for the assembly jigs. ―They‘ll tell you in the office where it is.‖ ―I know where it is,‖ I said, and got down to Kingston on Thames as soon as a phone call could arrange things. They were a bit wary at first, and I can‘t say I blame them, but after we had been discussing things for a while they became quite friendly, and went through the drawings with me. By this time I knew a bit about assembly jigs and was able to follow their briefing reasonably well. Just one point bothered me. ―I see these drawings are for the port elevator. Presumably there is another set for the starboard elevator?‖ That got their attention. ―Oh, no, that would be too time consuming. You see this table here, and the circled numbers scattered around? Those refer to differences between port and starboard. It might be as well to mention this to your people, in case they use a different system.‖ I promised to do that; they gave me a tour of the plant, and we parted on cordial terms. As I left, a strange feeling came over me. This is where I should be! Why was I wasting my life in that other place? Well—it‘s

42 THE END OF THE BEGINNING too late now...and so on. It was in introspective mood that I returned to Edgware. I handed the drawings to the chief planning engineer, and said, ―There‘s just one thing I should point out—‖ He cut me off short. ―We do know how to read drawings, you know.‖ I shrugged and left him to it. Fortunately, I had no further connections with the job. Having let me serve my turn as errand boy, they decided to have the real engineers take over. Since these guys had nothing to do anyway, the refrigeration business having stagnated, I can see their point. What follows, then, is second hand, but pretty reliable, because it comes from the get-togethers which we trainees had weekly in our local, the Bald-Faced Stag. Some of them were in key positions during this period, so they had an inside track. Much of the fabrication work involved bending high-tensile aluminium alloy sheet into various shapes, and naturally Frigidaire, having considerable expertise in sheet metal presswork, regarded the job as a piece of cake. There was one part, however, which required extra special attention—the inboard end rib. The ribs were triangular pieces with flanges top and bottom, to provide stiffness and allow the skin to be attached. The inboard end rib was also curved in plan, to fit snugly round the acorn fairing between the fin and the stabilizer, which housed part of the hydraulic actuation system. The drawing specified a complicated heat treatment, in three stages I think, but the person in charge had pooh-poohed that. ―We know how to press sheet metal here.‖ he said. ―We‘re not going to waste time on this airy-fairy fly-boy stuff.‖ So, they heated and cooled it or whatever. Zap! went the press, and out came a perfect inboard end rib. However, by the time the first hundred or so reached the assembly area, they had all developed cracks. Back to the drawing board, so to speak. Halfway through the first trial assembly, the foreman sent up a query, asking whether starboard jigs would be coming down, or were we just building port elevators? He had two port jigs. I heard there were panic calls to Hawkers, and one of their people had to come up and sort it out. I didn‘t say a word. One last episode, before I take leave of my first fulltime job: Someone in the Purchasing department had the bright idea of buying the steel used in building the first Waterloo bridge, which had been dismantled to make way for an up-to-date reinforced

43 NUTS AND BOLTS concrete design. The metal was on sale for a low price, so he bought the lot and sent it down to make Meter-Miser compressors. This was an elegant rotary vane unit, very quiet and using hardly any power (less than a light bulb, ran the ads). But, its performance depended entirely upon an absolutely accurate running clearance between the rotating eccentric and the cylinder. This was achieved by selective assembly, and the use of air gauges. ―You had to make twenty to get ten‖, someone on the shop floor once told me. And that was when using high-grade material. As is well known, most commercial steel is not high grade—you have to pay extra for that. Mostly, it is an amalgam of melted-down cars with all sorts of inclusions—paint chips, rubber dust, ground glass, bits of plastic... In any event, the Meter-Miser didn‘t like it—the first few hundred made from the Waterloo bridge were all scrap. To round things off, Bill told me that, while doing his stint in the Physical Plant department, he had suggested an improvement to the plant‘s heating system, which apparently saved the company a thousand pounds a month, or some such figure, and for which he received fifty pounds from the suggestion box. Truly, the chap who observed that apprenticeships are a refined form of slavery knew whereof he spoke.

44

CHAPTER 4: IT’S NOT ROCKET SCIENCE

ell, no...it‘s Rocket Engineering, actually, but close enough to allow me to make fun of someone who comes W out with this particular cliché. I say ―Oh, what a pity; since I am a rocket scientist. I could probably have explained it to you.‖ I had come to the end of my tether at Frigidaire, and was wondering what to do next when I saw in the Telegraph ―Sits. Vac.‖ (required reading for engineers): ―Design Technician for mechanical engineering work on rocket motors. Apply D.H. Engine Co., Stag Lane, Edgware.‖ Bingo! I might even get this, if Lady Luck was on my side. I knew they were developing the ―Sprite‖ liquid-fuelled rocket to provide the Comet with assisted take-off from hot and high airports, but this had to be something else. Since I hadn‘t heard of it, it was obviously still on the secret list. I knew quite a bit about rockets already, having been interested all my life in spaceflight and rocket propulsion. I had studied with interest the British Interplanetary Society‘s design for a moon landing vehicle—bear in mind that this was five years before the first artificial satellite was launched, and fifteen before Neil Armstrong took his ―small step for a man...‖ At the time, the BIS was regarded as a bunch of science fiction-obsessed basket cases. But—I was about to meet some of them, including the foremost rocket engineer in Britain, and the man who invented the geo- synchronous satellite. When called for an interview, I spent the intervening time boning up on what I knew, and at Stag Lane found myself sitting opposite a chap who was clearly very competent, and who knew exactly what he wanted. During the usual introductory chit-chat about why I wanted the job and so forth, when I responded more or less on the above lines, I could see that I had his attention. He fished out of his filing cabinet a drawing which was obviously a longitudinal section of a rocket motor. I took a quick glance at the bottom right-hand corner, and there it was—‖Spectre‖ So!

45 NUTS AND BOLTS

Something new every day. I decided to up the ante. ―I see a regenerative cooling pipe going to the nozzle. If hydrogen peroxide is the oxidant, as on the Sprite, this must be a rather tricky business, given the temperatures involved.‖ ―Yes,‖ he replied, ―that would be the first thing I would want you to look into. When can you start?‖ ―Tomorrow morning? I suggested. We had a good laugh, a starting date was arranged, and that was that. I phoned Inge right away to let her know I‘d got the job, and she was pleased for me, knowing how things had been going. So, I severed my ties with General Motors, and moved a mile up the Edgware Road, into another world. I was shown into the Rocket Technical Office, a large, airy room with Brian, my interviewer, at the top. Facing him were six other desks, two of them occupied. I was the fourth, in what I saw as the ground floor of an exciting new venture in aviation, and for the first time I had my own desk! Things were moving right along. Behind Brian was a large blackboard, and at the other end was a drawing board. Of the other two occupants, Mike, I was given to understand, was a brilliant mathematician, despite which he was a nice enough chap, and I got on well with him. The other, Gerry, took me in hand for my first job, and I soon realized that he was one of those individuals who could direct his talents to pretty well anything. He had devised a tabular method for determining the temperature gradient through a regeneratively-cooled rocket nozzle, and required someone to actually use it, himself having been given an urgent stress analysis problem to sort out. Unfortunately, it is necessary at this point to provide some sort of explanation as to the reason for such a complicated procedure. Bear with me, then, for a few paragraphs. One of the more hairy problems in rocket thrust chamber design is that the temperature of the gas in the propelling nozzle is much higher than the melting point of any known material which could be used to fabricate the nozzle, and the rate of heat flux is up to 200 times as great as in normal industrial equipment, like steam boilers. The method selected to handle this problem in the Spectre was to cool the nozzle by pumping the oxidant, hydrogen peroxide, through a cooling jacket surrounding it, a process called

46 IT’S NOT ROCKET SCIENCE regenerative cooling. If you will kindly glance at the temperature gradient diagram, it will be seen that a large drop in temperature, from the hot gas down to below the melting point of the nozzle material, takes place across the gas film, a boundary layer having sufficient thermal resistance to bring about this result. This resistance in turn depends upon the gas velocity, density, viscosity and all sorts of other stuff, which are all changing as the gas cools and accelerates. All this time the coolant is heating up. Should the smallest bubble form due to the onset of nucleate boiling, the whole temperature gradient would be disrupted, a hole would be burnt in the nozzle wall, and the whole thing would go up with a great bang, faster than you could shout, ―Duck!‖ The trick, therefore, was to make sure that at no time did the wall temperature reach the melting point of the metal, and neither did the coolant temperature approach that at which nucleate boiling could occur. Since the flow of heat across the various sections was arrived at via several fearsome-looking formulas, most of which I had never heard of, it was a challenging exercise in simultaneous equations. Gerry‘s approach was to guess (sorry—estimate from previous experience) the temperature drop across the gas film. This was then used to calculate the temperature drop through the nozzle wall, and so on, until you reached the great outdoors. If your final temperature turned out to be that of the surroundings, then obviously you had got it right. Since it never did, you had to go back and re-estimate your starting assumption, and go on doing that until you did end up with ambient temperature. If it then turned out that you had melted the nozzle wall or boiled the coolant, then you had to adjust the coolant velocity, which was about the only thing you had any control over, by changing the cross-section area of the cooling jacket. The liquid film heat transfer rate being a function of the velocity, it was hoped that this would provide the path to salvation. I was a bit pissed off because I could not recall having been told about any of this heat transfer stuff at university. I suppose it must have been mentioned at one time or another, being, it seems to me, a rather important aspect of engineering, so let‘s just say it cannot have made much of an impression. But I digress. I mentioned to Gerry that I was ―a bit rusty on some of the

47 NUTS AND BOLTS formulas‖, so he loaned me his much-thumbed copy of McAdams Heat Transmission, which, I rapidly discovered, was the bible of all engineers working in this area. I made haste to obtain my own copy, which lay on my desk all through my engineering career, and which lies in front of me as I write. Just getting a little rusty, you understand, but for real this time. I got down to it. One week and a pack of cigarettes later, I had completed the first section, after fifteen tries. I should explain that the nozzle was divided into ten sections, the final one being the most important, the point at which the hydrogen peroxide left the cooling jacket and entered the injectors, for mixing with the kerosene fuel in the thrust chamber. During the second week I got the thing down to three tries, and by the end of the third week I had completed the exercise, which appeared to show that, with the existing design, the coolant temperature at the injector inlet would be within the required limits, in the maximum thrust case. By now some readers are probably wondering why the job was not done by computer, which would surely have been much quicker. To them I would say, firstly, that the application of computer technology to the design of aircraft systems was five years in the future. I was in at the beginning, and will have a lot to say about it when the time comes. Secondly, even if it had been available, the job took me three weeks. It would have taken a month to program the computer, debug it and so on, so where does that leave you? I took the results to Brian, who scrutinized them and took them to the Chief. A test firing was done at the Hatfield test rig, with emphasis on coolant temperature measurement. When the results came through, the measured outlet temperature was within one degree of the figure I had submitted. I won‘t attempt to describe my feelings at this turn of events. At last, I‘d done something useful, instead of poncing around with all that management junk. The Chief called me in, and said he was pleased to hear that I was settling in and doing a good job. I hastened to inform him that I had been using Gerry‘s work, just putting the numbers in, and was glad I had got it right. I emphasised that he had been most helpful throughout. He said something like, ―Well, that‘s what we do here. I hope you will do the same when your time comes,‖ and left it at that.

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I felt somewhat awestruck, chatting with this man, about whom I already knew a lot. A. V. Cleaver, ―Val‖ Cleaver, one of the first British rocket pioneers to go over to Germany at the end of the war. He just missed Werner von Braun, the Americans having got there first, but he managed to get hold of the work of Hellmuth Walter, who had designed the HWK 509 rocket for the Me 163 Komet which, had it appeared a bit earlier and in greater numbers, might well have put paid to the American Air Force daylight bomber offensive. Walter had been working at a naval research place in Kiel when invited to join the team working on Alexander Lippisch‘s Me 163 project. He was attempting to develop a propulsion system for torpedoes which would leave no surface trail. Hence the use of hydrogen peroxide, the products of which are steam and oxygen, both dissolving rapidly in water, thus leaving no trace on the surface. (The K in Walter‘s rocket designation stands for Kiel.) This in turn explained why all the rocket motors being developed by Cleaver at Stag Lane used hydrogen peroxide as the oxidant. Perhaps a word or two on this might not be amiss. First, IT IS BLOODY DANGEROUS! The stuff your girlfriend uses to be a blonde is five percent concentration. Normal industrial concentration is around 30 percent. The stuff we were using was 87 percent, known as high-test peroxide, or HTP. It was obtained by a process of electrolysis which required so much electrical power that the Luton power station had to shut down all its other commitments while making the stuff. When brought into contact with almost anything (metals, plastics, human flesh...) it would decompose rapidly and sometimes violently (read explode). It could be contained only in receptacles made of a special grade of stainless steel, or some plastics. Postwar studies of German records revealed that the Me 163 programme killed more German pilots than enemy ones, mostly due to training accidents. If the glide landing was anything but perfect, the plane would flip over, and the unfortunate pilot would die in a great cloud of steam. Since it was a pig to fly anyway, that compounded the problem. Only a year prior to the first trials with the Walter rocket installed, Hanna Reitsch, Germany‘s most famous woman pilot, had experienced a narrow escape from death while test-gliding the beast. It took her a year to recover from her injuries, and when she heard that powered flight

49 NUTS AND BOLTS testing was to begin, she presented herself at the airfield and demanded to be put on the flight schedule. The commanding officer refused, whereupon she threw a tantrum, but he was adamant. He was not going to be responsible for subjecting Germany‘s favourite icon to the unspeakable dangers which he knew lay ahead. Coming back to the present, I was still in Cleaver‘s office, and thought I would push my luck. I asked if he could advise me how I might join the British Interplanetary Society. I knew he was either president or past president or something, so at least he wasn‘t going to ridicule the idea. ―Certainly,‖ he replied. ―I will propose you, and Wilf (Wilf Neat, deputy chief engineer) will second you.‖ And so it was done. I was not just a member, but a Fellow! Things, as I remarked previously, were moving right along. Around this time, Inge had managed to get a home care assignment for night-nursing a lady of advancing years, who had a fulltime day job, but who required looking after at night. This lady lived right opposite the rocket building, and Inge had the run of the house all day, which made my lunch hours very pleasant. It was a great time of life for me. We were married on December 11, 1954, but there I go, jumping the gun again. Oh well, I thought it was funny. Never mind. Press on. As Frank Sinatra sang: ―...up to the moment when we said our first hello / little did we know...‖ Lots of interesting things were happening. I remember a meeting we had in the conference room, when a visiting dignitary from the Ministry was to be shown how safe HTP was to handle. Colin, the group leader of the Development department, stood behind two buckets, one of which, he said, contained HTP, the other water. He put his hand into the HTP bucket, withdrew it, smiling, and plunged it into the other bucket. Unfortunately some cack-handed clown of a technician had put HTP into both buckets. Colin immediately recognized this, made a dash for the men‘s room, and got his hand under the tap just in time. Perhaps another word of explanation might help at this point, for those not too familiar with the world of rocket propulsion. At that time there was much competition to see who could come up with the best propellant combination. Our main competitor,

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Armstrong Siddeley Motors of Coventry, had just suffered a reversal of fortune, when their Seaslug ship-borne missile was rejected by the Royal Navy. It had what was undoubtedly a very efficient propellant combination—red fuming nitric acid and aniline, I think it was, but some admiral had said, ―I‘m not having that muck on board any of my ships,‖ and the whole thing was cancelled. From that time, they had gone the safe route of liquid oxygen and kerosene, still widely used to this day. That left just us with the only propellant nobody knew anything about (except, of course, the Germans, all of whom were now in the States or Russia). Truly, we were on the cutting edge of technology. Or were we? As work progressed, I built up a complete picture of what we were doing. The Spectre was a variable-thrust rocket, designed to power the upcoming Saunders-Roe SR-177 mixed power-plant interceptor fighter. The idea was that it would stooge around at combat altitude for a long time on the power of a small jet engine, in this case the Armstrong Siddeley Viper, and then go to rocket power for combat. A prototype for development purposes, the SR- 53, was already stooging around on its Viper, waiting for the first Spectre. As can be seen, it was a nice-looking machine, and I got quite a kick out of thinking that I was taking part in the dawn of a new era of air warfare. A word, too, should be said about the Viper, a rather unique affair. Originally designed for the Australian Jindivik target drone, it was supposed to be cheap and expendable, having to last for only half an hour, and yet here it was, already in service in many of the world‘s air forces. This was proof of what I regarded as an engineering axiom, that you cannot build something to last half an hour. Either it blows up in the first minute or two, or it runs indefinitely. Getting back to the Spectre, the power to drive the propellant pumps was, as might be expected, a steam turbine running on HTP products. But, instead of following the normal practice of dumping the exhaust over the side, it was directed into the thrust chamber. The HTP was activated by forcing it through a pack of silver-plated gauzes about three inches thick, the so-called catalyst pack. There were several points about which I had misgivings. I had an uneasy feeling that the concept of a variable-thrust rocket was not really ―on‖, for reasons which became clearer as time went on.

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Basically, rockets are either ―on‖ or ―off‖, and you can‘t muck about with them in between. I could never see the logic in directing the turbo-pump exhaust back into the engine, instead of dumping it over the side like everyone else. The catalyst packs had me worried; I wondered whether, in view of the high pressures involved, the gauzes might be compressed into a solid lump. Actually, that was not the problem—the real one emerged much later. And I was worried about the HTP, bearing in mind the fate of Seaslug, and Colin‘s escapade. I had visions of horrible accidents, causing the RAF to reject it. I developed an epigram, of which Oscar Wilde would have been proud: ―Hindsight is a wonderful thing, but foresight is a lot cheaper.‖ At the time, we all thought it was none of our business to question certain basic assumptions, whereas, of course, it WAS. The trouble was, we didn‘t know enough to question the conventional wisdom. One event which made a lasting impression on me was the thousandth firing of the Super Sprite rocket. This was the ―hot‖ development of the Comet‘s Sprite, mentioned previously. Sorry, chaps, just allow me a quick paragraph on this. If a rocket‘s thrust is derived by expanding the decomposition products of HTP, i.e., superheated steam and oxygen, through a propelling nozzle, you have a ―cold‖ rocket. If now kerosene is injected into the thrust chamber, the thrust doubles, and you have a ―hot‖ rocket. I had not until then witnessed the firing of a rocket motor, and was looking forward to it, as well as regarding it as a kind of duty. I have always felt that aircraft designers should be made to fly in the aircraft they design—it gives you a different perspective. Or, taking this into the field of gastronomy: ―‗tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers.‖ There we all were, standing around the test house at Hatfield. The countdown proceeded, and the rocket fired. I will never forget the experience as long as I live. Bear in mind, this was a tiddly 8,000-pound thrust unit, about that of some of the jet engines powering our fighters at that time. The earth trembled beneath my feet. My head felt as though it was being squeezed in a vice. Never before or since have I experienced the unleashing of such awe- inspiring power. It was a sobering experience, and I will return to it, but not for many years yet.

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This brings me to another aspect of the SR-53 programme we were working on, the APU (auxiliary power unit), which was a small turbo-generator set supplying power for the aircraft systems. Using HTP for the fuel, Val had designed a turbine based on Hero‘s Heliopile: ―The first pure reaction turbine.‖ HTP was to be sucked out of a hollow shaft and fed by centrifugal force to a set of catalyst packs, the efflux from which would be directed to nozzles at the periphery of the wheel, and the reaction to these jets would spin the wheel. As soon as I saw it, I thought, that‘s the trouble with a classical education—you tend to believe that original thought finished around 300 BC, with the ancient Greeks. My scepticism was fortified when I found that, due to space limitations, the HTP had to flow inward through the catalyst packs. I said immediately it wouldn‘t work, and was shown a page of mathematical gobbledegook proving that the reduction of density would counteract the effect of centrifugal force. I didn‘t believe it. The first one was completed, and then the obscene phone calls started to come in from Hatfield, complaining that they couldn‘t get it to run. After a week of this, someone suggested connecting it to an electric motor to spin it up to its designed rpm of 36,000, then turning on the HTP, so that the performance could be checked, and the starting problem sorted out later. So, we all trooped up to Hatfield again, to watch the great event. The rpm settled at 36,000, the HTP was turned on, and the thing started behaving like a demented lawn sprinkler, spraying a fine mist of HTP droplets all over the place. We all ran for cover—I‘ve never seen a bunch of engineers move so fast—but even so, for several days afterwards, some of us were feeling distinctly itchy. As I was by now beginning to acquire a little self-confidence, I approached Brian, and started off, ―With the greatest respect for Val...‖ (Have you ever noticed that, when someone begins a sentence on these lines, what he actually means is the exact opposite?) I told him my thoughts on the problems of a classical education, then made my spiel. ―What is wrong,‖ I said ―with a simple impulse turbine and a separate catalyst pack?‖ Here again, I feel obliged to provide a bit of explanation. If this is driving my more erudite readers round the bend, please let it be, and bear in mind that there may be a few people out there who are not too familiar with this stuff.

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The impulse turbine is the simplest form of turbine. Its blades can be chewed out of the solid with an end mill, and all the expansion takes place in one inlet nozzle. It is entirely different from the more normal version of a reaction turbine, in which the expansion takes place through rows of fixed and moving aerofoil section blades. This is without doubt the more efficient arrangement, but, as far as we were concerned, efficiency was not our top priority. After all, this was not a power unit for a fuel- efficient airliner in a highly competitive market. It was a compact power source for a war machine, and in any case the taxpayer was paying for the fuel. Brian was receptive to my suggestion, and it was arranged that everyone in the office would be given a different set of parameters, like diameter, speed and so forth, calculate the power output, the results would be plotted, and the one whose design came closest to meeting the specified power output would be responsible for completing the design calculations. That turned out to be me, and I enjoyed getting my teeth into it, because impulse turbine theory was one of the few things I had been able to understand at university. Unfortunately the whole thing came to nothing when the SR-177 was cancelled, but that‘s getting too far ahead. Meanwhile, the office was filling up. Fifth to arrive was Neil, with whom I struck up a friendship which has lasted until the present day. To this day I have been unable to shake his conviction that he first noticed me in the office because I was complaining about the shortage of 5/8-inch washers in Edgware. I do vaguely remember shaking my slide rule at him because he had made some observation with which he knew I disagreed; the cursor flew off and just missed his ear-hole. I recall two of his many accomplishments: As the test firings continued at Hatfield, the turbine casing started to swell out like a barrel, causing some consternation. Neil did a stress analysis, and informed them that the stiffening ribs should run longitudinally rather than radially, or maybe the other way round (stress analysis was never my favourite topic). They actually did this, which cured the problem. Another time, during a maximum thrust firing, the whole of the back end blew off, and the smoking remains of the nozzle shot into the next field, narrowly missing a farmer who was chugging

54 IT’S NOT ROCKET SCIENCE around on his tractor doing some ploughing. Neil spent some time poking around the wreckage, and wrote a report stating that the failure had occurred because a nozzle support flange had been machined on an inside diameter with a sharp edge, rather that the 0.050 radius which was specified on the drawing. ―So what?‖ some may cry. Well, since stress is load over area, and the area of a sharp edge is zero, theoretically the stress is infinite. In a rocket engine, attention to small details is important, because small details can very rapidly turn into big bangs. Again, theoretically, it should be possible, with all the vast amount of bumf associated with the production of aircraft parts, to trace the clown who used the nearest lathe bit instead of getting the tool room to make him one with a 0.050 radius tip, probably because it was getting near knocking-off time. However, I never heard of any follow-up. It was the drawings again, you see. If you will examine a drawing of a machined part which needs a radius rather than a sharp edge, you will find, after studying the drawing for a time, a tiny little arrow with 0.050r next to it. If I had done the drawing, it would have had a large note in the middle, with a large arrow pointing to the radius in question. I still think this is the only way to draw people‘s attention to the important things, and to hell with drawing-office procedures. When I was doing a spell in the drawing office at Avro, I remember that every sheet of drawing paper they used bore the pre-printed legend: ―No external or internal sharp edges on holes, or on plates, castings or machined parts.‖ How‘s that for total recall? Nice try, Avro, but I would think that, since it appeared on every sheet automatically, after a time nobody would take any notice of it. Sorry to keep grinding this axe, but I do feel rather strongly about what passes for engineering drawings nowadays. Mention should be made of a certain character who was in the habit of wandering around picking people‘s brains, and then passing the stuff off as his own. I was sitting in the office one day, deep in thought, with my copy of Dale‟s Mathematical Tables (stolen from school) open at square roots or something. It was a lovely summer day; I had the window open, and the breeze blew the pages over to Bessel Functions. At that moment this chap wandered in and engaged me in conversation, asking me what I was doing. Then he caught sight of the book of tables. ―Ah,‖ he

55 NUTS AND BOLTS said, ―I‘ve often wondered what Bessel Functions are.‖ I looked him in the eye and said, ―So have I.‖ He obviously didn‘t know what to make of it, and left. Years later, I saw him described in an article by the science reporter of some newspaper as ―a brilliant rocket designer‖, and nearly puked in my beer. Nevertheless, I was quite chuffed at the time that someone had actually tried to pick MY brain. I must be getting somewhere! October 1954 was a time which stands out in my memory. I was invited to the twenty-first birthday dinner of the British Interplanetary Society, and took Inge with me to the Waldorf Hotel. They were all there—Val Cleaver, Wilf Neat, Arthur C. Clarke, and none other than professor Hermann Oberth, whose mathematical paper ―The Rocket into Interplanetary Space‖ had, in 1923, inspired Fritz von Opel, the head of the car firm, to sponsor the design and construction of a rocket-propelled aircraft, the Opel-Sander Rak 1. This was a twin-boom glider with a battery of Sander solid-fuel rockets, in which Opel made a number of hairy flights in 1928. Then he sponsored a rocket-propelled car, in which he reached 137 mph on the Avus track in Berlin. He also approached Alexander Lippisch, then a budding young aircraft designer, to design an aircraft for rocket propulsion. Having generated enough publicity for his company he lost interest, and there matters rested for a few years. As soon as we entered I spotted Oberth, and introduced Inge, who proceeded to chat with him in German. I could see the old boy‘s eyes light up, and, since Inge knew quite a lot about rockets by then, they spent a long time together. I really think it made his evening; it certainly made ours. The office continued to fill up. Ron was next, specializing in weight control. I have to confess at this point never to have taken very seriously the concept of weight control as a specialization. I used to do it myself as a matter of course, mainly to check whether whatever I was working on was getting heavier, a fate which seems to befall most engineering projects. Quite often I was reasonably close to the actual final value, using methods which would probably not be countenanced in any civilized weight control office—cardboard cut-outs, lots of graph paper, and a planimeter. Then Ron acquired an assistant, Pete, straight in from flying Meteor jet fighters during his National Service.

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After Pete came Trevor, a typical upper-middle-class English gentleman complete with classical Oxbridge accent. I recall how he used to start his day by laying out in front of him a glass of water, his cigarettes, ashtray and matches, and his slide rule, then ceremonially commencing work. I never found out what he actually did, but quite early on discovered that he was running two girl friends, one a lovely German called Irmgard. One night at a party she asked me if I knew whether he was two-timing her. I was rather discombobulated and muttered some evasive reply which, of course, in retrospect, was enough for her. The last new face I recall was a fellow named Brown, who was not very long in the Rocket Technical Office, because he pulled off what I thought at the time to be an audacious coup, but later found that it was standard practice for some people. It consisted of waiting until some small office was being redecorated, and moving in, fixing some readymade plaque to the door. My research into this fascinating line of activity led me to my other bible, Parkinson‟s Law, which remained my guiding lodestone for the rest of my career. If McAdams‟ Heat Transmission was my Old Testament, Parkinson‟s Law was the New. For the benefit of anyone who may have been deprived of it, the Law states: ―Work expands to fill the time available for its completion.‖ I heartily recommend it as an indispensable career guide. All this is setting the stage for what follows. When my good friend Lionel West offered Inge and me the use of an outbuilding at the bottom of his garden, we immediately made arrangements to get married as soon as possible. I then announced this in the office, which created quite a stir. A few days later, Brian informed me that they had had a whip-round, and gave me the afternoon off, to go with Inge and Gerry to pick a wedding present. This was a wardrobe, which stayed with us for many years until finally it fell apart, not because it was shoddily built, but it simply succumbed to the rigours of many house moves—one of the less pleasant aspects of working in the British aircraft industry in those days. What happened was that, after every general election, the new government would cancel an expensive project—usually the one I was working on—so that they would have more money to pour into the bottomless pit that the National Health Service had become, as more and more people found out how to screw it.

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Immediately upon sensing that this was about to happen, I hastened to make alternative arrangements, to beat the rush. At this point in my tale, the time was not far off. The SR-177 was cancelled, much to everyone‘s consternation, since the Spectre was designed specifically for that project. At the time I was working with a draughtsman who specialized in control valve design, this one being the main HTP control valve, a very large item to handle the high flow rate. Its main component was a large diameter sleeve, moving to cover and uncover various ports, and I was attempting to estimate the leakage past this thing, as I had an uneasy feeling that it would be greater than the variation in flow rate we were aiming for. In my view this is always a dodgy business, depending as it does on so many coefficients, other people‘s ―constants‖ (fudge factors, if you like), manufacturing tolerances, and all sorts of other things one sometimes doesn‘t think of at the time. My approach to this was to tackle the thing using three different approaches, and if the results agreed within 50 percent, I would take the average, and keep my fingers crossed. I managed to convince myself that my misgivings were well- founded, in which case the concept of a variable thrust rocket engine seemed to be invalid. In the end it didn‘t matter, because other factors intervened to put the kybosh on the first and last attempt—anywhere, I think, to produce such a thing. As I said before, rockets are either on or off—you don‘t mess with mister in- between, and there‘s an end to‘t. (How on earth did Bing Crosby and Shakespeare manage to appear in one sentence? That takes a certain amount of chutzpah, wouldn‘t you say?) There was a light diversion before things got really serious. I worked with Neil on a three-stage rocket for November fifth, to be launched from the car park of the Bald Faced Stag. This was built up using nine sixpenny rockets (I was to encounter these again, many years later, under vastly different circumstances), five forming the first stage, three the second, and one the third. Neil fused them all such that the first stage would ignite the second before burning out, and so on. At the appointed hour, we all trooped to the Stag to witness this historic event. Tongue firmly in cheek, I asked Val if I could give him a lift in my car. To my great delight he accepted, and so elated was I at having one of the foremost rocket engineers in

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Europe riding with me that I reached 60 mph between de Havilland and the Stag, which anyone who‘s been there will tell you is pretty good going. To this day I cherish the notion that he enjoyed the ride. At any rate, it was the closest I ever got to him! Upon arrival, we set the thing up. I think we had made a small support stand to hold it upright. In retrospect we should have fired it up a long pole, but it‘s too late now. When we ―lit the blue touch paper and retired‖ as it used to say on the side of British fireworks, it behaved like some of the earlier V-2s—that is, it lifted about an inch from the ground, toppled on to its side, and chased everyone round the parking lot. In December I was married to Inge in the registry office at Oldham, Lancashire, a few miles north of my parents‘ house. For anyone who may think this a somewhat bizarre arrangement, I should explain that in those days there was a rule saying that, to be married in a given locality, at least one of the couple should have lived there for at least three months. I could make a fairly respectable case for having lived at my parents‘ house for five years, with occasional absences for university, the RAF and so on, whereas Inge had lived most of her life in Silesia, which unhappily no longer exists, now being part of Poland. So—this seemed the best deal available. As well, I have this theory that the success of a marriage is inversely proportional to the amount spent on the wedding. I have, unfortunately, observed too often that marriages where hundreds of pounds are spent on things from bridesmaids‘ dresses to extravagant receptions, last on average ten years. I paid seven-and- sixpence for a special licence, for which I got 54 wonderful years. I invited my old school chum John Wilson, registrar of West Bridgford, holder of the British Empire Medal and the Queen‘s Jubilee Medal, to be best man. On the morning of the wedding I sought out the Oldham registrar‘s office, to make sure where it was and make my peace with him. I was puttering slowly up a narrow cobbled street looking for his number when a brawny policeman stopped me. ―Do you know,‖ he said, ―you are driving the wrong way up a one-way street?‖ I apologised and explained that I was looking for the registrar‘s office, because I was getting married that morning. ―Oh you poor bugger,‖ he said. ―Third door on the right, and look sharp, or I‘ll have to do summat about it.‖

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The actual procedure went smoothly enough. John immediately made friends with the Oldham man, and they spent most of the time yakking to each other in registrar-speak. My mum and dad put a good face on it, although I knew they didn‘t think much of the idea. We adjourned to a cafe for coffee and cakes, and as soon as we decently could, the happy couple made our getaway to the friendly south. At Christmas, Lionel presented us with a chicken, obviously expecting that Inge would do everything necessary. However, at her home there had always been servants to do that stuff. As for me, the only ones I‘d ever seen were in shops, nicely wrapped up and ready to stuff straight into the oven. Hoping to do something without Lionel‘s help for once, I mentioned it in the office. Can you imagine, asking an office full of rocket engine designers if anyone knew how to dress a chicken? To my great relief, Ron volunteered, this being one of his special skills. He certainly did make a splendid job, but I could tell he was appalled at our living conditions. Well, we were sublimely happy all the time we were there, and the rest of the world could— er—shall we say, go and attempt an interesting biological experiment. Then Pete, having heard that I was a pilot, suggested a flight together, for which he would pay (music to my ears!) He had never flown anything that wasn‘t jet-propelled, and was interested to find out what propeller-driven aircraft were all about. Once again I booked the old Tiger, and off we went. Having fulfilled my obligation to the club by getting it up to a safe altitude, I handed it over to him, and I could tell he was having a good time. It was interesting to watch him getting the hang of stick and rudder co- ordination to achieve a nicely balanced turn in an ancient biplane. Then he suggested aerobatics, so we did some stall turns, loops, rolls-off-the-top, spins and so forth. I thought he‘d had a good run for his money when, with a sinking feeling, I heard him suggest a slow roll. In a jet this is no problem—you just wham the stick over, and round you go, faster than you can scream, ―Banzai baby!‖ Not so, however, with a Tiger Moth. I didn‘t think he would like it, but did not want to lose face either, so—over we went. We hung on to our straps for longer than usual; I couldn‘t get the stick far enough over because his knee was in the way, so there was plenty of time

60 IT’S NOT ROCKET SCIENCE for all the muck on the cockpit floor to fall out past us. And—the inevitable result of not getting round cleanly—the roll ended in a juddering sideslip which lost us about 500 feet of altitude. ―That was a rotten roll we did,‖ he said. ―Well, it wasn‘t my idea,‖ I responded. Of course, he‘d been following through with me, which had made matters worse. With fuel almost gone, I commenced the approach to the airfield. Here again I could detect angst up front. I was approaching at the usual 55 mph, which, with a ten mph headwind, made our groundspeed slightly higher than the average cyclist. He, of course, was used to approaching at 120 mph, which is ten mph faster than the Tiger can fly flat out. Halfway down he couldn‘t stop himself from asking whether I could go a bit faster, obviously thinking we were going to fall out of the sky at any moment. Still, I think on the whole he enjoyed the experience. As 1955 got into its stride, there was a subtle change in the general atmosphere. They were still doing sporadic firings at Hatfield. I think they were trying to rack up a good score to impress the Ministry, but we didn‘t seem to be doing anything much. A half-hearted directive came our way, asking for suggestions as to future directions for development. Us! Lowly design technicians! One day Wilf called me in, handed me a list of weird chemicals, and asked me to calculate the combustion temperatures, flow rates, specific impulses and so on, for various propellant combinations. This was a job for a research chemist, not a nuts-and-bolts mechanical engineer. Presumably it was my comeuppance for having produced some fairly plausible results in this area, but with propellants whose properties were well known. In any case, I was standing on the shoulders of giants, as Sir Isaac used to say—in particular Sutton‘s Rocket Propulsion Elements. My heart sank. This was different. Hardly anyone had heard of this junk, and I could not recall any published data. Fluorine didn‘t sound very nice, and where the heck was I supposed to find out about boron-magnesium slurry, or unsymmetrical dimethylhydrazine? Although Inge was friendly with Wilf‘s wife, both being nurses, I didn‘t like him very much at that moment. I got stuck into it, but after a month had to admit defeat. I went to Wilf and said, ―Sorry, Wilf—I cannot do this. I am totally out of my depth.‖

61 NUTS AND BOLTS

―Well, John,‖ he replied, ―you are a design technician, and I am the deputy chief engineer, and my job is to tell you to find a way of doing it.‖ We‘ll see about that. Back to the Telegraph, and de Havilland at Christchurch, Hants, were advertising for an engineer in their flight test department. I knew what they were doing; development flying on the Sea Vixen carrier-based strike fighter. This was a naval-ized version of the DH 110 all-weather fighter which I had seen break up in the air at the 1952 Farnborough air show, carrying John Derry and Tony Richards to their deaths in the middle of the airfield, and killing 28 spectators. I can still see it as if it were yesterday. Derry had dived from 40,000 feet, making two of the loudest sonic bangs ever heard at Farnborough. He arrived at the airfield in a steep turn to port about 500 feet up, and as he straightened out to make a pass over the crowd, the port tail boom disintegrated, taking with it the tail, whereupon the whole wing reared up vertically and stopped dead as if hitting a brick wall. The engines tore themselves out and continued towards the crowd like two enormous howitzer shells, rotating slowly against the turbine torque. They impacted right in the middle of the crowd on ―the hill‖—an eminence overlooking the runway, where hundreds of happy weekenders would take up their positions with their picnic lunches, to get the best view of the flying. My friend Bill, a fellow management trainee at Frigidaire, had become interested in aviation after talking to me about it, and was there on the hill, a short distance away from the point of impact of one of the engines. He returned home spattered with blood, and I don‘t think he was so keen after that. Before you start thinking I was round the bend even to want to see it again, never mind fly in it, the main point to be made is that, by now, the 110 would be the most structurally sound aircraft in the history of aviation. This line of thought was confirmed by my first close-up inspection, when I noticed a complete top skinning of heavy gauge material over the existing tail booms. Taking Inge with me, I attended the interview at the appointed time, having previously sent them a copy of my degree thesis on High-Speed Flight. The interviewer was the head of flight test, none other than H. G. R. Adams, a pal from the University Air Squadron days. Clearly he thought it would be a good idea to have

62 IT’S NOT ROCKET SCIENCE me aboard, and he brought in the chief engineer to legitimize the deal, so to speak. He was a Pole whose name, unfortunately, eludes me, but who was, like all his fellow countrymen I met in this business, a natural-born gentleman, extremely competent, knowing exactly what he wanted. I was impressed to see that he had brought with him my thesis. He tossed a few subjects my way, and I managed to return most of them. We chatted about variable-area nozzles, flame stabilizers, reheat (as the Brits used to term afterburning), compressor surge and such, then the coffee arrived and he relaxed. ―You know,‖ he said, ―what gets me fed up with all this is that so few applicants know anything about gas dynamics, but (tapping my thesis) this obviously does not apply in your case.‖I had a vague feeling that he was probably so relieved to find someone who knew one end of a jet engine from the other that he didn‘t want to scare me away, particularly since Adams was obviously in favour. Whatever the case, I went home with a letter of engagement in my pocket. It must be confessed that I had not discussed this business with Inge in any meaningful manner—in other words, bearing in mind all the facts. I hadn‘t even met her in 1952, and had no idea whether she knew anything about the 110 disaster. At that time she seemed to be quite pleased at the idea of living by the seaside, and I have to say that at no time did she attempt to influence my career decisions—until the final crunch, when she became very much involved...but that‘s still a long time in the future. Back at the Rocket Division I went to see Wilf again, showed him the letter, and told him I was sorry, but could see no other way. To my utter astonishment he said, ―Well, John, if that‘s what you want, I‘ll transfer you to the development section at Hatfield, you can take a turn at running the test rig, and fly in the Spectre Canberra at the next Farnborough show.‖ Isn‘t it nice to be wanted? The Spectre Canberra was one of a number of flying test beds being prepared for Farnborough. The Scorpion was in another Canberra, and the Snarler was in the tail of the Hawker p 1051— just two which come to mind, so it was going to be an even noisier and more exciting show. I think we all must have been a little mad. Out to Hatfield I went, and have to record that it was not a pleasant experience. The people there obviously regarded me as

63 NUTS AND BOLTS some long-haired intellectual twit, probably sent out by the management to spy on them. For my part, I regarded their lackadaisical approach to the operation of rocket engines with something approaching horror. Nobody attempted to explain the systems and instrumentation, and checklists were nonexistent. Finally my turn came, and I was left in charge of the test console, with instructions to carry out one test firing, paying particular attention to such-and-such. The last sneering words of the senior engineer were, ―Don‘t worry, you‘ll be all right; the foreman knows how to do it. Maybe you can pick up some tips from him.‖ The day dragged on, and nothing seemed to be happening. I sought out the foreman and asked him when we could start. ―When it‘s ready,‖ he said. ―We have a leak in the HTP supply pipe which we‘re working on.‖ Then there was an instrument malfunction. Miraculously, at 6 P.M. everything was suddenly all right, and they were ready to go. Well, they may have been, but for me it was going-home time. They gave me some strange looks as I wished them goodnight, because they were not allowed to fire the engine without an engineer present. I shouldn‘t have to explain further, but I will anyway. Being on the monthly staff, I didn‘t get paid for overtime work, therefore I didn‘t do any. I still hold this view with a passion, and if you don‘t like it, that‘s too bad. They, on the other hand, were paid by the hour, with double time after 6 P.M. So screw them! Things got even worse on the second day, and on the third day a very bad-tempered Val drove up and demanded to know why there had been no firings in the last two days. I told him about the various delays, and all he said was, ―Well, you‘d better stay here until everything IS fixed!‖ And with that he drove off in a snit. I did nothing of the kind. I left at six and the next day handed in my resignation. I never went back, and they did nothing about it; probably only too pleased to be rid of me. What a disappointing end to a marvellous prospect. Meanwhile, I had burned my boats at Christchurch, having written an apologetic letter, thanking them for their courtesy and explaining my situation. As I expected, the Sea Vixen had a long and honourable career with the Royal Navy, and I know people who flew it and liked it.

64

CHAPTER 5: THE WEST SPECIAL

he West Special was the first car I ever owned, and the only one which I remember with affection and respect. Looking T back, my love affair with it coincided with the last years when motoring was still fun (that dates me, doesn‘t it?). Apart from that, it played a significant part in my life, not basically because of the car itself, but because of the man who built it. Lionel West had a garage in Watford, West Motors Ltd. A mutual friend, Alan, introduced us. He had graduated around the same time as me, and moved south from Manchester to seek his fortune. When I caught up with him, he was driving his own West Special and took me out for a spin. I was totally hooked—rather like Marina, although in a different sense! Never had I so much enjoyed being on the road. I had to have one. The car was built using components from prewar Austin 7s, in accordance with the 750 formula, a private initiative enabling people without much money to go racing. If you knew what you were doing, you could coax a lot more than the rated seven HP out of the four-banger; by suitably modifying the wheel attachments you could corner fast without the wheels coming off. Lionel built these cars in his garage, and ran a racing team, the Watford Speed Kings, in 750 Formula events. When an aunt of Alan‘s left him a modest legacy, he decided to upgrade to Lionel‘s next model. This was dubbed the XK Austin because, whereas his present mount was reminiscent of the prewar ERAs driven by Raymond Mays, Prince Bira of Siam, and others at Brooklands, the XK Austin resembled cars of the postwar Jaguar racing teams that were winning at Le Mans. Lionel related to me how a chap from Jaguar had ―dropped in‖ one day and casually questioned him about some aspects of the car, particularly the engine compartment cover. This was hinged at the front, which not only provided complete access to the gasworks, but eliminated the possibility of it blowing open at high speed. When the next year‘s Jaguar XK series of sports cars came out with forward-hinged hoods, he shrugged

65 NUTS AND BOLTS philosophically and said, ―Maybe I should have patented it.‖ However, being a Quaker, he had some strange ideas about the human race, including that we are basically good...not something I want to go into right now. Anyway, that was the reason for the XK designation. Alan offered to sell me his car for 175 pounds, so that he could buy the XK. I scrabbled around furiously to raise the cash; I think my parents coughed up the last fifty quid, in a desperate attempt to provide me with a wheel at each corner, so that I wouldn‘t keep having nasty accidents on my motorbike. From that time forward, life took on an extra dimension. I joined the 750 Club, which had monthly meetings in a pub on the North Circular Road in London. There we had swap meets and talks by members who were building 750 Formula cars. Under Lionel‘s guidance I obtained the bits required to soup up my Special and make it more competitive. It was there that I first met Colin Chapman, who was building his own idea of a 750 Formula car under a railway bridge in Hornsey. I bought a 1937 cylinder head from him (a much sought-after item, having a more efficient combustion chamber design than any of its predecessors), and learned that he was naming his car the ―Lotus‖. Lionel showed me how to shave the cylinder head and use a thin gasket to increase the compression ratio. He also showed me how to bore out the inlet ports until they were just touching the exhaust ports. The choke control was a piece of wire going to the choke butterfly, so that I could set it where I wanted it, not where it thought it ought to be. And—listen up, chaps—another wire went to the third brush of the six-volt generator, enabling me to pull it right back to minimise the charging rate, thus giving me another one or two horsepower. A still greater power saving came from removing the fan belt for racing purposes. I spent many evenings at West Motors, grinding in the valves to a mirror finish and rounding the edges of the ports with a needle file and emery paper. Lionel taught me where to advance the ignition timing for best results, which I did with the aid of a pencil and a piece of cigarette paper –just like a motorbike, really. My reward came when I found myself at Silverstone, doing practice laps for the 750 Club six-hour relay race. In this event, teams fielded four cars each. The cars would go out one at a time

66 THE WEST SPECIAL for however many laps the team manager decided, then the next car would take over. The winning team was the one which did the most laps in six hours. I set out from the pits for the practice laps, on top of the world. Here I was, on my favourite racing circuit, in a car I loved, able to drive flat out around sharp corners, knowing nothing was coming the other way. Rather like my first solo flight, my first...well, you know—one of life‘s high points. It had just started to rain, but I didn‘t give a damn. I roared off past the grandstand towards Copse, and went for it. Halfway round, the back end broke away, I spun twice and finished up on the grass. Hmmm...more to this, I belatedly realized, than meets the eye. On to the next. I spun or skidded on to the grass at every corner the first time around. Second time I messed up on half of them. By the third lap I was getting the hang of it and made a clean circuit. At this point I came in, highly satisfied. When the race started, Lionel sent me out first for ten laps. As my car was the only one that had not raced before, this would give him the maximum time to fix anything that went wrong. Off I went, and thought I was doing quite nicely, but was black-flagged on the seventh lap. It turned out that the wet and mud and whatnot had rendered the shock absorber friction pads ineffective, causing the front end to start tramping. This in turn led to the close-fitting front mudguards banging against the wheels. Fortunately, Lionel was able to remove the mudguards and replace the friction pads in time for me to go out for the last half hour of the race. The rain had intensified by this time, but I didn‘t care. At the end I was wet through and covered in mud flung up by the front wheels, and extremely happy. All this is leading up to the fact that we became close friends. He invited Inge and me to his home in Bricket Wood, halfway between Watford and St. Albans. Inge made friends with his wife, Cicely, and their children, and from then we were frequent visitors. Inge looked after the kids while Cicely had some time to herself. When we mentioned that we intended to get married as soon as we could find an affordable place to live, he immediately offered us the use of an outbuilding at the bottom of his long garden, where they had lived while he was building their present house. This generous act removed the main obstacle to our wedding plans

67 NUTS AND BOLTS and, as mentioned in the previous chapter, we were able to fix the date for December 11, 1954. We were very happy there, although some of our friends were appalled—poor things. Some other tales about the West Special may be of interest: I discovered that Austin had introduced a three-bearing crankshaft at some point and, while wondering why Lionel hadn‘t mentioned it, I reasoned that, with a centre bearing, the bending of the crankshaft, or ―crankshaft whip‖, would be reduced, so that one could put up the compression ratio and obtain more power. It worked a treat for a couple of days, and I was elated to attain a speed of 80 mph along the South Circular Road coming back from an air show, when the crankshaft broke. In disgrace, I had to phone Lionel and persuade him to tow me back to his garage, where he gave me a lecture about the Austin 7 three-bearing crankshaft. It seems that the silly blighters, instead of redesigning the crankshaft, had simply machined a centre journal in the existing forging, thereby fatally weakening the adjacent crank webs. Another thing I found out the hard way concerned lubrication. I went to France with Peter, taking the car from Lympne to Le Touquet aboard a Silver City Bristol Freighter—surely one of the most useful aircraft ever built, and one of the nicest ways of crossing the Channel. I mourn its passing, and you know what you can do with the Chunnel and roll-on roll-off ferries that fill with water and sink. I had a moment of misgiving while watching the ground crew chap driving my car up the ramp into the cavernous fuselage. However, he coped quite well with the crash gearbox and on-off clutch. With a non-synchromesh gearbox, it is usually necessary to double-declutch in order to effect a proper gear change. But this is a slow business, not much good for racing, so Lionel taught me the crash change before turning me loose on the track. For this, you have to zap the gear stick so fast and firmly that the gear teeth miss each other while sliding into the new ratio, or at worst suffer a glancing blow that does no damage, except possibly to your ego. He who hesitates is truly lost! It‘s rather like karate plank-busting. You have to establish complete dominance over the situation, and know with absolute confidence that it will work. If there is the slightest doubt, the gears will smash together, and in all probability the gearbox will be wrecked. It‘s all in the mind.

68 THE WEST SPECIAL

We had an enjoyable few days in Paris, and to finish in grand style we had resolved to visit the Moulin Rouge and watch the dancing girls. Peter had spent the afternoon with a girl he knew, and we had agreed to meet at the show later. I was driving to the theatre when the engine seized up. Assuming that I had let the radiator cooling water level get too low, I went to the nearest cafe and begged from a passing waiter a pitcher of water “pour ma pauvre voiture”. To my relief, as if this bizarre request happened every day, he came back with a large jug of water, which I dribbled carefully into the radiator. When everything seemed to have calmed down, I got hold of the starting handle (―Starting handle!‖ did I hear you cry? When did you last see one of those???) and cautiously tried to turn the engine over. No dice—it was solid. Oh dear. I walked the rest of the way, and entered the theatre just as the lights were going down. We had a thoroughly enjoyable evening; then I had to tell Peter that we were returning to England on public transport. Lionel again read me the riot act, this time concerning the mixing of natural lubricating oil with synthetic detergent brands. I had a problem following him at first, because of my mindset. To me, oil was oil. If you had enough of it, things would continue to go round, and when it got a bit grungy you changed it. Not quite so easy, it seems. Lionel always used Duckhams oil—a pure vegetable oil. He kept a supply in his garage, and I always carried a can in my car, so there was no reason to use any other kind. In France in the fifties, however, all the oil was of the synthetic detergent variety. So what? I hear a bored voice from the back row. Well, the point of a synthetic detergent oil is that it washes all the muck from inside the engine and is then pumped through a filter and recirculated. In the pre-war Austin 7 engine, the big-ends are lubricated by a stream of oil directed at them by the oil pump, through small jets. So, if detergent oil is introduced into the engine, it will remove all the accumulated crud and deposit it in those jets, which is what happened to me. It wasn‘t the pistons seized in the cylinders, which would have sorted itself out once everything cooled down. The big-ends were firmly welded to the crankpins. As the saying goes, experience is a good university, but the fees are rather high. Another time I drove with Peter up to the far north of Scotland, a feat which I‘m darned sure none of today‘s spam cans

69 NUTS AND BOLTS could have managed on the roads as they were at that time. We got up to Cape Wrath, at the top left-hand corner, and then a bit further. The tide was receding, and Peter suggested driving out to the lighthouse, about half a mile away across a stretch of golden sand—itself something I had not expected to see in this part of the world. We reached the lighthouse, and were wondering how to raise the keeper when the tide started to come in. We hot-footed it back to the mainland, plumes of water shooting up from the tires during the last few yards. That would not have been a good time to run out of fuel. We then continued on our way eastward towards John-O- Groats, and shortly came to the town of Durness, near which was an RAF radar station. We retreated into the backwoods, pitched our tent, then went out and shot a couple of grouse. We took them to the RAF station next morning, and were welcomed with open arms; they probably hadn‘t seen an Englishman for months. Later, Peter led me to a tiny place called Sangobeag. This was another eye-opener—a stretch of golden sand lapped by warm water, and this in the far north of Scotland. Years later, when I started getting interested in this stuff, I learned that the Gulf Stream takes a sharp twist to the right and bounces off this very spot before continuing its crazy trajectory. All this made me curious about Peter. Although his IQ score was very low, he knew a lot about many interesting things that I had never even thought about. I had the feeling that he was operating on a slightly different wavelength from the rest of us. It was his involvement with Scientology that finally started us on divergent paths, but I still recall being fascinated by some of his insights. I was caught in the great London smog of the early fifties, while trying to get home along the North Circular Road at night. Being out in the open and close to the ground, and having prior experience of Manchester ―pea-soupers‖, I was better off than most motorists, who were abandoning their cars and walking. I chugged slowly along the centre line, past rows of volunteers with flaming torches, which just made matters worse. At last I arrived at my Bayswater apartment, having taken three hours to do a fifteen- minute trip, and collapsed on my bed. Next morning my car, only yesterday a polished aluminium showpiece, was a dirty grey, which

70 THE WEST SPECIAL no amount of elbow grease could shift. While wondering what evil brew had managed to pickle my car overnight, I bowed to the inevitable, sprayed it British racing green, and lived happily ever after. The whole thing made me interested in combustion processes, which in turn led to my career involvement in the fields of power generation and environmental control, where I acquired some skill and experience; sufficient, anyway, to fight the antics of the know- nothing, self-serving, posturing environmentalist control freaks who are in the process of terrorizing almost every honest human endeavour into subservience to their own junk science and the rantings of failed politicians. But...mustn‘t get carried away, or I might lose the thread of the story. To round off the saga of my love affair with the West Special, its racing days came to an end. When Colin Chapman finished his first Lotus, he had bent most of the 750 Club regulations almost to breaking point, but the results were spectacular. He had, for example, sawn the front axle in two and given himself independent front suspension. When we first saw it on the track it looked like a great spider, painted black with gold trim, just like the John Player Lotus grand prix team years later. Driven by a chap called, I think, Adam Currie, it just blew everything else off the track. When our run-of-the-mill cars started to be lapped in a five-lap race, a lot of the fun went out of it. As for me, being so uncompetitive didn‘t sit well, so clearly the time had come to drop it. Meanwhile Chapman, having wrapped up the 750 formula, moved on to the 1172 formula, which used the Ford 10 engine. This was literally unburstable and, when worked on by Cosworth Engineering, dominated this class for years. The Club Lotus was next to appear, and is still around, in a much revised and developed form. I well remember his first team of three, immaculately prepared, with gleaming aluminium spats over the rear wheels, roaring round the track in formation, with nobody able to catch them. The rest, as they say, is history. I caught up with him again at Hatfield. He was experimenting with the streamlining of the under surface of a racing car, which gave a remarkable decrease in drag, and if you got it right, a suction between car and track (forerunner of the loathsome wings, I

71 NUTS AND BOLTS expect). He had a pal working the night shift at the de Havilland wind tunnel and, when everyone had gone home, he would put in Colin‘s latest model, and give him the results. As for my car, I turned it into an ―occasional four‖ by cutting a panel out of the rear fuselage and installing a couple of seats (cushions, actually, on top of the fuel tank). In this form I took four of us to the Chelsea Arts Ball, for which Peter had, by some sorcery, obtained tickets. There, we created a slight diversion by acting out our favourite western gunfight from Shane. This is the one where Wilson, the hired killer, is confronted by Shane in Grafton‘s saloon:

WILSON: I wouldn‘t pull on Wilson, Shane. SHANE: So you‘re Jack Wilson. I‘ve heard of you. WILSON: What have you heard, Shane? SHANE: That you‘re a no-good Yankee liar. WILSON (Pulling on his black glove): Prove it.

Out come the guns, much noise and smoke, Wilson gets blown away. Actually there was so much noise and smoke in the Albert Hall already that not too many people noticed. That‘s all about the West Special, except to say that I hope readers will understand my low opinion of the scumbags who run Formula One now that they have finally managed to stick it to Silverstone, by moving the British Grand Prix to Donington. There surely must be a small place in hell reserved for those guys.

72

CHAPTER 6: HANDLEY PAGE INTERLUDE

was now out of work, but it didn‘t worry me unduly. Despite my low self-esteem, I was beginning to sense that my resume I was looking reasonable, when presented in the right way, and it seemed that I would have no difficulty in getting a job with any aircraft company that happened to be advertising. Besides, I had been hard at it for nearly five years and felt like having a break. It will be apparent that I could not survive five minutes in today‘s work environment. It would have been down to a Caribbean island for me, fixing the refrigeration systems of charter boats for tips, and drinking rum. Now where did THAT come from? Stay with me and you‘ll find out. At the time, I was working with Peter as consultant to a firm he had started in conjunction with a couple of draughtsmen in the jig and tool design office at Frigidaire, to exploit their idea for a revolutionary design of a refrigerator ice-cube tray. Don‘t throw the book away just yet—I am not making this up. In the existing trays a lever action pulled up all the partitions, thus breaking the ice cubes away from the tray so that they could be tipped into an ice bucket. This was fine for wine drinkers, but, so the thinking went, there were not too many of those in England, and your gin-and-tonic aficionado would appreciate a mechanism which would release the cubes progressively, so that he could extract a couple and put the rest back in the freezer for his next round. The idea was to produce a prototype, check it out, patent the design and sell it to General Motors for 100,000 pounds. The Channel Island of Jethou was for sale for 50,000; it was owned by Dame Someone-or-other, who was getting a bit strapped for cash. Also, from my perspective, the prototype two-seater Spitfire—the demonstration model for the Royal Netherlands Air Force, which had purchased a squadron of them—was for sale for 5,000. At this period of my life, I still tended to regard myself as, fundamentally, a gentleman of leisure experiencing a temporary cash flow problem, and visualized living out my life on the island,

73 NUTS AND BOLTS flying my Spitfire, and perhaps running a small brewery, or marking correspondence school papers or something. Maybe this project would help make my infantile fantasy a reality. My job was to do the detailed design and produce a prototype. Peter‘s was to find a smooth-tongued salesman to sell the thing to GM. The design took me a week, and then came the dilemma which occurred in a different form when computers first came on the scene, and which I mentioned earlier. If it takes three weeks to calculate something, or three weeks to program a computer to do it, which do you select? Depends whether it‘s a one-off, or you want to do it many times, right? In the present case, to hand-make a Unicube (our pet name for it) would take a very skilled person a long time, and in all probability a set of press tools could be made in the same time by a firm having the right equipment. And so it turned out. I managed to persuade my grandfather to have his firm order a set to my drawings. Within a month they arrived, and next day I had three Unicubes, made on the firm‘s presses. I should explain that the firm was started by my grandfather and two partners shortly after WWI, to make fibre cans for the Indian jute trade. I was never too sure what they actually did, but have a vague notion that they stood at the end of a jute mill which put forth a continuous supply of jute, whatever that is, which was directed into a can, made to rotate on a turntable. When the can was full it was dispatched to whoever wanted the stuff. The cans were about a foot diameter and flour feet long, made by rolling a sheet of fibre into a cylinder, riveted and finished at the top with a welded steel rim, and at the bottom by Sutcliffe‘s patent buffer bottom, upon which the fortunes of the firm were based. This was basically two steel rings connected by half a dozen springs, the idea being to absorb the shocks caused by the Indian jute mill workers as they bounced the cans around. Since the fibre succumbed fairly rapidly to the high heat and humidity of a jute mill, there was a constant need for replacements, and, at the time of which I‘m writing, no competition. But that was soon to change. I now had three Unicube ice trays, and the next step was to try them out. If I‘d known then a tenth of what I now know about ice, I would have shied away from the project like a frightened horse, but, see my previous remarks about experience. Ice is very strange stuff, from the engineering point of view.

74 HANDLEY PAGE INTERLUDE

Leaving that for the moment, Peter and I started to look for people who owned refrigerators. No one in my family had one, nor did Peter, who lived with his widowed mother. He did, however, have a nodding acquaintance with a few refrigerator owners in the area, who acceded to our strange request to put an ice tray in their refrigerator and call for it in three hours, by which time it should be nice and solid. Ha! At this point I began to see why Frigidaire had to start making aircraft parts to stay afloat. The average English refrigerator owner at that time was the equivalent of today‘s computer illiterates, being so ignorant of the basic idea that they were really not fit to own one. Time after time Peter and I would deposit a tray, then go on a pub crawl or something to pass the time. Upon visiting our obliging friend three hours later, we would find that the thing hadn‘t even started to freeze, or at best developed a thin crust of ice on the surface. The explanation was always the same: ―Well, we turned it down to save electricity.‖ There was no way we could convince them that the damned thing consumed no more electrical energy than a light bulb, and that in any case the whole idea was to make ice and keep food cold. Finally we evolved an ingenious subterfuge, which consisted of going into a corner shop to buy an ice cream, and surreptitiously depositing a Unicube in their freezer. Later we would go in to buy another ice cream and recover our property, dash round to the nearest pub and try it out. The first time we did this it worked a treat. We eased back on the handle and the two front cubes popped up, while the rest stayed in the tray, and so on, until the last two had been extracted. At this point Peter went off to activate his salesman, thereby violating an engineering principle which I was not aware of, but which came to play a large part in my thinking for the rest of my career: IF IT WORKS WELL THE FIRST TIME, YOU HAVE OBVIOUSLY OVERLOOKED SOMETHING. Now that the affair was out of my hands for the time being, I resolved to do a few more tests at leisure, to which end I made friends with the shopkeeper, explained what was going on, and asked if it would be all right to leave the Unicube in his freezer overnight. Being Italian, he knew all the English were mad, and heartily agreed. Next day I retrieved it, placed it on his counter, and pulled the lever. Nothing would move. I pulled harder, and the

75 NUTS AND BOLTS inclined plane on the slider started digging into the slot in the partition, which was supposed to rise and dislodge the first cubes. Harder still, and the rivets in the linkage started to bend. The Italian looked at me pityingly, took the tray from me, held it under the hot tap for a few seconds, and smashed it on the counter, whereupon all the cubes fell out. Olé! This needed thinking about. Obviously, the longer and colder the freezing process was, the more firmly the ice stuck, but which was the dominant factor—time or temperature? Perhaps the angle of the inclined planes should be reduced, or the mechanical advantage of the lever increased, or both. As things turned out it didn‘t matter. In the middle of my musings our salesman announced that GM displayed not the slightest interest, but would not say why. It did not take long to find out. The era of plastics was upon us! As soon as I saw the first plastic ice tray in a salesroom, I knew with awful certainty that our piddling little scheme had been sunk without trace. As the saying goes, timing is everything. As a nice little double whammy, an Italian firm had started to make jute cans from plastic, which was a) indestructible, b) rot- proof, and c) cheaper. My grandfather took no notice; he doubtless thought, as did I later about computers, that it was just a passing phase. His order book dwindled; finally he admitted defeat and sold the place for what he could get. I have to admire the guy for the spectacular way he shuffled off this mortal coil. He had worked hard all his life; he used to relate how he walked to work for years, until the soles of his boots wore out. I knew he was determined not to leave me a penny in his will, as he regarded me, no doubt correctly according to his lights, as an idle dilettante. Not that I wanted his money; it was never a part of my life‘s strategy to hang around waiting for someone to die. In the event, he blew his wad on a luxury cruise to South America aboard the Reina del Mar, sat at the captain‘s table every evening, had a hell of a good time, came home and died. What a way to go! After all this messing around, money was getting a bit scarce, and it was high time I found a job. Handley Page was advertising for mechanical engineers with knowledge of airflow systems. Well, if I could pass myself off as a rocket man at D.H., presumably I could do a similar thing at H-P. In the event, my interviewer was a

76 HANDLEY PAGE INTERLUDE personnel department know-nothing who was, I suppose, sent to make sure that I was white, could speak English, and had some kind of qualification. Anyway, he told me to report next Monday, and that was that. In the grand sweep of historical perspective (not my phrase—I wish it was!) I now realize this was the first time I was sucked in by a firm striving to increase its body count of people with appropriate qualifications, to impress the Ministry and stay in business. In the case of Handley Page, Sir Frederick, one of my aircraft industry heroes, was holding out against the government‘s enforced amalgamation of all the traditional British aircraft companies, and was at the same time engaged in an all-out war with Avro as to whether the Vulcan or the Victor would be chosen as the next RAF strategic nuclear-deterrent bomber. Upon reporting for work, I was completely devastated to be handed a time card and told where to clock in. This did my ego no good at all. I thought that by now I would be beyond this nonsense, but—I needed the money, so refrained from ramming it down his throat and going straight back home. I was introduced to the air systems group, under the leadership of someone I will refer to as ―old skinflint‖ (because that‘s how everyone else in the group referred to him) on account of his tendency to hoard the cigarettes given to him by visiting technical reps, and hand them out to the group as a Christmas bonus, or whatever. My job concerned the cooling of an ECM (electronic counter- measures) system installed in the rear end of the Victor, which was overheating rather badly. This was no small black box—it comprised six canisters the size of dustbins, crammed full with all sorts of electrical stuff which operated infrared detectors to pick up incoming missiles, dispensed chaff (the latest version of window— no, not Microsoft, silly—strips of aluminium foil half the length of the wavelength of missile homing equipment), fired anti-missile missiles, and all sorts of clever stuff. All this equipment was cooled rather like a transformer; glycol was pumped through the canisters to absorb the heat, and was in turn cooled by air from an air intake situated at the leading edge of the Victor‘s tail fin. When I got there, the conventional wisdom was that any fool could pump oil through a can in sufficient amounts to cool it, and according to the performance curves of the air/glycol heat exchanger, if supplied

77 NUTS AND BOLTS with the air flow which the aerodynamics department said was coming through the intake, it would do the job. Therefore the problem must lie in the air ducting connecting the intake to the heat exchanger. Well, no, I thought. I have always been a bit suspicious of air intakes at the rear of anything. Look at the carburettor air intakes of some rear-engine racing cars—they stick up like factory chimneys. So, one day when Old Skinflint was away at a Ministry meeting, I wandered into the aerodynamics department and made friends with the section head. It was a most interesting chat. I knew already that aerodynamicists were regarded by the rest of the design establishment as being just one or two rungs below God, although the sub-culture within which I operated tended to define them as people who assume everything except the responsibility. Now I began to realize that, within the aerodynamics department, those who designed air intakes were regarded as second-class citizens— peasants who grafted excrescences on to their beautiful streamlined shapes. When I steered the conversation round to the Victor‘s fin intake, he sniffed contemptuously and said, ―I told them it was a waste of time—the boundary layer is about a foot thick back there. I‘m surprised they get any air down it at all.‖ Very interesting. I let him go on about crescent wing theory for half an hour, made my excuses and left. What now? I thought the best thing would be to take the intake figures, and with the heat exchanger data and an air duct system layout, see whether it would work in the ideal case. This took me about a month, having once again to track down coefficients and fudge factors for various air duct shapes, during which time I got to know the rest of the group. They were all mad keen on motor racing, and were working on a project to construct a portable grandstand, which they would take to Silverstone to watch the British Grand Prix, which promised to be a classic—a truly historic event. They were all going to be there; Stirling Moss, Mike Hawthorne, Tony Brooks, Juan Manuel Fangio, Alberto Ascari—the mind reels (mine did, anyway). I asked if I could join in, and they welcomed me with open arms. The stand was to be constructed of Dexion, one of the most useful engineering products ever, in my opinion. The basic system consists of two by two pressed steel angle with round and oblong

78 HANDLEY PAGE INTERLUDE holes at frequent intervals, together with corner pieces and all necessary nuts, bolts and spring washers, with which you can build almost any structure. I was to meet up with it again, many years later. As a group, we worked on the grandstand whenever the opportunity arose. It took shape rapidly, a two-tier structure, three seats to a tier. They asked my opinion as to location, and I immediately suggested Copse corner, the first turn after the grandstand straight, where I had spun the West Special in the rain, my first time on the track. I knew there was a cart track leading up to it from the road, where we could camp overnight and set up the stand early on the morning of the race, before all the other enthusiasts started staking their claims. And this is what happened. We all drove up the night before, settled down for the night, and first thing in the morning erected the stand. It was perfect! Never have I more enjoyed a race meeting. It was at this grand prix that I came to realize what a superb driver Stirling Moss really was. Some of you may be surprised to learn that, in those days, you could actually see the drivers. I spent a rapturous afternoon watching him going round Copse, cool and relaxed in his immaculate white track suit, hands caressing the wheel, passing everyone as if they were standing still. Another thing I remember about Handley Page with pleasure was meeting Arthur Orde-Hume, a well-known collector and restorer of antique British sporting aircraft. At the time, I think he was working on something called a Currie Wot, a charming little single-seater. I have an idea that a Wot is some kind of Cornish pixie, and presumably Currie was the chap who built it, but it was a long time ago. I got on with my calculations, from which, it seemed to me, the thing should have worked, if everything they told me was true. As a cockshy, I started to fiddle with the intake conditions, and found that quite small changes in either the intake flow or the ram pressure rise produced rapid increases in equipment temperature. Nobody seemed interested; in fact my impression was that the whole section was doing make-work stuff, producing reams of calculations which were then filed away. One day I was driving into work in the West Special when something went wrong. I cannot remember what it was, but it

79 NUTS AND BOLTS immobilized the car. I thumbed a ride to the nearest habitation and phoned Lionel, asking if he could tow me in and help me fix it. This he did, and by early afternoon I was on the road again, to Handley Page. When I got there, Old Skinflint said frostily, ―Where have you been?‖ I explained the situation, and he said, ―That‘s no excuse.‖ He then tore me a strip off, to which I meekly acquiesced. Next day, I left. We were destined to have a return engagement, years later. Another of life‘s disappointments. Sir Frederick Handley Page was one of the real pioneers of British aviation. I recall the Yellow Peril of 1913, the 0/400 and v-1500 heavy bombers of WWI, the 1929 Gugnunc, the first V-STOL (very short take-off and landing) aircraft with it‘s wing full of slotted ailerons and flaps and leading- edge slats, built to take part in the Guggenheim Safe Aircraft Competition, and the magnificent ―Hannibal‖ series of luxury airliners, between Croydon and Le Bourget. Most of all, I recall his post-WWII advocacy of kerosene fuel for jet airliners, along with Major Oliver Stewart, editor of the internationally renowned aviation magazine Aeronautics, and commentator at the Farnborough air show. Their position was that the advent of the jet engine was not only a breakthrough in speed and reliability, but also in accident survival. Whereas gasoline- fuelled aircraft became blazing pyres upon crashing, kerosene would not have this effect. All in vain, of course, thanks to the oil companies, who had to find a market for that part of the fractionating column which was not good enough for cars and piston-engine aircraft, and useless for diesel engines. So, they re- branded ―wide-cut gasoline‖ as ―jetfuel‖ and sold it cheap—better than pouring it down the drain. A few years prior to this, the argument had raged as to whether airliners of the future would be flying boats or landplanes. I often reflect how much nicer a place the world would be if both arguments had gone the other way, but let that pass. I saw in the Telegraph that A. V. Roe, Weapons Research Division, were advertising for systems design engineers. I knew where they were—Woodford airfield in Cheshire, south of Manchester, where I had spent my last vacation apprenticeship at Avro. I sent in my resume and was invited to attend for an interview. This was a very interesting and encouraging affair,

80 HANDLEY PAGE INTERLUDE conducted by Pat, the head of the airframe design department. He started by asking me a few questions about heating and cooling, and I could sense that he quickly determined that I knew enough about what he wanted; he started discussing the role he was visualizing for me, and I knew I‘d got it. It sounded really exciting. I would be required to hire two or three people to form a group specializing in heating and cooling problems. Bingo! There was only one fly in the ointment; the stuff they were working on was so top secret that he would have to get me cleared under the official secrets act. Now, I have to admit that MI5 and MI6 have never been my favourite organizations. After all, the clodhopping boobies had let Philby get away with betraying all the gallant people of the Resistance, who parachuted by night straight into the arms of the Gestapo. They couldn‘t stop Fuchs from selling the atom bomb design manual to the Russians, and I don‘t even want to think about the colossal cock-up they made over P. G. Wodehouse. Not that I had anything to worry about, but Inge was another matter. I could imagine the useless twits fumbling around for a week or two, trying to find out where Schweidnitz, Silesia was, which would be a bit difficult for the poor sods, since neither place existed any more, then finally giving up. I therefore decided to take precautions, and to this end managed, without much trouble, to acquire letters of engagement from the British Patent Office as a technical assessor, and a trade magazine as a technical writer reporting on the latest developments in many fields of engineering. After a month had elapsed and I had heard nothing, I took the desperate (to me) step of making a long distance call to Pat. I told him that, while I wanted very much to join his team, as discussed during my interview, I was becoming increasingly worried, having heard nothing for a month. For economic reasons I had to start work soon, and had already received two offers which must be acted upon one way or another by the end of the month. I further went on to say that if my security clearance was a problem, possibly due to the fact that my wife was born in a part of Germany which no longer exists, then I could see no hope, and thought that as a matter of courtesy I should inform him so that he could make alternative arrangements.

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Three days later a letter of engagement arrived; further confirmation of another of my life‘s principles—‖Stand not upon events. If nothing happens in a reasonable period of time, start making a fuss.‖

82

CHAPTER 7: NORTH TO AVRO

orthward we journey‘d, staying at my parents‘ house while we looked around for a place to live. We started in an N apartment in a place called Sale, on the banks of a canal, parallel to which ran the main railway line to Manchester. Rather, shall we say, urban, after Bricket Wood, but it served its purpose. One of the things that stands out in my memory was the morning when I was drawn out of the front door by a sound like thunder rolling across the sky. The morning sun was almost blotted out, and there above me at about two or three thousand feet was a squadron of U.S. Air Force Strategic Air Command B-36 bombers—fifteen of them, I think. I have never seen anything remotely like it, before or since. This was the one they called ―The Big Stick‖ (speak softly and carry a big stick). It is still, I think, the largest aircraft ever built: it had ten engines—six huge piston engines driving pusher propellers and a pair of jet engines at each wingtip—and could deliver a hydrogen bomb to anywhere on the earth‘s surface without refuelling. If I had been in charge of a foreign power trying to make trouble (read Russia), I would have had second thoughts about tangling with those boys. They were bound for the enormous U.S. Air Force base at Burtonwood, which at that time had the longest runways in England. It was not long before we actually managed to own a house of our own. With my enhanced salary and status, I was eligible for a 90 percent mortgage, and we had by then managed to scrape up just enough to afford the down payment on a quite decent semidetached at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac in a subdivision near the town of Cheadle. Inge was very happy, which made me happy, and we enjoyed living there. We did a lot of wallpapering, which was fun at the time—unbelievable that seems to me now. But then, when you are young and fit and in love and your career is going well, a lot of things are fun. Having said that, when, after four enjoyable years, we finally moved on, never again did I touch a piece of wallpaper.

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Shortly after moving north, an important milestone was reached, when I met Inge‘s father (Vati) for the first time. He was on his way to Canada via the BOAC Monarch service, which was operating Boeing Stratocruisers at the time, with a scheduled stop at Manchester. The object of his visit was to inspect some ore- crushing machinery made by a Canadian firm near Toronto, and he telegraphed us, wondering if we could meet him in the transit lounge at Manchester airport. I don‘t know who was more on edge—myself or Inge. She loved her father, and thought she had upset him by marrying an Englishman, in the same way that my parents were upset when I married a German. She had a lot riding on the outcome of the meeting. I was worried about letting her down. She coached me in the family formalities, how I should address him as ―sie‖ initially, and it would then be up to him to give me permission to use the more informal ―du‖. Stuff like that. When we got to the airport it was pouring with rain. The Stratocruiser had just arrived, and an unhappy group of mechanics wearing sou‘westers were standing underneath one of the engines watching oil dripping from it. In walked a distinguished-looking gentleman who I recognized instantly from Inge‘s photos. He went straight to Inge and embraced her—‖mein liebe Ingemaus‖—and, extending his hand to me—‖Muller.‖ I acknowledged as previously primed, and before long we were chatting away alternately in English and German, our knowledge of each other‘s language being about the same level. I got the feeling that sometimes comes to me during an interview when I realize that I‘m going to get the job. It was going to be all right. I had been keeping an eye on the mechanics swarming all over the Stratocruiser‘s engine, and when I saw them all depart, taking their work platform with them, I made my final play. Since his flight was about to be called, I would take the opportunity to wish him a safe and comfortable trip, and looked forward to our next meeting. At that precise moment his flight was called, which raised his eyebrows a little. Well, you know, anything to score the odd point. Inge was very happy, and I was very relieved. My first pleasant surprise came on the day I first reported to Woodford airfield, Avro‘s flight test base. Driving up to the gate, clutching a wad of letters, passes and so forth, I noticed that the gatekeeper was the same chap who had let me in many years

84 NORTH TO AVRO previously. Without even bothering to look at the papers, he said ―Good morning, Mr. Tysoe. I was wondering when we‘d see you again. Welcome back.‖ I felt very humble. Aren‘t some people great? Pat was as good as his word. He took me into his office, and there upon his desk was a large silver-painted box with a handle on top. With a dramatic gesture he lifted the box, and there stood a model of what we were working on. I can remember the moment as if it were yesterday. I couldn‘t suppress an involuntary gasp. ―Oh—it‘s a beauty!‖ ―It‖ was a perfectly streamlined fuselage, from the sharp nose to the blunt back, entirely occupied by a large rocket nozzle, with a smaller one underneath. At the rear were small delta wings with turned-down tips, and fins top and bottom. Near the nose was a small delta-shaped foreplane. To me it looked graceful and menacing at the same time. Pat sat there with a slight smile, obviously pleased with my reaction. ―It‘s called Blue Steel,‖ he said. ―It‘s carried by a Vulcan and released 120 miles from the target, from which point it is guided by an inertia navigator. This works using gyroscopes lubricated with a special grease which requires its temperature to be maintained within plus or minus two degrees centigrade. This is where you come in.‖ He went on to inform me that they had subcontracted the firm of Normalair, in Yeovil, Somerset, to develop a Freon refrigeration system. The electronics firm of Elliott Bros, makers of the inertia navigator, were also involved, since they would have to fit whatever refrigeration equipment turned out to be required into the ―I.N.‖, as everyone called it. This was a barrel-shaped thing installed in a compartment in the foreplane area of the missile. As the W.R.D. project engineer, it would be my job to supervise and coordinate all this, in conjunction with equipment installations in our own Vulcan, a Vickers Valiant which had been laid on to flight test the I.N., and the missile ground-handling trolley. Project Engineer! This was getting better by the minute! Pat finished by telling me to get myself acquainted with the system as it was currently proposed, and look into recruiting two people as a starting point for the environmental group we had discussed during my interview. Meanwhile, he was arranging a trip to Yeovil for the two of us, to meet with Elliotts and Normalair.

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Wow! What was I supposed to do in my spare time, I wondered. He then introduced me to his deputy, John, a dour Yorkshireman, who would be my immediate superior. He was always a perfect gentleman when I was around, and entertained me with many tales of his earlier experiences with Avro. One in particular stands out. He was the engineer in charge of the investigation into the (still) mysterious disappearances of the Avro Tudor airliners Star Tiger and Star Ariel on the London-Bermuda route just after the war. He told me how he had built and operated a test rig duplicating the air and fuel systems of the Tudor to check one of the theories, that the air/fuel heat exchanger had sprung a leak and either admitted fumes into the flight deck, overpowering the crew, or caused an explosion. He had tried everything to produce such a malfunction, but could not. This was interesting, because I had always thought this idea to be nonsense, together with the Deadly Bermuda Triangle theory. Finally, I was able to find out what my assignment was all about. From John I obtained all the information he had about the I.N. cooling system, which he seemed glad to get rid of. There was certainly a lot to absorb. The operational sequence was as follows: During the process of checking out the missile systems and loading it aboard the aircraft, the inertia navigator, already running, was cooled by a Freon condensing unit on the ground trolley. Once loaded, and with the aircraft engines started, a condensing unit on board the aircraft took over, and cooled the I.N. up to the point of release. Upon release, a pressurized tank in the missile, containing a ten-minute supply of Freon, took over. There was also a branch pipe in the missile to cool the alternator. Piece of cake, really, except for one or two irritating nut-and-bolt problems that nobody wanted to be bothered with, plus the fact that nobody knew anything about refrigeration. As things turned out, one of the ―minor problems‖ was the Achilles heel of the whole concept, but I‘ll return to that. My first act was to put an ad in the Telegraph. I cannot remember the exact wording, but it followed Parkinson‘s dictum to the best of my understanding: ―The best help-wanted ad is that which attracts only one applicant, and him the one you want.‖ In the event, mine attracted three, one of whom was obviously

86 NORTH TO AVRO unsuitable, and since I was supposed to attract two, that must be counted one up for Parkinson. It was something like ―Engineering assistants required for interesting work on advanced systems design. Some knowledge of refrigeration an asset.‖ I knew that the bit about refrigeration would rule out 99.9 percent of the British population, and anyone else who was interested enough to wonder what refrigeration had to do with what was obviously a missile programme was someone I wanted to meet. Note that I didn‘t go rabbiting on about qualifications required, length of experience required, and all the other useless top-hamper which usually attracts dozens of the wrong sort of people. While awaiting results, I visited Normalair with Pat, the journey itself being interesting. He clearly thought that he was not operating at maximum efficiency if he arrived at the train station before the train had started moving out. Once or twice I remember being hard on his heels as he dashed down the platform, wrenched a door open, scrambled in and pulled me in after him. This wouldn‘t work nowadays, of course, what with the acceleration of electric trains, and the fact that they don‘t allow you on the platform a few minutes before the train is due to leave. Upon arrival in Yeovil, mercifully still in one piece, we were met by Geoff Armstrong, the Normalair project engineer, with whom I was to become very friendly. He entertained us at the Half Moon Hotel, where he had booked our rooms, and in the morning drove us to the works. There we had a meeting attended by the Elliotts people, a rather waspish Englishman and a big, brawny, friendly Australian, and the Normalair chief engineer. After lunch we spent the afternoon studying the test rig, still in a preliminary state. In the evening, Geoff took us to the Rum Hole, a delightful restaurant in West Coker, itself one of the loveliest English villages. I‘m going to enjoy this assignment, I thought to myself. On returning to Woodford, I found the three responses to the ad, all of which sounded promising, and so spent some time arranging interviews. In due course, the first applicant arrived, and was waiting for me in the interview room. As someone once remarked, you only get one chance to make a first impression, and he blew it big time. He rambled on about how good his degree was, how he had already received many offers, how he wanted to start next week so

87 NUTS AND BOLTS that he could inform the others, and what were the holidays, and what was the pension plan.... I didn‘t even bother to find out whether he knew anything. I thanked him for coming, told him he would be hearing from us, pleaded pressure of work, and left him to find his own way out. How depressing. If that‘s what comes of trying to follow Parkinson, to heck with it. Let the personnel department handle it. The next chap, however, made it all right again. He was from, of all places, Nottingham University. He was young, keen, presentable and pleasant to talk to. I asked him whether he knew anything about refrigeration, and he was quite confident that the basics had been adequately covered. I asked him how that could be, because when I was there, my prof knew nothing about it. Oh no, he said, he had Prof So-and-So, and he made it sound quite interesting. Well, well, I thought, times do change. I chatted with him about refrigeration for a few minutes; he kept his end up very well, so I asked him when he would be available. He said would it be all right if he started in six weeks time, since he had a longstanding arrangement with his mountaineering club to climb K-2, the second highest in the Himalayas, and some said more difficult than Everest. Well, I couldn‘t argue with that, so I told him to give me a call when he got back. A good start, I thought; this fellow is going to go a long way. Things got even better when the third applicant, Jim, arrived. He had just left Joseph Lucas, in Burnley, and obviously wanted another job pretty quickly. I knew that they specialized in jet engine combustion chamber design, development and testing, so I asked him what made him think this job would suit him. He told me he had been taken on to start a department to develop a line of heat pumps, but they had then decided to move it to London, where he didn‘t want to go, and this sounded interesting, so here he was. Bingo! I thought. Now I‘ll have an expert to help me with this project. I invited him out for a pub lunch, an invitation he accepted with alacrity. We went to the pub just down the road from the airfield, run by an Australian WWI fighter pilot known to all as Digger, who made the best chicken sandwiches this side of the Pearly Gates. He also pulled a very nice pint of beer, and boasted

88 NORTH TO AVRO how he steamed-cleaned the pipes once a week, ―Which is more than the other idle sods around here do.‖ We stayed until Digger threw us out at closing time, by which time we had established a friendship which was to last for many years, until a tragic misunderstanding ended it. Come back, Parkinson—all is forgiven! While waiting for Jim to start, I managed to procure, with Pat‘s help, a small lab in which to carry out work related to refrigeration systems. This raised a few eyebrows, and even more when he authorized me to issue my own instruction sheets for work to be carried out related to refrigeration matters. ―What shall we call it?‖ he asked me. It couldn‘t be RTI (refrigeration test instruction) or CTI (cooler ditto) because these were already taken for other purposes. ―TCI then—Temperature Control Instruction,‖ said I. Nice and snappy, I thought. ―Well,‖ he said, ―it‘s got to be a test instruction, so it will have to be TCTI.‖ I didn‘t like it—it was the only one with four letters, difficult to say, and nobody ever got used to it. I should have stuck to my guns, but was not yet self-confident enough to start World War Three over it. Jim was pleased to find himself with a lab, and immediately got down to things. There was no refrigeration equipment of any kind in the entire building, so he got on the phone to someone he knew in the trade, prevailed upon me to get him an order number, and a few days later a large shipment arrived. There was a complete condensing unit, a couple of large cylinders of Freon-12, a leak detector, coils of three different diameters of copper tube, and a box full of control valves, pipe fittings and whatnot. At this point I first came into contact with A.I.D. (Aeronautical Inspection Directorate) inspectors, and it was not a happy meeting. One of them summoned me to his office, where all this stuff was piled up, and said, ―What‘s all this ruddy stuff, then?‖ When someone opens a conversation along these lines, I have two standard responses. The first is, ―Are you speaking to me?‖ (Shane, 1953). The second is, ―If you can read, it says what they are on the packing note.‖ I cannot remember which I used, probably both, but it didn‘t seem to please him overmuch, for he said, ―Well, I‘m not releasing

89 NUTS AND BOLTS them without the paperwork.‖ Since I didn‘t know what he was talking about, I sought out Jim, and we went to see Pat, who phoned the chief inspector and invited him up for a chat. After an hour of gum-beating, a deal was worked out. If we would make out such-and-such a form for EACH BLOODY ITEM (!!) he would release them on a temporary note, subject to review after an approved test programme had been carried out. This is known in China, I believe, as ―saving face‖. I thought Jim was going to blow a fuse, but in the end he saw the funny side. (After all, you have to laugh or you‘ll go mad— right?) We got down to it, and it took a couple of days. As soon as Jim got his hands on all the stuff he started work on our most immediate task. For weeks the electrical department had been complaining that they could not fire up the Blue Steel alternator on their test bench, because of the lack of a cooling system. The point was that the alternator was supposed to be cooled by the missile Freon system, for which purpose it was encased in a cooling jacket. This jacket, by itself, formed a barrier of still air between the inside and the surroundings, which is one of the best heat insulators there is. Without a flow of coolant, the machine would soon self-destruct. I left Jim to it, and got on with handling stuff which had accumulated during our altercation with the inspection department. The very next day he asked if I would like to see the start-up. I went down to the electrical lab and there they all were, probably some of the best electrical brains in the country, standing around watching Jim concluding his charging and testing procedures. He had his condensing unit connected to the alternator by pipes exactly equal to the ones in the missile, and when I turned up he started it. I will never forget the expressions on the faces of those top boffins when they saw frost forming on the alternator return pipe. Jim having fiddled with the expansion valve adjusting screw to obtain the exact jacket temperature they had specified, we left them to it and got on with the next job, the setting up of a rig to test the equipment and get the inspectors off our back. Why would we have to do that? Well, in those days no company in England was making aviation-approved refrigeration equipment. Any item on board an aircraft was supposed to be backed up with a pile of bumf this high, so that its history could be

90 NORTH TO AVRO literally traced back to when the ore was dug out of the ground. There was plenty of stuff around, but it was a highly competitive market, and the invariable response to requests for a test programme was ―if you don‘t like our stuff, get someone else‘s‖. No way were they going to waste time and money on such nonsense. We were definitely on our own. Jim‘s favourite firm was the Danish Danfoss company, whose equipment he had found to be the best and most reliable. By now, even readers who never had the misfortune to be caught up in this kind of stupid rat-race will no doubt appreciate the total impossibility of even trying to discuss test programmes with a non- aircraft-approved firm in Denmark. The situation seemed to me to be developing into an impasse. Here were we, working on a temperature control system for a super-priority cold war standoff bomb, designed to take out Moscow with a hydrogen bomb from a range of 120 miles, and saying it depended upon control equipment made by a non- approved foreign firm, which would not be allowed by the A.I.D. to fly unless it passed their approval tests. What would they do? Whirl the stuff around in a centrifuge in a high-altitude cold chamber? Drop it from six feet onto a concrete block? Vibrate the crap out of it until it fell apart? And if it failed these tests? Do we just shut down the whole project and wait for the Russians to come over the hill? There was talk of getting a British firm to develop a line of aircraft-approved refrigeration equipment. In your dreams, pal. The manufacture of this stuff is a highly skilled business. It would take a firm years and cost them millions to acquire the necessary skills, licences and so forth. Forget it. While in a philosophical mood, I expect that some will be waxing indignant about me wasting my life working on these abominable things, and I cannot find it in my heart to blame them. But may I just say that, had I thought for a moment that it would be used in earnest, I would have gone in for agricultural machinery, which has always interested me. Besides, the whole thing was all bluff—a pissing contest between high-placed men in suits. (Again, not my phrase, but I wish it was). And, it was interesting, not to say fascinating, work, stretching one‘s creative talents to the limit. Dragging me back to earth, Jim suggested a small refrigeration circuit into which control valves could be inserted to check their

91 NUTS AND BOLTS performance. He further suggested that all this testing business would be a fulltime job for someone. I followed him up on this, and approached Pat, who agreed. Jim said he knew of a chap just back from India whom he thought would be ideal for the job, and so, a short time later, Mackintosh came on the scene. (I never found out his other name). Meanwhile, fate threw me another rotten curve. I picked up the paper one day and saw the headline: ―Nottingham University Mountaineering Club wiped out in K-2 disaster.‖This really dropped me into the Slough of Despond. For the second time, a young life full of hope and promise, and very important to me, had been snuffed out by a stupid, unnecessary accident. Pat was very understanding, and left me alone for a week while I recovered. Jim was sympathetic, and covered for me admirably. When I got back into circulation I went down to the lab, and there was Mackintosh fiddling with a nitrogen cylinder and a roll of copper tube, together with lots of pipe fittings, stop valves, flaring tools and what-have-you. I asked him what he was doing, and he told me that some inspector had handed him a test sheet covering the pressure testing of aircraft control valves. I asked him if this was Jim‘s idea, and he didn‘t seem to know. I didn‘t like it, but Jim was off sick for a few days, and during that time the inevitable happened. Someone came up and told me that my man had been taken to hospital following an accident in his lab. I dashed down there, and sure enough Mackintosh had gone and the place was in a mess. I went around trying to find out what had happened. None of the inspectors wanted to know about it, but finally a well-disposed chap in the next lab told me he thought that something my man was testing blew up, and a fair-size bit got him between the eyes, giving him a concussion. I rummaged through the paperwork until I found the A.I.D. test requirement, which called for a pressure test to one and a half times the maximum working pressure. A sense of foreboding overcame me. Let me explain. Many refrigeration control valves take their control signal from a thermal sensing bulb—that is, a small cylinder filled with a volatile liquid, strapped to a system pipe at a control point, and connected via a capillary tube to a diaphragm whose housing was soldered to the top of the valve. The under-surface of the diaphragm was exposed to the valve

92 NORTH TO AVRO outlet pressure, and the balance between the two moved a tapered needle in an orifice, to control the flow to provide the correct amount of cooling. Thus the diaphragm never saw the inlet pressure, and I could well imagine it blowing off if somehow it was exposed to one and a half times that figure. Having obtained a rough idea of what might have happened, I shot off to the hospital and there was Mackintosh, looking all right thank God, reading a lurid novel. They were keeping him there a couple of days for observation, but nothing serious to worry about, and why didn‘t I look after my workers better. He told me the inspector had insisted upon the test pressure being applied to both sides of the valve, and he had not felt able to argue the point. In other words, the incredibly stupid inspection oaf had ordered a junior technician, without consulting either of his superiors, to perform an act for which either of us would have had the inspector‘s guts for garters. Oh boy, I thought. This is definitely numbah ten. Now the solids are bound to hit the fan. In the present-day litigation-mad human rights-dominated nanny state, Mackintosh could have taken Avros for millions. As it was, he turned up for work the following week with a sticking plaster on his forehead, and the powers that be successfully swept the whole thing under the rug. Oh well, as Confucius said, ―When you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.‖ So, we just got on with our jobs. The next item was to check out the I.N. crate prior to the commencement of flight testing. This was an open-frame structure designed to fit into the bomb bay of our borrowed Vickers Valiant, containing the inertia navigator itself, together with all its systems. By the time I arrived, the condensing unit specified by Normalair was already installed, but nobody knew what to do with it. To my relief, Jim approved of it as a very good choice. I had just one misgiving about it, which I discussed with him. My worry was the compressor itself. I was aware of the very fine tolerances to which these things were manufactured, and I knew that this one had a wet sump, so that maintenance of the correct oil level was important. My concern was the possible effect of aircraft take-off acceleration on the lubrication system. If, for example, all the oil were to surge to the rear, would this starve the front cylinder of oil? Did the orientation of the compressor crankshaft relative to the aircraft

93 NUTS AND BOLTS centreline matter? If it did, we may be in for a rehash of the existing installation, which would drive the flight test department bananas. Jim was able to reassure me on all counts, with the big proviso that the correct oil must be used. This was a new one for me, so he explained that Shell had developed an oil which would absorb refrigerant vapour, and thus be carried around the circuit, so that, wherever there was refrigerant, there would be lubrication. If, however, any other kind of oil was used, then all bets were off, and anything could happen. I began to realize that my main task was going to be to persuade all these hard-assed aircraft engineers that we were the vanguard of a new era in aircraft design, the purveyors of a black art upon which the success of their machines depended, and they had better listen to us, lest a curse be placed upon their efforts. My struggle began when I found that there were, in fact, two I.N. crates. Why, I never discovered, but this was causing considerable confusion, because nobody seemed to know which was which. One of my first TCTIs ran something along these lines: ―In order to minimize confusion and eliminate misunderstanding, the numerals 1 and 2 are to be shown in large characters in prominent positions on each of the I.N. crates, which will now be referred to as I.N. crate 1 and I.N. crate 2.‖ About ten minutes after this instruction of mine hit the stands, an irate chief draughtsman descended on me like a thunderbolt from on high. Who the hell did I think I was, putting out instructions about things that were not my concern.... Now wait a while before you throw the book away. I know what you‘re thinking, and I understand your viewpoint entirely, but, after all, why would I make up something like this? Why does anyone bother to write fiction, when real life is so much more bizarre? And so began my lifelong love affair with the world‘s chief draughtsmen. As always when confronted by a bloody-minded Scotsman twice my size and brawny in proportion and obviously spoiling for a fight, I resisted the urge to tell him to get stuffed, and instead suggested that if he didn‘t like the idea, perhaps he should have a word with Pat about it. Off he went in a towering rage. I never found out what happened, but in due course the numbers

94 NORTH TO AVRO appeared, so either Pat had calmed him down, or he had realized what an idiot he was making of himself. At this point a rather large diversion appeared, which was to occupy my attention for the next few weeks. Some firm in Cambridge specializing in the construction of aircraft replicas for private owners, film producers and the like had been subcontracted to build a set of Blue Steel replicas from light alloy, to be released over the Ministry test range at Cardigan Bay, with the object of flight testing all the systems under operational conditions. These replicas were powered by—wait for it—a Double Spectre rocket pack. So—we meet again! These were the Mark 2 version, of fixed thrust, about which I had heard rumours while still at D.H. That double mounting frame must have been the thing occupying much of Gerry‘s time. One day John hauled me in and told me they were having a problem with the test rounds. Three times they had dropped one, three times the rocket had failed to start, and they had all plunged straight into Cardigan Bay. Would I look into it and see if I could suggest what might be wrong. They had all fired perfectly well during ground testing, and in any case I was the only one around who knew anything about rockets. It didn‘t take me very long. After a couple of seconds to organize my thoughts, I told him it was highly likely that, after the test missile had been carried around for a time in an ambient temperature of minus 55, the water content of the HTP would have separated out into supercooled water droplets, which would have frozen on impact with the catalyst gauzes, thereby preventing the flow of steam to the turbine for start-up. (As a side thought, I couldn‘t help wondering what mental pygmy had thought this one up—I mean, why didn‘t they put a Stentor LOX-kerosene rocket in, to give it a bit of air time, since it was going to be the ultimate power plant anyway?) None of my business, of course; I wasn‘t high up enough on the totem pole to make important decisions like this. John was suitably impressed, and asked how long it would take for me to check this out. Three weeks minimum, I replied, thinking back to the Spectre nozzle cooling jacket. He nodded thoughtfully, and then switched to idle chitchat. ―I‘ve noticed,‖ he said, ―that when shaving, if I swizzle my razor around in the hot water, it

95 NUTS AND BOLTS heats up much faster than when I just dip it in.‖ I told him that when his razor was just resting in the water, the heat was getting to it through a laminar boundary layer, whereas when he moved it rapidly the boundary layer became turbulent, and the heat transfer coefficient increased by up to ten times. He nodded, and said, ―Very good.‖ The crafty old devil was testing me out! I must have passed, because he suggested that I should visit their captive physics Ph.D., Dr. Shapland, who was working with an analogue computer to develop a programme for the solution of heat transfer problems. ―Analogue computer?!‖ I hear you cry. ―How old ARE you anyway??‖ Stay with it, reader—it gets quite steamy in a bit. I went to the lab concerned, and met Dai Shapland, an amiable Welshman with a great sense of humour and an enormous enthusiasm for what he was doing. We became friends right away. I briefly outlined my problem, and he told me he had the conduction and convection aspects buttoned up in his analogue circuit, and had just discovered a semiconductor whose resistance was proportional to the fourth power of its input voltage. At last he was able to include the radiation factor in his circuit, a problem which had been bugging him for weeks, and anticipated success in a few days. He would be very pleased to take my problem as his first priority. He explained how to express the relevant characteristics of the missile in a form suitable for his programme, and I left feeling much more confident. I knew I had to get this one right, for the whole success of the project might depend upon it. I worked with Dai for a couple of weeks, and then came the day when we fired the thing up. Its answer was unequivocal—the HTP did not freeze after an hour at altitude. We fiddled everything we could think of, starting with the outside air temperature, but it steadfastly refused to freeze. I was totally confused. Certain that freezing was the cause of the problem, I just couldn‘t understand it. What had I overlooked? There was a meeting next day at which this matter would be raised, and I was told to be there. I decided to tell them that, while I was convinced that the problem was caused by the water in the HTP freezing, my calculations had seemed to indicate that this would not occur during a one-hour flight prior to release. Nevertheless I was going to recommend that a test flight take

96 NORTH TO AVRO place, with the propellant and catalyst pack temperatures monitored. If this showed that freezing did in fact occur, I was ready with a proposal for a simple heating system. The meeting had been convened by the Ministry to discuss various problems, and finally my turn came. I started to say my piece, and when I got to the bit about the theory indicating that freezing would not occur after a one-hour flight, some supercilious po-faced twit of a minister‘s aide ejaculated, ―Bullshit!‖ I picked up my papers and was halfway to the door when his superior admonished him. ―You should be aware that no less a person than Dr. Shapland actually did the theoretical work.‖ They all looked at me. I just said, ―Oh bollocks,‖ and left. If I‘d had one wish from the Good Fairy, it would have been that Dai was at that meeting. He would have wet himself laughing, and then started talking Welsh. He knew how much I had sweated over this. All he‘d done was prod me if I‘d pressed the wrong button on his machine. I went straight to Pat and told him exactly what had happened. He gave that slight smile, and asked me about the heating system I would have proposed, had I been allowed to continue. I told him, and he authorized me to go into it, in conjunction with whatever equipment supplier I thought suitable. I wondered why, and then he asked me to attend a meeting the following day with the atomic energy people from Aldermaston. This was really interesting. For the first time I saw Jim Phillips, the engineer in charge of the Blue Steel electrical systems, in action. It was immediately obvious that we were kindred spirits, in that we both said what we thought, and could sense b-s from 200 yards away. We both knew who we were dealing with. These were the people responsible for the hydrogen bomb which was to fit in our missile, although we were not allowed to refer to it like that. It was the ―payload‖ or the ―store‖—rather in the same way that Vietnam wasn‘t a war. Jim was up first, questioning them about the type of electrical connections required, and the relevant specifications—volts, amps and whatever. These blank-faced people, exuding non-cooperation, need-to-know, security, and the rest of the claptrap, avoided giving him direct answers, prevaricated, obfuscated...until finally Jim could stand it no longer. He stood up, said in a loud voice, ―So! You have

97 NUTS AND BOLTS a special kind of electricity in this thing, do you?‖ gathered his papers and walked out. Then it was my turn. They had said they wanted the thing temperature controlled, so my first question was, ―Would you mind telling me what temperature is required?‖ ―That‘s classified,‖ the senior one responded. Sorry to keep harping on this, but I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP. I pondered on this for a moment or two. ―Then,‖ I said, ―I can see no point in prolonging this meeting.‖ I picked up my papers and left. Once again I went straight to Pat and told him exactly what had happened. He didn‘t seem surprised. ―You would have been the first to get anything out of them,‖ was his observation. ―What do you propose?‖ I suggested that we proceed on the basis of controlling the warhead compartment (he winced) to room temperature, on the assumption that this was what they were working in when they made the thing, so they could hardly complain. This would be accomplished by supplying to the compartment hot air from a bleed taken from an engine compressor, and admitting it via a control valve responding to a sensing element in the compartment. If they wanted it cooled as well, they were s.o.l. (a modern phrase meaning ‗out of luck‘). They should have said so years ago, like the I.N. people did. He gave me the go-ahead, and that was the start of a long relationship with Teddington Aircraft Controls. I was on the phone to them the same day, and the following day their sales manager called on me. John G was a gentleman whose friendship I came to value for many years. He listened to my requirements, made some notes, and took me out for a slap-up lunch at a local hostelry. Here I would like to make a slight diversion. I know there are people who object to this kind of thing, so I‘ll deal with it right away. First and foremost, if your opinion of me is so low as to think that I would order some firm‘s equipment on a multimillion-pound project just because they took me out to lunch, then I suggest that you fire me, and get someone in who suits your half-baked prejudices. Second, he was not bugging me to buy his equipment, I was bugging him to supply it. I didn‘t actually raise this with John G until a few years later, but it may as well be

98 NORTH TO AVRO included here. I expressed my misgivings to him, and will report my memory of his response, although in the Air Force this would be condemned as line-shooting. He said, ―Look, John, I am a salesman. I have an expense account which I have to spend, or I‘m perceived not to be doing my job. Therefore I have to take someone to lunch, and I prefer your company to most of that lot up there.‖ Well, I wasn‘t going to argue with that, so can we now get on with the story? The following day, Doug Tanner turned up. I already knew of him as a legend in the British aircraft industry. He seemed to know everyone in every firm, and everyone I spoke to liked him. Now it was my turn. A stocky, red-faced chap with an inexhaustible fund of jokes, he pulled out of his briefcase a complete design proposal! They must have been up all night! We went through it in detail, and he asked whether it would be possible to see the missile. He was sporting a security name tag with a top-secret clearance stamp, so I took him down to the workshop and showed him a missile that was being worked on. I explained that it was carried half inside the Vulcan bomb bay, and pointed out the store/payload/warhead/hydrogen bomb compartment. He was ―chuffed as little mint balls‖. Obviously he had been dying to find out what we were up to at W.R.D., and I had opened the door for him. It was now lunch time, and I was about to suggest a chicken sandwich and a pint at Digger‘s place, when he did just that! Off we went, and Digger welcomed him as an old friend. I got the feeling that I had gone up in his estimation. By the time Digger threw us out we had agreed on most of the system design, and I asked him if he would like to have a look at the Vulcan bomb bay to check pipe lengths and so on, to which he agreed with great enthusiasm. So, replete with Digger‘s sandwiches and beer, we went out to our lovely great white Vulcan XA 903, and climbed up the ladder into the bomb bay. Doug was clearly no stranger to the Vulcan bomb bay. He located immediately the engine compressor bleed connection, got his tape measure out, and in a few minutes had all the dimensions he needed. I asked him some questions about the functioning of his equipment, thanked him profusely, and called it a day.

99 NUTS AND BOLTS

After seeing Doug off the premises, I was a bit brassed off to be told that someone was waiting for me in the lobby. This was a Welsh salesman, Gwyn, who, as will be seen, played a large part in my life later on. At that time he was peddling a line of flexible stainless steel pipes, about which I could not care less. As politely as I could manage, I explained that this was not my present area of interest, suggested that he should ask for Mac, the chief draughtsman, pleaded pressure of work, and left, but not before he had unloaded on me a great stack of catalogues, data sheets and goodness knows what else, related to flexible stainless steel pipes. Next day I was in the workshop visiting the lab, and happened to notice a workman drilling a hole in the underside of the missile. More to make conversation than from any real interest in the test rounds, I asked him what was going there. ―Nothing,‖ he said. ―These are drain holes.‖ And he pointed to a row of them. ―Says who?‖ I asked. ―Mac told me to,‖ he said. Something exploded inside my head. Drain holes! My heat loss calculations had assumed a layer of stagnant air between the outer and inner skins which, as previously mentioned, is one of the best heat insulators there is. Instead, the interior was surrounded by a gale of air at minus 55 degrees Centigrade coming in at just below the speed of sound—possibly the world‘s most efficient refrigerator. No wonder the bloody stuff had frozen! This was going to make me the biggest laughingstock in the business. With murder in my heart, I started in the direction of Mac‘s office. This time I was going to have a real confrontation—winner stays, loser leaves. Then I noticed that one of the draughtsmen who was well-disposed towards me had fallen into step beside me and was trying to attract my attention. With a great effort I changed gear and asked him what he wanted. He was wondering if I had any recent information about Mac‘s daughter. I told him I was sorry, but what was the problem? He said the last thing they‘d heard was that she was on the danger list in hospital with meningitis. I apologised for having no news update—I didn‘t even know he had a daughter—then wandered over to the canteen and sat brooding over a cup of coffee for an hour. For sure I was going to have to eat a lot of crow in the next few weeks. ―Terribly sorry; must have made some wrong

100 NORTH TO AVRO assumptions...‖ If you have never eaten crow, take it from me, it tastes foul. Pulling myself together, I dragged myself up to Pat‘s office, and told him the whole story. He was very good about it, to my relief, although in retrospect this was most likely because a lot of it was his fault for approving Mac‘s insane instruction in the first place—assuming he had actually issued one. I was not even on the D.O.I. (drawing office instruction) mailing list, although I should have been. Probably readers are beginning to guess how the whole thing was finally resolved, but before the inevitable cancellation there was work to be done, so... I picked myself up and got back in the race... (Sinatra again). By this time I was visiting Normalair once a month, which was a real blast when I got myself a car in which I could enjoy the drive. This was an Austin Atlantic, no mention of which have I since been able to discover. It must have been a limited edition, and grotesquely mistimed, in view of the British public‘s outlook on such things at the time (think air conditioning, double-glazed windows, refrigeration...). It was a snazzy occasional-four super- streamlined brute of a car, with an Austin Princess 4-litre engine giving it a speed of 120 mph, and I loved it at first sight. It was going cheap, probably because of its fuel consumption of around ten mpg. Inge liked it too, although I think she sometimes worried about my safety... A lot of the enjoyment of my drive to Yeovil came from my knowledge of an inconspicuous turnoff somewhere near Coventry, leading to an old Roman road. It may have been the Fosse Way, but don‘t quote me on that. This one-and-a-half track road went straight as a die for mile after mile, finally emerging at Moreton-in-the-Marsh, where I would pause for a pint of Guinness before completing the final leg to Yeovil. There was nothing on the road—no traffic, no houses, no crossroads; you could see for miles ahead, and it was exhilarating to blast along at nearly full throttle, with the trees and hedges zipping past a few feet on each side. Even if I could remember where the turnoff was, I wouldn‘t tell you, on the off chance that it may still be there, affording a few old stagers a temporary return to the long-dead past, when driving was fun.

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I always enjoyed visiting my watering hole at the other end, probably because of its association with the wartime airfield of that name, which in turn reminds me of the BBC radio series ―Much Binding in the Marsh‖. This featured Richard ―Stinker‖ Murdoch, formerly squadron leader Murdoch, the officer commanding RAF Ouston, where I had landed in my Tiger Moth many years ago demanding 87-octane fuel, and he didn‘t have any. I wonder who remembers the song they sang, with a new version every week:

At Much Binding in the Marsh Our latest aircraft really is a bender (tiddle-om-pom-pom); At Much Binding in the Marsh The motive power is from a WAAF suspender; The meaning of the instruments is never very clear, But one of them we are convinced is quite a good idea; You pull a little handle down and out comes bitter beer At Much Binding in the Marsh.

Forcing myself out of this reverie, I recall a particularly interesting meeting. It was to be the first demonstration of the complete system. I was there with Jim; Elliotts was there; the usual Ministry spy was there—quite an occasion. The place had been spruced up from top to bottom, and I was reasonably certain that this had not been done for our benefit. During a pre-meeting chat with the chief engineer I mentioned this, and he pulled a face. He told me that the Duke of Edinburgh was there the day before, and the Powers That Be (he fairly spat the words) had them working all the previous week painting the walls white, the pipes blue and so forth. He‘d had a moment of quiet satisfaction when Prinny went up to him at the end of the visit and said, ―You know, Frank, I wish you people wouldn‘t do all this bullshit for me. All I want to do is see the bloody planes.‖ Anyway, back to the meeting. Geoff Armstrong was there, exuding bonhomie, chatting everyone up by their Christian names, while his assistants were fiddling around with last minute checks. Then came the great moment. The ground unit started up—no problem there; this was the same condensing unit which would be used on the ground trolley. The temperature gauge in the mock-up I.N. swung to the required temperature, and remained well within

102 NORTH TO AVRO the plus or minus two Centigrade degrees required. So far so good—nothing that the average refrigerator repairman couldn‘t have run up over the weekend. After a few minutes of this, during which all the pressures and temperatures were duly noted, the second phase was initiated. This is where the aircraft condensing unit is plugged into the missile, and the ground unit is disconnected. On the test rig, they did this with a system of three-way valves and shutoff valves. Aha, I thought, they haven‘t got that sorted out yet. THAT was something which had been worrying me for some time. In the actual operational system this phase was to be accomplished by four quick disconnect couplings, two each for the feed and return lines. When loading, this theoretically presented no problems; someone in the aircraft would grab the aircraft half by the outer sleeve and push it on to the missile half, whereupon the sleeve would snap forward and hold the two halves together. Then, someone on the ground would pull the outer sleeves of his connectors, which would snap back and release the two halves. EXCEPT that in normal practice, quick disconnects were used to facilitate changing components in a hurry, but not, thank you very much, while the system was running. In our case, the system was already operating with its designed condensing pressure of 200 psi, specified by Normalair because of the requirement for the final ten minutes to be supplied by a pressurized cylinder, so they obviously wanted to start with as high a pressure as possible. I thought to myself that it would take a fairly muscular gentleman to operate a quick disconnect with a pressure of 200 psi inside it. Also, constantly at the back of my mind, was the thought that Freon is in widespread use as a leak detection medium (or was, until the ozone layer nonsense started), because it will leak past anything that would comfortably hold hydraulic fluid, fuel, water or air. ―Look at it this way,‖ a scientist once said to me in exasperation. ―It has slippery molecules—right?‖ Therefore, any quick disconnect was going to have to be very well made, each one would have to be tested before installation, and so on. I had mentioned this a number of times, and had been told not to worry, it was in hand...nevertheless, I resolved to start my own line of investigation upon my return, so that I could come up with

103 NUTS AND BOLTS something when they finally admitted they were ―having problems‖. But there was worse to come. While all this was passing through my mind, the final phase was coming up. This was the release of the missile, when the aircraft-to-missile disconnects would snap open, allowing the missile halves to pull out, thus shutting off the system from the outside and allowing the pressurized Freon tank to take over. Snap open how? I wondered. You couldn‘t get into the Vulcan bomb bay from the flight deck, and in any case who would want to swan around in the bomb bay at 45,000 feet, with the aircraft probably jinking all over the place to avoid defensive missiles? Obviously there would have to be some hefty lanyards attached to the coupling sleeves, and I knew of no such couplings. And, they obviously had to work with 100 percent reliability EVERY TIME. A bomb hang-up was bad enough at any time, but imagine the hang-up of a 35-foot missile carrying a hydrogen bomb. And whoever heard of any piece of engineering working 100 percent of the time? Probably 99.9 percent—provided you weren‘t the one on board when the odd 0.1 percent turned up. I increased my resolve to do something about this urgently, and also to have some words with Geoff after the meeting. The aircraft unit was, on the rig, the same as the ground unit, because they were still waiting for me to clear the final design. In my turn, I was waiting for the electrical wizards to get their stuff working so that we could clear the I.N. crate for flight testing in the Valiant—another urgent job waiting for me. Oh well—back to the test. I was wondering how the missile system would kick in, and this was now explained to us. Upon release, two explosive valves would fire, one admitting high-pressure nitrogen to the Freon bottle, the other opening the Freon return line to the atmosphere. Explosive valves! Oh God! I wanted to crawl under the table and die. Why didn‘t someone tell me about this? I experienced the overwhelming sensation that this would be the Achilles heel of the whole project. Anyway, here we go. The aircraft pack was shut off, using more stop valves. There were two sharp cracks like a kid‘s cap pistol, the 2,000 psi nitrogen bottle delivered 200 psi to the Freon bottle via a pressure reducing valve, and...the temperature went haywire! The cooling had stopped. There was nothing coming

104 NORTH TO AVRO out of the overboard return line vent. Even though the explosive valve had fired, the vent had not opened. After I found out how the thing was supposed to work, it didn‘t take me five minutes to figure out what had happened, but I‘ll go into that later. For now, since the temperature was rising rapidly, the rig was hurriedly shut down, and Geoff started to earn his salary. ―Sorry chaps—rotten test, but let‘s face it, if we knew everything was going to work, there wouldn‘t be any point in having a test rig—don‘t you agree? Now we know exactly what we have to do to make it spot on next time, what?‖ He then treated us to a marvellous dinner at the Rum Hole. Jim obviously thought he‘d wandered into a lunatic asylum by mistake, but wisely kept his mouth shut, and enjoyed a first-class dinner as much as the next man. All the way back we discussed what could be done, and the next day, back at Digger‘s, we evolved a plan whereby he would carry out certain rig tests and make sure that the I.N. crate system was ready to fly, while I would find out about the explosive valves, and get a line on the quick-disconnect situation. Most of my modest accomplishments started with a brainstorming session with a fellow enthusiast in a pub, and this was no exception. While Jim got on with his testing downstairs, I contacted the Hymatic Engineering Company, makers of the explosive valve. Although I had not previously had any dealings with them, I knew their reputation—who didn‘t, in those days— makers of the Hymatic compressor, an accessory on the Spitfire‘s Merlin engine, therefore by definition a good lot. Their sales manager, Jim Hutchinson, came to see me, and that was the beginning of a very long association with the company. I asked Jim Hutch—another of nature‘s gentlemen—about the explosive valve. He explained that it was basically a bursting disc assembly, the disc being supported by a cylinder of cordite, in which was embedded a detonator. When the detonator ignited the cordite and the cylinder collapsed, the system pressure would burst the disc. My heart sank. A bursting disc was obviously all right for a 2,000 psi nitrogen bottle, but for a refrigeration system return line...quite often the pressure in these was sub-atmospheric. I mean, a refrigerator works because you reduce the pressure of the

105 NUTS AND BOLTS refrigerant until its boiling point is less than the temperature of its surroundings, whereupon it boils, sucking heat from the surroundings...sorry, didn‘t mean to embark on a lecture. The point is that, in the Blue Steel system, even if the outside pressure was zero (which it very nearly was), the inside pressure would not have been more than a few psi, not enough to burst a disc made of toilet paper. These things don‘t start working reliably until you get up to 100 or so psi (think barbecue propane tanks). In any case, whatever we thought about a particular item, the Ministry had to ―clear‖ it, and from past observations I was fairly certain that they would prove even more obstructive than usual in this case. They were already giving us a hard time regarding the use of 4,000 psi spherical nitrogen bottles which were being specified to pressurize the propellant tanks, to speed the jungle juice on its way to the voracious rocket. As usual, the intractable A.I.D. inspectors were insisting upon a one and a half times working pressure test, and since there was hardly any equipment in England capable of producing 6,000 psi it was proving a bit difficult. After hooking up two intensifiers in tandem, it still took them all day to get up to the required pressure. Near the top end, no matter how much it was intercooled, the air became red hot on every stroke. If you thought the pressure had increased by 20 psi, by the time it had cooled down, the actual rise was only two psi. Also, since there was nobody around who could weld up a spherical gas bottle to withstand such pressures, it was decided to make them from fibreglass. When they got the thing tested in a remote blockhouse, I heard that it had exploded at something over 5,000 psi, and they couldn‘t get into the blockhouse for a month, until the fibreglass dust had settled. What chance, then, would an explosive valve stand? How do you test ammunition? You fire it. If yours works and the other chap‘s doesn‘t, you‘re fine. If his works and yours doesn‘t, that‘s hard luck, pal. I managed to get our regular Ministry visitor alone one time, and asked him to give me an insight into the possibility of getting the Hymatic explosive valve cleared. ―Listen,‖ he said, ―I‘m retiring next year. All I really want to do is run a pub in the Elephant and Castle, and if you think I‘m going to risk my pension okaying a damn-fool thing like that, think again.‖

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So much for that. As someone said, information is 99 percent of the struggle. I had a friend in a local firm which specialized in aircraft-approved control cables, and had also a line of quick disconnects. I persuaded him to make me a valve consisting of a piston in a cylinder, the piston having a spike which, when pressure was admitted to one side, would pierce a diaphragm on the other. The pressure came from the 200 psi Freon tank via a solenoid valve. I also got him to make a set of Freon feed and return disconnects with lanyard attachment points and lever-operated outer sleeves, which made it easier to connect and disconnect under system pressure. They were well reimbursed for this—I saw to that, for by now I was beginning to find my way around the accounting system, and had managed to bury it so that I wouldn‘t have to argue with any chief draughtsmen. Meanwhile, Jim had obtained an important result from his test rig. I had asked him to find out how long the Freon tank in the missile would last if it were not pressurized from the nitrogen bottle, and he reported that, starting at 200 psi, cooling was continued until well after ten minutes. Bingo! No more nitrogen bottle, no more explosive valves. This was nearly to be my undoing, as will now be related. It was announced that the Handley Page Victor was also to be configured to carry Blue Steel, which to me was the daftest thing ever, even from the Ministry. Let me explain. If you will look at pictures of the Vulcan and Victor on the ground, it is apparent that the Vulcan sits on long legs, about ten feet above the ground, so all you have to do is wheel the missile under it, hook everything up, and off you go. This undercarriage arrangement is made necessary by the high angle of attack required for takeoff and landing a delta-wing. The Victor, on the other hand, sits about an inch above the ground. Its pilots praise it for its docile handling qualities; they said it would land itself when within its ground effect (that is, the interaction of the flow of air over the wing, and the ground, once you get low enough). It depends on what you want, but I wouldn‘t have thought that ―docile handling qualities‖ would have been high on the list of priorities for a nuclear deterrent strategic bomber. The point was that to load Blue Steel onto a Victor, you would have to a) jack the aircraft up ten feet, or b) dig a very deep hole. I put it down to a moment of

107 NUTS AND BOLTS mental aberration on the part of some Ministry birdbrain, and thought no more about it. (In fact, this finally turned out to be the case, but all the same, a few uncomfortable weeks lay ahead.) It was Christmas Eve, and I was feeling no pain following a modest office party; I surmised that the whole of the aircraft industry was in the same state. I had called John G at Teddingtons with some minor query and, against a background of merrymaking, he had responded, ―Come on, Tysoe, don‘t you know it‘s Christmas Eve?‖ Geoff Armstrong had phoned to wish me a Merry Christmas. I was clearing my desk prior to going home, when the phone rang. It was—wait for it—Old Skinflint—who was, apparently, responsible for the aircraft cooling system on the Victor/Blue Steel project. This was news to me; I thought that Avro was responsible for everything to do with Blue Steel, but it was Christmas Eve, my mind was somewhere else, and he said he‘d called to check that there was no actual specified value for the Freon condenser pressure, provided that the cooling was maintained within the specified limits. I didn‘t really know what he was talking about; I was looking forward to Christmas with Inge and the kids, and I muttered something about not being aware of any specific value, whereupon he rang off. No ―Merry Christmas‖ from him! Alert and knowledgeable readers will no doubt realize that I had just dug myself a hole deeper than the Victor would require to load Blue Steel. Here was I, having just eliminated the need for explosive valves on the basis that the Freon tank pressure would be 200 psi at the start of missile separation, and now, I had just given my old pal carte blanche for any condenser pressure he liked. Not that I‘m any more paranoid than the next man (I just KNOW they‘re out to get me) but sometimes I can‘t help thinking that he did this deliberately, to get back at me for walking out on him. Not until I had been back at work for a couple of days did the full enormity of the situation hit me. Another word of explanation is required here. The Vulcan condensing unit had been evolved by collaboration between myself, Normalair and Marston Excelsior, whose chief designer, Miss Shilling, had designed both the miniaturized evaporator in the inertia navigator, and the condenser for the aircraft unit. This redoubtable lady formerly had a distinguished career as a senior scientific officer at the R.A.E.

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(Royal Aircraft Establishment), Farnborough, where she was best known for having designed a restrictor for the carburettor of the Spitfire‘s Merlin engine. At the time, a 109 in trouble could put its nose down and dive away, its Daimler-Benz direct-injection engine giving it full power all the way. When our chaps tried to follow, their engines would cut out, due to the reverse flow of fuel from the carburettor caused by inertia forces. The restrictor was designed to prevent this from happening, and it gave us quite an edge. There was, I remember, considerable respect accorded the lady in question, together with not a little ribaldry, particularly among the pilots and ground crews, who would crack jokes about ―Miss Shilling‘s Orifice‖. The condenser was cooled by a cold-air unit supplied by Normalair. If this is an unfamiliar concept, think of it as a turbocharger in reverse. A turbine is supplied with high pressure air to drive a compressor, the work done in compression appearing as a temperature drop in the turbine exhaust. The compressor was the good old reliable cast-iron Hallmark unit specified by me, because I know there was nothing available from the aircraft industry in Europe. Oh yes—I had been informed that de Havilland Propellers, a secretive entity which seemed to cover everything from the licensed production of Hamilton Standard propellers to various top-secret missiles, was developing a refrigeration compressor, but I was darned if I was going to do their development work for them! A wave of anger swept over me. Why had those stupid Ministry jerks allowed this to happen? Why didn‘t they insist on Handley Page using the same aircraft pack as the Vulcan? A lot of this kind of nonsense went on in those days. Handley Page ―traditionally‖ worked with Normalair‘s rival, Sir George Godfrey and Partners Ltd (hereinafter referred to as Godfrey, to save a few trees). So, they had gone ahead without consulting anyone, least of all Avro, and obviously Old Skinflint was ―covering his ass‖, so to speak. It was my own fault, of course. I had violated one of my cardinal principles, not to discuss design details over the phone, and now I was going to pay for it. Sooner or later the eggs were going to hit the fan, when it was found out that the Victor pack would not work with the Blue Steel system, because I had

109 NUTS AND BOLTS deliberately misled their engineer by not informing him of my changes to the system, and that would most definitely be the end of me. It would do me no good to plead that he had violated the correct procedure, which would have been to write to my department head requesting clarification of the design specification, particularly regarding the condenser pressure. This would then have been passed to me, during a regular working day, not five minutes before going-home time on Christmas Eve, whereupon I would have responded in writing, pointing out the situation. Not being high enough up on the totem pole, I knew nobody would take any notice. It was an impossible situation. I knew that the explosive valves would never be cleared by the Ministry. I had taken reasonable steps to do without them, without informing the other major aircraft firm in the project when given the opportunity. Sooner or later, it would become apparent that half the projected Blue Steel force wouldn‘t work until the Victors were taken out of service for unexpected modifications. I had violated my own ethical code by not telling Pat immediately, and by this time it was too late. I hung around in a limbo for a few days, not wishing to be Mine Own Executioner, fatalistically hoping for a miracle to turn up. Along came a miracle. In an uncharacteristic surge of common sense, the Ministry got off its collective butt and, realizing the futility of the whole business, did what should have been done a year ago. The Vulcan was to equip the strategic deterrent bombing force, while the Victor would be modified for flight refuelling. This was an honourable role, as anyone who remembers the Falklands War will agree. In the only operation against an enemy ever undertaken by the British V-Bomber force, a Vulcan was fuelled right across the South Atlantic and back by a squadron of Victor tankers. When it got to the Falklands, it deposited a stick of cluster bombs on the Port Stanley airfield runway, denying its use to the Argies, while we got after them with Harrier jump-jets operating from aircraft carriers. And so, it all came right in the end. As I mentioned at the start, it was an anxious few weeks for me. I don‘t want you to think that I derived any satisfaction from the episode; looking back, I‘m ashamed of myself, but there‘s an old Indian saying, something like

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―before you condemn a man, you should walk a mile in his moccasins‖. So let‘s just call it one of the hiccups I mentioned early on in this book, and get on with the tale. The time of the I.N. flight trials was approaching. Jim had made sure that our system was ready, and the boffins had nearly got their act together. Finally the great day arrived. The crate was loaded on to the Valiant, the ground unit indicated that everything was working, and off they went. I couldn‘t do a thing that morning. I just mooched around, trying to imagine what could possibly go wrong. Finally they landed, and I watched them go off to the top honcho‘s office block. This was flight test stuff—no way could I crash THAT one. Fortunately the chief flight test observer was aboard. He also happened to be the CFI of the Avro gliding club, of which I was a member, and we had a fairly amiable relationship. I buttonholed him coming out of the meeting, and asked him how it went. ―No problems,‖ he said. ―Why? Were you expecting some?‖ I hastened to assure him that I was naturally interested to know whether the cooling system had behaved itself. ―Well,‖ he said, ―the tin can worked all right, so it must have been reasonably happy.‖ I thanked him profusely, booked a flight for the following Saturday morning, and went with Jim to Digger‘s for a celebratory pint. We had just flown the first military vapour-cycle cooling unit in Europe! I daresay de Havilland Propellers, if they still exist, would dispute this claim, citing their air-ventilated suit system, flown in, I think, a DH 110 around that time, but I‘m sure we pipped them by at least a few weeks. Not that anyone gives the toss of a button now, but at that time the thought did a lot to restore my somewhat battered self-esteem. The crate was unloaded, and for a few days everything in it was scrutinized carefully. I was particularly concerned to check the oil state in the Hallmark compressor, which turned out to be no different from what it would have been if cooling a grocer‘s frozen food cabinet. During the stand-down period, the weather changed from late summer to early autumn. The crate was reloaded, ready for a flight next day. The following morning, there was an irate phone call from Jim Phillips the electrical engineer, for ―Jack Frost‖ as he had dubbed me, saying that the cooling system wouldn‘t come on.

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―Oh my goodness gracious me, whatever next?‖ I said (not in so many words, of course). I dug out Jim, and we went out to the airfield. It was a chilly day—definitely an autumnal nip in the air— and they were all standing around the Valiant in their overcoats, hands in pockets, looking miserable and bloody-minded. On the way out we had a quick chat as to what could be wrong, and I think we both hit it at the same time, Jim beating me by a second or so. Of course! It‘s a cooling system! If it‘s got nothing to cool, naturally it won‘t start. The thing had been standing out on the airfield all night, and was obviously cold- soaked to well below the specified I.N. temperature. This is why ―selling refrigerators to Eskimos‖ is touted as the world‘s most difficult sales job. By the time we got there, I had recovered my composure, had a full head of steam, and was ready for them. They all lit into me at once, so I adopted Plan ‗A‘, which works most of the time. I stood there chatting quietly with Jim (I think I was telling him my latest about the Englishman, the Irishman and the Scotsman in a pub) until they realized that I was paying no attention to them, and quietened down. I then gave them the facts, as mentioned in the previous paragraph. ―And what do you propose to do?‖ sneered the Elliotts rep. ―Me, nothing,‖ I replied. ―Our system was designed to remove two kilowatts of heat. Since your equipment seems to be generating very little heat, I suggest you find room in there for a two-kilowatt heater with a thermostat, so that it will shut down as the heat builds up.‖ This really set the cat among the pigeons. Cries of ―Impossible!‖, ―Nonsense!‖, ―Your system‘s no good!‖ etcetera. ―In that case,‖ I said, ―we will have to start again from scratch, this time hopefully with the correct design information.‖ With that I left them and went back to the warmth of the office. I would not have won a prize for the Year‘s Most Popular Project Engineer just then. For the next few days I was expecting the big chopper to come down on me at any time, but nothing happened, so presumably they did something about it. However, there was not much time left for worrying about these various problems; more serious issues were afoot. From office scuttlebutt I heard that, due to increases in

112 NORTH TO AVRO missile weight and propellant consumption, the range had gone down a significant amount. I‘m not sure of the actual numbers after all this time, but it was something like, if the missile was released at the specified point, it would land some 30 miles short of Moscow, and the Ministry was starting to make obscene phone calls. When I heard that the performance department was rehashing its calculations in an attempt to prove that the range was still satisfactory, to the extent of ―adjusting‖ the value of the specific gravity of water, I knew we were on the slippery slope. Accordingly, during my next trip to Normalair, I arranged to visit de Havilland Propellers, who were advertising for engineers to work on their Blue Streak ICBM (Intercontinental Ballistic Missile). I was interviewed by their chief engineer, a very pleasant chap, who gave me an excellent lunch at a local pub, during which we chatted about rockets the whole time. Afterwards, he offered me the position of project engineer on the ninth test round, to be launched at their test range at Woomera, in the Australian outback. He said it would involve going out there sometime next year, for about six months, after which I might have the option of staying, as they were hoping to establish a permanent engineering office. I told Inge all this, and she was very keen. We were both avid readers of Nevil Shute books (Nevil Shute Norway, founder of the Airspeed company), and he was a great fan of Australia, finally going to live there. As mentioned previously, I like all the Aussies I ever met, so it seemed highly probable that we could make a good life out there, particularly since I had heard that housing was a lot easier to arrange. Well, that was one line of retreat being prepared. To make sure, I thought I would have a word with Vickers-Armstrongs in Weybridge, Surrey, who were advertising for engineers to work on their TSR-2 project. And so I found myself being interviewed by ―Curly‖ Allwright, the chief engineer of both civil and military divisions. The head honcho indeed! The interview was somewhat different from previous ones. His main question was whether I had any moral scruples about working on a nuclear deterrent project. I hastened to assure him that, on the contrary, I would be glad to have the opportunity to play a significant part in the defence of the free world, or some such hypocritical claptrap. I may not be a very good theoretician, but I

113 NUTS AND BOLTS was sure getting good at passing interviews. He seemed entirely satisfied with my resume, particularly the bits about heating and cooling, and system airflow (my brief stint at Handley Page unexpectedly coming in useful). He asked me when I would be able to start. Bingo! I decided to push my luck, and asked whether up to two months would be acceptable, as I had some work to complete, and wanted to allow adequate time for alternative arrangements to be made. He agreed, and told me to give him a call when everything was in order. I asked him about security clearance. He was quite satisfied to know that I had top secret clearance from Avro, and would arrange to obtain confirmation immediately. So, that eliminated the possibility of those jackasses screwing things up. By this time, I was beginning to feel ―fireproof‖, as we used to say. Back at WRD another comedy was being played out. The chap in charge of the ground trolley was having problems. Sadly, I had already got off on the wrong foot with him. One day when I was in the workshop he had crooked his finger at me from the other end, a gesture which has never elicited a civilized response from me, so I just stood there (walking away would have been a bit over the top, first time around). One of his minions happened to be passing, and he nudged me, pointing. ―Alan wants to see you,‖ he said. ―Well,‖ I said, ―here I am,‖ and gave him a friendly wave. The minion looked frightened, and left. Up came the big cheese. ―I wanted to see you about the cooling connections,‖ he said. By this time I was getting my lines off pat. ―Well, here I am.‖ ―In my office,‖ he said. With a superhuman effort I refrained from saying, ―Your wish is my command, O Lord and Master,‖ told him I would check my schedule, turned on my heel and walked away. In due course I found myself in his office. On his desk was a model of the Vulcan, about 1/32 scale I should think, together with a model of the ground trolley, on which reposed a model of the missile, supported by four hydraulic jacks, two under the rear delta wing, and two under a crossbar in the foreplane area. The Vulcan sat on three half-inch square wooden blocks. He said, ―Do you think you can indicate roughly where the cooling connections are, with this pen? The daft buggers left them off.‖

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―I can do better than that,‖ I told him. ―I can show you EXACTLY where they are, and I have my own pen, thank you.‖ I did this, and got up to go. On the way out, I mentioned that the undercarriage didn‘t look very realistic. He looked at me pityingly and said it wasn‘t a kid‘s toy, and who gave a monkey‘s **** what shape the wheels were. I shrugged and left. Next day was the first trial loading using the actual ground trolley, which had just arrived from the makers. I made a point of being there, unobtrusively of course, since I hadn‘t been invited. I must say it made a brave sight—menacingly impressive, getting loaded to clobber the blighters if they want to start something— photographers all over the place. The man operating the trolley got started; he couldn‘t go in from the back because the top fin would not clear the Vulcan‘s fuselage, at its lowest point. So he went in to the left of the nosewheel, aiming for the space between the main undercarriage legs. He very nearly made it, but the trolley got jammed between the rear of the starboard bogie, the front of the port bogie, and the port nosewheel. They tried for half the morning to get the thing under, but finished by taking all sorts of measurements, presumably so they could saw bits off the corners of the trolley. At least, I hoped they weren‘t planning to saw bits off the Vulcan undercarriage. What a difference a kid‘s toy would have made to the outcome of this stupid farce. But the entertainment was not yet over. It was decided to give the jacking system a trial run. The lift system was started, and the missile commenced to rise. But—the jacks were all moving at different speeds! The missile tipped dangerously, and the system was hurriedly shut down. In introspective mood, I slipped quietly away.

But leave the wise to wrangle, and with me The quarrel of the universe let be. And in some corner of the hubbub couch‘d Make game of that which makes as much with thee.

I phoned the man who ran the hydraulics department, with whom I had a nodding acquaintance, both being Manchester United fans, and invited him for a pint and a sandwich at Digger‘s. Once there, having analyzed the team‘s last game, shredded this

115 NUTS AND BOLTS year‘s coach, and decided who should be replaced, I managed to bend the conversation around to hydraulic jacks. I knew he had worked for Dowty, the undercarriage people, and there wasn‘t a thing he didn‘t know about them. I postulated a system to raise a platform by means of a jack at each corner, all being supplied from the same pressure tank. ―Oh no, you wouldn‘t do that,‖ he said. ―Why not?‖ I pressed him. ―Well, you will agree that no two mechanisms made by man can be exactly identical, and this applies to hydraulic jacks. A difference of half a thou on the clearance between a piston and a cylinder, or the compression of an O-ring in its groove, or a few light bands in the surface finish will affect the movement. They will all get to the top, but not at the same time.‖ I saw straight away what he was getting at, so I asked him how he would do it. ―Haven‘t a clue,‖ he responded, ―and I don‘t know anyone who has.‖ He went on to say that there were two approaches. One was to have a single central cylinder (which, of course, is found in every garage), the other being to have four separate jacks with their own controls, and a man on each, trained as a team to keep the platform level. I should probably leave it there, hydraulics not being my strong suit, but if I may be allowed one last observation, it seems to me that the system designed by our ground equipment specialist could have been made to work only by means of a computerized control system, which was still light years in the future. Returning to my own affairs, I got to know Mackintosh quite well and, to digress a little, he gave me some interesting insights regarding the British in India. He had obtained a well-paid job with the Scottish Assam Tea Company. Being the methodical chap that he was, he had figured that, if he saved his money carefully, he could return in about five years with enough for the down payment on a house. The first snag cropped up on the day of his arrival. They showed him the villa which had been reserved for him, and introduced him to his staff, a maid and a gardener. They told him how much he was expected to pay them, but the whole idea of having servants revolted him, so he thanked them for their consideration, but he was quite capable of looking after himself. Their response was immediate: ―Look, old chap, if you don‘t hire

116 NORTH TO AVRO them they will be out of work, and they‘ll starve, and we wouldn‘t want that, now would we?‖ Then one day a neighbour called on him, and asked him how he was looking forward to the party. He explained that he was not by nature a partygoer, and regretted that he would not be there. His visitor was taken aback. ―But old man, it‘s your turn. You‘re the host!‖ Mac told him it was out of the question, whereupon he became shirty. ―You have to! Show the flag. All stick together. British Raj and all that. Why do you think they pay us such large salaries out here?‖ And so on. Mac still refused, and found himself on the next boat back to England. I thought about all this. No wonder there was dancing in the streets when India got its independence. How happy they must have been to see us go. What a shower! I thought back to the time Gandhi was in England, being interviewed by a journalist. The guy asked him what he thought about western civilization, to which he famously replied that he thought it would be a good idea. And now, back to work. The outlook seemed to be getting grimmer day by day. The Ministry was obviously contemplating termination of the programme, and in desperation the project office had come up with Blue Steel Mark 2. This would be powered by four Bristol Thor ramjets, two at each wingtip in the over-and- under configuration (as the shotgun people say), a location made possible by their small size and light weight. I suppose most people know about ramjets these days, but for the sake of completeness, perhaps a few words. Think of a jet engine moving at 400 mph. At that speed, there is no real need for a compressor, since a properly designed air intake would be perfectly capable of producing a pressure rise capable of supporting combustion of the fuel. This being the case, there is no need for the turbine either, since the sole function of the turbine is to drive the compressor. Thus the heated high-pressure gas can be passed directly to the propulsion nozzle. Look—no moving parts! In the early days the Brits referred to it as an aerothermodynamic duct, or athodyd, and then came the Americans, with their distrust of words with more than two syllables, so ramjet it is. Agreed, it will never be a popular power unit for a Saturday afternoon private flying club, since it has to be accelerated to 400 mph before it will work, but it struck me as the ideal power unit for

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Blue Steel, which is already travelling at that speed under a Vulcan, and I don‘t know why they did not go this route from the start. Hindsight is a wonderful thing, but foresight is cheaper. Too late now. Time to move on. I told Inge, and she started to make her preparations. I told Jim, explaining the situation to give him the maximum time to make alternative arrangements. I said I was sorry to have got him into this, but he didn‘t seem to be worried. After all, with his background he could walk into any refrigeration firm next day. I asked him to keep in touch, and if he ever needed a reference, I would be happy to oblige. Ha! I got that one totally back to front, but we‘ll get to that. Towards the end of my time at WRD, an event occurred which sent a shock wave through the whole Avro organization. On February 20, 1959, the Canadian government cancelled the Avro Canada CF-105 Arrow. We were all stunned. Whatever we might be thinking of our own situation at the time, we were extremely proud of our Canadian cousins who had produced this magnificent aircraft. It was far ahead of its time, and I‘m telling you right now it would still be superior to a lot of the overpriced junk which is presently bankrupting nations. The Iroquois engine had the highest thrust/weight ratio of its time, and still has, as far as I have been able to determine. You had better not argue with me about this, because I have the inside track on the whole stinking affair. Now a flashback to the early days of my time at WRD. On October 4, 1957, the phone rang for me, and a voice at the other end said, ―Beep—beep—beep.‖ It was my old friend Red, working on a project nearby, calling to ask what I thought about the Russians launching their Sputnik, the first artificial satellite, which at that very moment was circling the earth making beeping noises and getting right up the Americans‘ noses. We chatted about it for a few minutes, arranged to meet, and took up out friendship where it left off several years ago. Shortly after this, Pat asked me if I would like to go on TV. Apparently Granada TV was organizing a panel of experts to discuss the implications of Sputnik, and they had approached him to ask if he would send someone. Since I was the only one around who knew anything about rockets, he immediately thought of me. So, a few nights later, I found myself in a TV studio for the first (and, I might add, the last) time in my life. It was a totally

118 NORTH TO AVRO depressing experience. I had gone in there full of beans, ready to give the audience their money‘s worth with a few words about the problems of getting stuff into orbit, followed by some populist observations: ―Obviously the Russians‘ Germans are better than the Americans‘ Germans.‖ Or: ―For every engineer the Russians graduate, the Americans graduate seven MBAs and fifteen lawyers.‖ and so on. What actually happened was that the makeup specialists took us in hand. Makeup! I very nearly got up and walked out there and then, but Pat wouldn‘t have liked that so, gritting my teeth and making a vow never to go near one of these places ever again, I put up with it. Then an undersized rat-faced individual got us all nicely seated in a kind of small amphitheatre and told us what was going to happen. He indicated various people in the group—what‘s the word?—shills I suppose, who would be commenting on the points he raised. This was getting more surrealistic by the minute. What were the rest of us doing here, then? I determined to do something to foul it up, if I got half the chance. After the MC had got his shills word perfect, up went the lights, round swung the camera, and we were on! On and on it went. Not a thing about the technology of orbital flight, or anything relevant. Just a rehash of gutter-press drivel about how the money would be better spent feeding the starving poor in Africa, about what use is it, we‘re confident the Americans will catch up soon... Twice I put my hand up, and twice the camera immediately swung away. Oh yes, they had definitely done this stuff a couple of times before. Finally it was over, and I left, sadder and wiser. To this day my TV is used mainly to watch reruns of Rumpole at the Old Bailey and such. At least I can believe in him. And now, a few reminiscences before we head back to the sunny south. One of the great perks of my job was that my office overlooked the runway, so I saw plenty of action. I vividly remember watching Jimmy Harrison, one of the test pilots, practising in a Vulcan for the forthcoming Farnborough show. I knew he was up to something when he revved up all four engines against the brakes, black smoke pouring out into the next county, the aircraft straining and quivering on its spindly legs, then it shot

119 NUTS AND BOLTS forward as if from a catapult, up came the nose, and he did a roll- off-the-top! Never seen anything like it. And what, I wondered, was THAT all about? By judicious snooping, I pieced it all together. This was the time of a fierce struggle between Avro and Handley Page to snaffle the production order for the strategic nuclear deterrent, and it was being played out as a kind of gladiatorial combat between Vulcan and Victor. Both firms had already been spreading ridiculous rumours about their aircraft having gone supersonic (in any case, they were not supposed to have that capability). I mean, a sonic bang from a Vulcan would knock Salisbury cathedral down, and can you imagine a Victor going supersonic? Its tail would come off! No, that was a rotten thing to say, since this awful thing had happened to them twice already—once on the HP 88 research aircraft, and once on an actual Victor, doing a beat-up of Cranfield for some publicity photos. Sorry H-P, but there has to come a time when one gets serious about decisions like this, and we were by no means there just yet. This latest madness was an escalation of the struggle. Both were trying to convince the Ministry that they could handle the ―toss-bombing‖ technique. This is where you get close to the target, do a roll-off-the-top, and just before you get to the halfway point you release the ―store‖, which then describes a graceful arc away from you towards the target. Meanwhile you complete the manoeuvre and, going in the opposite direction, already at full throttle, are well out of the way before it goes off and takes you with it. A friend living in the South told me he had seen the Victor doing a similar stunt at Radlett, so this year‘s Farnborough was sure to be a crowd pleaser. But what did it prove? Well, it demonstrated that both aircraft were capable of doing an Immelmann turn, which I‘m sure was not written into their design specification, and of course it showed the awesome power of the engines, and the consummate skill of the pilots. Other than that, it was pure barnstorming. Looking back, I wouldn‘t be at all surprised to find that the ridiculous notion of modifying the Victor to carry Blue Steel came from H-P in the first place, just to keep up. If nothing

120 NORTH TO AVRO else, it caused someone at the Ministry to blow a fuse, and make the decision that should have been made a long time ago. To round off this vignette, let‘s fast-forward to that year‘s Farnborough show. By this time, I had become accustomed to receiving a Technician‘s Day ticket from some company with which I was doing business. Let me explain the significance of this. The show lasted all week. The public were admitted on the Saturday and Sunday, but during the week the only people who could get in were those holding Technician‘s Day tickets. You could wander around, unhindered by crowd barriers or anything else, you could get close to the aircraft, chat with the pilots...think, if you will, of a ticket for the Superbowl, or the NHL Stanley Cup final, or the F.A. Cup final—that‘s what it meant to me. This year‘s came from John G, and when I met him there he escorted me to my lunch table. He had also invited Mac, the chief draughtsman, and my old finger-wiggling pal the ground equipment specialist, and was pleased to be able to seat us at the same table. My whole world collapsed. The day to which I had been looking forward all year was ruined. The other two didn‘t seem to think much of the arrangement either (I don‘t think they liked one another). I got up, mumbling about having too much beer and must find the gents, and left. I bumped into John G, tried to explain the situation to him briefly, thanked him for his hospitality, asked him if he would cover for me—tell them I‘d been taken ill or something—and turned to go and get lost in the crowd. He, realizing he had just dropped the biggest clanger of his life, would have nothing of it. He escorted me to the director‘s tent, instructed the waiter to let me have anything I required, apologized profusely, and left me in the best seat in the house. As someone once said about the bassoon, ―It‘s an ill wind that no-one blows good.‖ One time I was sent to Gloster Technical Developments (GTD), who had asked to put in a proposal for controlling the flow of nitrogen from those 4,000 psi bottles I mentioned earlier, to the missile propellant tanks. I was to have a look at it, and give my opinion as to whether it was worth following up. GTD was an offshoot of the Gloster Aircraft Company, whose main effort at that time was production of the Javelin all-weather and night fighter. Their offices were located at the company‘s airfield at

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Moreton Valence, in the county of Gloucestershire, which I had last visited during my brief and unproductive eighteen months in the full-time RAF. While doing my boot camp square-bashing at RAF Innsworth, I had been confirmed in Gloucester Cathedral. All right—I can hear your incredulous snorts of derision, but why should I lie at this late stage? This is why I enjoyed the first Harry Potter movie so much—a lot of it, including the basic instruction for the game of quiddich, was shot in the grounds of this lovely place, because that po-faced twit the Archbishop of Canterbury had refused them permission for their first choice (probably Salisbury Cathedral, but I can‘t be sure). I was down there for the best part of a week, during which I was given a tour of all the facilities. On the second day I was in the flight hangar having a look at the Javelins, when who should I bump into but John Towle, whom I had first met at Nottingham University, when I had recruited him into the University Air Squadron rifle team. He insisted upon taking charge of me, and explained that, when he graduated, he obtained his present job as a production test pilot for Gloster Aircraft. This involved taking a production Javelin for a test flight to make sure everything worked, before handing it over to the RAF. He sat me in the cockpit of the nearest Javelin and explained all the stuff. I remember thinking it was rather like sitting in the middle of a field, with vast areas of wing stretching out all around. He was as pleased as Punch to see me, and drove me up to his house, a lovely cottage in the charming village of Minchinhampton. I spent the night there, and we drank beer and reminisced until the small hours. He told me he had really got his feet under the table at Gloster after successfully carrying out flight trials of the Javelin Sperry autopilot installation in the States. It was an evening I still remember with great pleasure. I thought how nice it would be to work in this part of the world, especially if it could be in sales. By this time I was getting a bit fed up with the constant hassles of the engineering design office, and thought it would be great to swan around the countryside taking people to lunch, helping them with their projects and so forth. Towards the end of my stay I had been to several meetings, developed a positive outlook on their abilities and resources, and become well acquainted with the sales manager.

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Never having been one to hesitate much once an idea took hold, I asked him what were the prospects. He positively beamed. ―We would be more than delighted,‖ he said. ―I‘ll speak to the chief engineer tomorrow, and I‘m sure...‖ ―No no no ― I said, ―I meant a job in sales.‖ And then a silence fell. ―John,‖ he said finally. ―We‘d love to have you here as an engineer—you could start tomorrow. But sales? Not in ten thousand years, old chap.‖ ―Why is that?‖ I asked, a bit miffed. ―Because,‖ he said, ―in sales you have to use finesse, suggestion, toujours la politesse and so forth. I have watched you in meetings. You are very good at your job, and you don‘t suffer fools gladly. A sales meeting would be just another design office brawl to you. You would be in a constant state of confrontation. That‘s not the way it‘s done, you know.‖ Oh well—scratch one idea. I remained on good terms with them for the remainder of my time on the project, and was better off for having had yet another lesson. Around this time came the tragic news of the death of Doug Tanner who, it seems, perished in a hotel fire in Belfast, while visiting Short Bros, no doubt in connection with the gargantuan ―Belfast‖ freighter they were building for RAF Transport Command. I had an idea what might have happened there—Doug smoked like a chimney, and I wouldn‘t be surprised if he‘d gone to sleep with one on, and set fire to his room. The only time I had any influence on this unfortunate habit was when I managed to persuade him not to light up inside the Vulcan bomb bay. R.I.P. Doug—you were the greatest. The whole industry mourned his passing. Now a couple of interesting insights, then I must move on. One evening when the beer was flowing freely and I was alone with Geoff Armstrong, he said, ―D‘you know what, John? They could do this inertial navigation thing much more easily and reliably using trained monkeys.‖ I couldn‘t help encouraging this train of thought, because it was one of the few times I had heard someone in the aircraft business from another firm address me in anything but stilted platitudes, designed to advance his firm‘s chances while covering his own ass.

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Geoff‘s theory was that you sat the monkey in a simulator and fed it views of the approach to Moscow until it did just what you wanted it to, and then let it drive the missile to its destination. ―Much more dependable than the Elliotts Rube Goldberg device,‖ he said. ―Of course the animal rights activists would have something to say, but this would be one of the charms of the system, to my way of thinking. Stir those clowns up a bit.‖ Another man who offered a rather sacrilegious point of view was a salesman for a firm making pressure control valves. I had decided to try out one of his valves on my test rig, and it had seized up, generating a fairly large bang. I had him in and did a number on him; asked him whose side he was on, and so forth. He waited until I had run down, then had his say. He had, incidentally, been a wing commander in the RAF, and it must have stuck in his craw a bit, having to take a dressing-down from some unknown entity, who may have been anything from an AC 2 to a group captain, and I wasn‘t going to enlighten him. ―Well, John,‖ he said, ―these things happen; sorry you were inconvenienced—bad show. But look at the overall picture; does it matter a damn?‖ I was fascinated by this point of view, because to me it mattered a whole lot, but I wanted to hear what he had to say. ―What are we doing?‖ he asked. ―We are building a deterrent. We are making all these missiles and saying to the Russians, ‗Look what we‘ve got. If you even look as if you‘re going to spit in our direction we will fire this lot at you and blow you all up.‘ Now, if we ever DO have to fire them, the game‘s lost anyway, so what does it matter whether they work or not?‖ Obviously there‘s no point in my getting all outraged about this, having expressed similar sentiments earlier, so let‘s put it down to the distemper of our times (to borrow the title of a book by popular Canadian political writer Peter C. Newman), and get on with the story. While all this was going on, the Ministry had ordered all our work to be concentrated on Blue Steel Mk 2. My sixth sense kicked into overdrive when I read in Aviation Week that rumours were circulating about the Ministry considering replacing our stuff with the Douglas Skybolt, which was being offered at a discount rate (typical American technique for grabbing a market share: five dollars down, and 20 million a week for the next ten years). These

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Aviation „Leak‟ people must have a first-class espionage network, and I‘ve never known them to be wrong. Time and again they have saved me from being caught avec les pantalons en bas by some cancellation. It was definitely time to move on, and I was preparing to start pressing D.H. Propellers about the Australia thing when I woke up one day to see the Daily Express headlines screaming ―Blue Streak is a Damp Squib‖. Her Majesty‘s Government had, in their infinite wisdom, decided to cancel the Blue Streak project in favour of the Douglas Skybolt, which was an already available weapon (ha!), and was being offered on favourable terms (ha ha!).

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CHAPTER 8: TSR-2

ell, there goes Australia. I was depressed. How, I wondered, could my country hope to be taken seriously W on the international stage, with imbeciles like this in charge? Nothing I could do about it; the die was cast. Down we went to Weybridge, Surrey, and I commenced work at Vickers- Armstrongs on the TSR-2. This was a time when my life reached a turning point. Inge had started to exert an influence on the direction in which we were going, and I‘m so glad that she did. Discerning readers would no doubt agree that, left to my own devices, I would have gone on, floundering from one cancelled project to the next, until retirement. A lot of what follows would probably never have happened, and I‘m glad it did. The first thing she did when we got down there was to find a speculative builder who had just bought a charming old Victorian 3-story house on three acres near Woking, with the intention of knocking it down and building a bunch of suburban semis. It would take him three months to arrange the financing, and he wanted someone to live in it meanwhile so that vandals wouldn‘t get at it. There was no question of rent; it was a quid pro quo. If he was satisfied that we would look after it, we could have it until he was ready, or at least three months. He could hardly turn down an engineer and a state registered nurse, although he must have been a bit surprised that such people would have responded to his little notice in the local grocery store. That was one of the happiest times we had spent together. The kids loved the place, which was called Oak Lawn. Our friends came to visit, and we had endless picnics on the lawn. Suddenly a whole orchard of quince trees burst into bloom. Inge recognized them immediately and she enjoyed making quince jam, quince jelly, quince liqueur...have you ever tried it? It‘s wonderful stuff. Sorry, this is supposed to be about engineering, so I had better get to work. Upon arrival, I reported to Curly Allwright as

126 TSR-2 instructed, and he escorted me to the chap I would be working for. This in itself caused quite a stir. I could sense a lot of eyes following us as we walked through the large military design office. And so I met John Campbell, the memory of whose friendship and good nature I still cherish to this day. He was in exactly the position I had been in at WRD, forming a group to specialize in mechanical systems for this thing we were working on, whatever it was, and I was the first to arrive. Since nothing seemed to be happening at the moment, and I wanted him to put me in the picture as much as possible before phones started to ring and so on, he obliged, with a nice dry sense of humour which told me we were going to get on well together. ―Most important stuff first, then,‖ he said. He told me that twelve thousand people worked there, which was about the same as the population of Weybridge, so, to avoid paralyzing the town every lunch hour, the management provided a first-rate lunch together with a free bottle of beer. It would be his pleasure to escort me to the dining hall, and then later he would show me the hangar where the first prototype of the TSR-2 was taking shape. This sounded like a good beginning, which was somewhat dampened by his next item. It seemed that there was a kind of unwritten understanding that everyone was expected to do an hour of overtime every day, which was supposed to demonstrate that one was a ‗sound type‘, loyal to the firm, devoted to the project, and all the rest of the childish nonsense dreamed up by administrators having nothing better to do. I could just imagine the blighters sitting in solemn conclave, discussing the workers. ―Now, take this Tysoe fellow. He may be good at his job, but is he SOUND???‖ Well, can‘t rock the boat on the first day, so I resolved to stick it out as long as possible, and see how things went. Readers who have got this far will realize that the whole concept went against one of my most deeply held convictions. I found out soon enough that it was referred to by the more cynical as the ―compulsory- voluntary overtime syndrome‖. At this point we adjourned for lunch, which was a very pleasant occasion. The food was excellent—the best example of mass catering I have experienced, before or since—and the bottle of beer (or two—nobody seemed to be keeping score) certainly

127 NUTS AND BOLTS helped to jolly things along. Altogether this struck me as one of the brighter ideas to emanate from aircraft industry administrators. To digress for a moment, I find it rather disappointing that, fifty years later, such a simple, straightforward social concept has still not been grasped by many administrators. The town near where I live in Canada is paralyzed between eleven and two, when all the school kids turn out in gangs of ten or twenty to seek the fast food outlets so that they can stuff themselves with junk food, thus doing their bit to maintain North America‘s claim to have the highest percentage of clinically obese children. They swamp all the shops and create traffic gridlock, taking ages to stroll across the pedestrian crossings. But—mustn‘t infringe on their Human Rights, must we? Back to work. John took me to the hangar where the first prototype of the TSR-2 was taking shape. I had not known what to expect, but what I saw was totally different from anything I had imagined. There was a great long square-section forward fuselage terminating in a stubby delta-wing not much bigger than Blue Steel‘s, standing on a pair of what seemed to me grossly oversized bogies, with a complicated-looking nosewheel. Just forward of the wing were huge air intakes, then a blank section with access panels secured by many quick-action fasteners, and finally the cockpits, the huge windshield (which I was to get to know quite well), and the needle nose. John explained that the rear fuselage and tail surfaces would come from English Electric, at Warton, in Lancashire, this being a condition laid down by the Ministry, for us to be able to take part in the project. Upon hearing this, very faint misgivings started to stir at the back of my mind. I wonder if you can guess why? We‘ll find out soon enough. Another thing he told me was that Olympus engines were forced on us, these being the same engines as were being used in the Concorde, and they wanted to get a free ride for some of the flight development work on the back of our project, to attempt to minimise the fantastic cost overruns that programme was experiencing. That being the case, the French also wanted part of the action, so they were supplying the SNEMCA afterburners. This in turn accounted for the fact that certain of our engineering staff on the propulsion side were being given French lessons. I asked him who was in charge of the whole thing. Ah! The 64,000

128 TSR-2 dollar question! Did you ever watch Yes, Prime Minister? Everyone else did. In one episode, Hacker‘s wife Annie was questioning him about a problem he was having, getting his political adviser‘s office moved to a more convenient location at Number 10. It went something like this:

Annie: I don‘t see the problem. You‘re in charge, after all. Hacker: Well—it‘s not as easy as all that. Annie: If you‘re not in charge, who is? Hacker: Well, no-one, really.

Oh boy, I thought. This is going to be a real corker. I asked John about the large access panels between the intakes and the cockpits. That, he told me, was the equipment bay, where some 40 black boxes sat on hollow shelves through which cooling air was supplied. The idea was that you plugged this lot into a ground test trolley, which would indicate whether any part of the aircraft electronics was defective. The appropriate module would then be removed, and a replacement substituted. The cooling air was in fact the exhaust air from the cockpit cooling system for which we were responsible. Our task was to provide a ―shirt-sleeve environment‖ for the crew, which involved getting the temperature and pressure right, and also the air distribution. The latter was being investigated at the RAE Farnborough, who had a mock-up of the nose section, in which they were fitting the distribution ducting as shown on drawings supplied by us. I was assured that we would be going to inspect the rig in the near future, but well before then I thought I ought to have a look at our drawings. John took me over to the drawing office and introduced me to the chief draughtsman, who took me to the chap who had done the work. I asked him where he had obtained his information, and he said they had told him to do just what he‘d done on the Scimitar, which seemed to be working all right. He showed me the drawings, and they were not very good. He obviously saw my reaction, and got on the defensive, explaining that they were not given much time to produce drawings. I asked him what he meant, and he told me that they had to issue a certain quota of drawings every week, to make sure that English Electric didn‘t issue more.

129 NUTS AND BOLTS

I didn‘t say what was on my mind; clearly I was going to need all the allies I could get. It was simply a matter of knowing what drawings the Farnborough people were working to, prior to my forthcoming visit, and would it be all right for me to keep him informed as to any alterations that might be required, and maybe work with him to finalize the layout. This seemed to cheer him up, and we parted on friendly terms. As I settled in, John outlined his thoughts on how we should work together. He suggested that I spend a few days familiarizing myself with the system as it currently existed, for which purpose he gave me a copy of the Godfrey brochure. Godfrey! That name again! Oh well, in for a penny, in for a pound. When I felt adequately prepared, I could join him in meetings with the Godfrey rep, where he would appreciate a bit of backup. I was to find out all too soon what he meant. Also, he would like me to check out all the modules in the equipment bay, to establish whether their cooling arrangements were satisfactory. Now THAT was going to be a real humdinger. It was a fair enough request, since I had passed myself off as an expert at cooling other people‘s electronics, but that was just Elliotts in one tin can, and this meant dealing with forty of the buggers! In the event, it wasn‘t as daunting; only four or five firms were actually involved, because a lot of the modules were backups, alternates and such. Sorry I can remember the name of only one of them, because it was so unusual. The Metal Box Company made something called an air data computer. This rather reminded me of the Saint‘s cover (The Choctaw Machine Tool Company), or, come to that, 007‘s ―Universal Exports‖. Well, they all had to be reviewed, and I cannot honestly say that I enjoyed the experience. They all regarded me as an intruder; what did I know about electronics, and so forth, as if that mattered a brass farthing. All I wanted to know was how much heat each of their bits put out, where each one was situated, and where they had positioned the cooling air inlet and outlet. None of them, it seemed to me, had given any thought to the matter, and any suggestions I made were treated with disdain. It soon became apparent that the only way I could deal with this job was to write a report on each firm‘s equipment, and submit it through channels, hoping that someone higher up the totem pole would read it. It is interesting to note that, half a century later, computer manufacturers are still having cooling

130 TSR-2 problems, so it was probably over-optimistic to expect that much progress could have been made in the early sixties. My most pleasant duty was to organize new arrivals, show them around, brief them technically, and get them to concentrate upon those aspects which seemed to interest them most. The first two were Derek and his friend, known as ―Pubic‖ because he had a beard which looked just like...well, never mind. I think they both came from the Vickers apprentice training scheme; they were both very bright and pleasant fellows. I remember Derek particularly, because he sold me a Velocette 500 cc motor bike, which I still think was the finest motorcycle ever made—but more of that later. The third to arrive was someone else again; Costas Nicolaides. I had never met anyone quite like him before. Immaculately dressed, extremely polite, exuding good humour and cheerfulness, and ready to get to work immediately. He made me feel good even before the briefing started, and it didn‘t take long to find that he was very interested in working on heat transfer and heat exchanger design. Well, that was easy enough. I dug out everything I had brought with me from Marston Excelsior, together with some of my previous calculations, and asked him to let me know when he considered himself ready to take part in our system design work. I had the feeling that it would not be long before I could unload some serious stuff on to him. During the course of our discussions, I found out quite a lot about him, and the more I found the more interesting it became. He had a restaurant in Shepherds Bush, drove a Ford Zodiac (at the time Ford‘s top of the line saloon), and obviously had more money than the rest of us put together. Finally I couldn‘t stand it any longer—I had to know what motivated him. I dressed it up in banalities which I don‘t think fooled him for a moment, like why was he slumming with people like us when he had a posh restaurant in the world‘s most important city, and such- like twaddle. He didn‘t mind at all. He told me he had studied engineering in Cyprus, where his father ran a restaurant, so he knew all about that side of things. He had to leave Cyprus because of all the unrest, and finished up in England. He thought he would not stand a chance of getting a job in engineering, so he decided to try for a restaurant. It did not take him long to become well

131 NUTS AND BOLTS established, since he seemed to be better at it than most of the competition (I could quite believe that!). ―So,‖ I prompted him, ―how come you ended up here?‖ He told me he got totally fed up with having to be at Covent Garden at four in the morning, to make sure of having the best choice of what was available. He then told me something of which I had been totally unaware. Besides, he said, the food was just a pain in the behind. The only money you made in the restaurant business was by selling drinks. The food was just to entice people to come in and spend money on drinks. Well, that was a real eyebrow-raiser for me. He finished by telling me that he had never lost his love for engineering, and when he managed to get his present job, he had immediately hired someone to do all the hack work. One day, when we had settled down as a group and things were chugging along nicely, he invited us all for lunch, saying that his restaurant would provide everything necessary. Naturally he invited John, who politely declined. I don‘t think he approved of ―that sort of thing‖, but was too much of a gentleman to pull rank on us, so off we went in Nick‘s Zodiac. Arriving at a local park, we commandeered a picnic table and he unpacked his large hamper. There were two perfectly roasted small chickens, some delicious hors d‘oeuvres, a bottle of wine, and everything else necessary. I watched in fascination as he grasped a chicken with both hands and pulled it into two exactly equal halves. He opened the wine with a flick of the wrist, and thus began one of the most enjoyable lunches I can remember. A couple of hours later, replete and feeling very pleased with ourselves, we made our way back to Vickers. The security guard, recognizing me, waved us through. The others, being on the weekly staff, were required to clock in and out, and made their way reluctantly to the devil machine, obviously thinking that the wrath of the gods would shortly descend on them. I told them not to worry, and signed them all in, thereby absolving them from any culpability. I had no idea whether I was allowed to do this, and figured I would find out soon enough. After all, you can only determine performance boundaries by pushing the envelope to the limit. (I got that from a test pilot friend). It did not take too long, and was typical of all the administrations I have

132 TSR-2 known. None of them had the guts to haul me in and give me a telling-off to my face. Not like my old C/O Robbie Hewitt, who would tear me off a huge strip if he found me holding off bank in a steep turn, or sideslipping with only half flap down, or committing some such unpardonable crime. In this case, word filtered down, and it finished at John‘s desk. He approached me tentatively, obviously not relishing his task, so I pre-empted him. I apologized profusely, promised not to do it again, and then delivered a roundhouse right, as I believe it‘s known in boxing circles. ―In any case,‖ I said sweetly, ―we all made it up with an hour of overtime the same day.‖ Ar-r-r-r, that ‗ad ‗im! I went to my first meeting with the Godfrey rep, a supercilious character who got up my nose in the first five minutes. I resolved to grin and bear it while finding out how things were done between the firms. As I recall, very little of a technical nature was discussed; it was mostly about delivery dates for the first aircraft units, which did not seem to be anything of our concern. John asked a few questions about how the test rig at Godfrey‘s was doing, and received the responses I recognized only too well from times gone by—evasive, cliché-ridden b-s—preliminary results expected in the next week or two...some instruments requiring recalibration...blah blah blah. My problem is that, when forced to sit and listen to this muck, I suddenly realize how much I need to pee, and can hardly wait for the meeting to end. At this point I started to philosophize about the project, which can be dangerous. TSR-2, I mused. That was the designation of the original Fairey Swordfish, one of the most famous warplanes in history,- the one which brought the Bismarck to heel by blowing its rudder off, and sank half the Italian battle fleet in Taranto harbour. It stood for Torpedo Spotter Reconnaissance. Ours stood for Tactical Strike Reconnaissance. So what? I hear you cry. Well—it just makes you wonder how their minds work, up at the Air Ministry. Also, it seemed to me that the whole project should have been given to English Electric, the only firm in Britain with supersonic experience. Their Lightning fighter with its Mach-2 capability was fast becoming the mainstay of RAF Fighter Command. Nobody else had anything to touch it. This was a shotgun wedding arranged by some desk-flying bureaucrat in the Ministry, to ―rationalize‖ the British aircraft industry, or, in

133 NUTS AND BOLTS language I could understand, to put the kiss of death on it. The systems were all duplicated, which in my philosophy meant that the chance of failure was doubled, not halved. Now, don‘t get me wrong here; I would much rather fly the Atlantic in an airliner with four engines and a crew of three, than one with two engines and a crew of two. But with systems, it obviously depends upon your operational criteria. Our system had two cold air units in parallel, each capable of handling the cooling load. Suppose you are en route to a heavily defended target at Mach 2.2. With a skin temperature hotter than boiling water, you are quite comfortable. Then a cold air unit seizes up or disintegrates or whatever. Do you go on or turn back? You still have one cold air unit, but if that fails near the target you would have to slow right down to avoid getting baked, and you‘d be a sitting duck for defensive missiles. Better to have turned back while the going was good, and try again another day. In which case, why have two of the things in the first place? Also, those babies were worth several thousands each at the time, being selectively assembled with ultra-high precision bearings for operation anywhere between 50,000 and 100,000 rpm, and each one was rigorously tested. The kind of thinking which insisted upon stuff like this being duplicated is largely responsible for hugely inflated prices, one of the quickest routes to cancellation. While in this introspective frame of mind, I realized that I still did not have the full picture as to what the aircraft was supposed to do. John enlightened me thus: There were three major requirements: a) to attack a heavily defended target with a trajectory alternating between Mach 2.2 at 50,000 feet and high subsonic at ground level (the hi-lo); b) to engage in counter-insurgency work (knocking Arabs off bicycles); and c) to be able to operate from an unprepared strip (the cabbage patch). Hence the enormous undercarriage, and, as I now found out, the extendable nosewheel strut. Oh well, no doubt higher intelligences than mine had spent long hours figuring out how one aircraft could do all this. Personally I didn‘t think much of the idea, but it wasn‘t for me to say. John also mentioned that there was a group up at English Electric who were working on the air conditioning system. This struck me as a bit redundant, but I asked him if he thought I should get up there to—keep in touch, as it were. He seemed to think this was a good idea, and told me there was a thrice weekly

134 TSR-2 flight worked by the firm‘s de Havilland Dove seven-seater, and why didn‘t I get on it. Ha! Fat chance! It was booked for months ahead, mainly by the top brass of both firms. The Vickers lot enjoyed a round of golf at Lytham-St-Annes, and the English Electric crowd were always keen to see the latest London show. Never mind. My first important assignment was to visit Ferranti, in Edinburgh, to find out what they wanted in the way of cooling for their forward-looking radar, which was housed in a large pointed radome forming the nose of the aircraft. Fortunately I knew by now what this particular equipment was all about. It was the main item in the terrain-avoidance system, which I gathered was to prevent them from knocking over too many church steeples while doing the ―lo‖ part of the hi-lo attack. Accordingly, one day I found myself seated in a B.E.A. Viscount, taxiing out to take off from Heathrow, only quite recently having developed from a resurfaced wartime runway with a few tin-roofed shacks at one end, to a fairly respectable-looking place. Believe it or not, this was the first time I had ever flown in an airliner, and I was naturally interested to find out what it was all about. The thing that impressed me most was the smoothness. The last time I had flown in a four-engine aircraft was an Avro Lincoln during a University Air Squadron summer camp, and I was quite used to the sudden bang as an engine cylinder fired, followed by a great cloud of black smoke and tongues of flame shooting out of the exhaust. There was none of that; just a faint background hum and the propellers starting to windmill slowly. As we settled down at our cruising altitude, and smiling air hostesses (not ―stewardesses‖, let alone ―flight attendants‖) kept the drinks coming, I reflected upon one of the many stories told about the legendary George Edwards, the managing director of Vickers. He had famously taken a bunch of American airline executives for a flight in a Viscount when it was in the early stages, and had stood a pencil on its end on a table, whilst plying them with martinis, and the result had been the first order ever from the United States (Continental) for a British airliner. I have often thought how unfortunate it was that the era of propeller-turbine airliners did not last much longer, but I‘ll discuss that elsewhere. Ferranti gave me a great reception, and after I had made enough intelligent noises to convince them that I knew what I was

135 NUTS AND BOLTS talking about, they gave me a tour of their place, showing me everything I wanted to see. In two days I had everything I needed, and something else I would never had dreamed of. At lunch I had been discussing with one of the engineers the relative merits of single-malt Scotches. My preference was for Glen Grant, the favourite drink in the bar of the Empire Test Pilots School at Farnborough, but it was not commonly available where I was living at the moment. He gave me the address of a merchant in an Edinburgh back street, which I visited when the day‘s business was concluded. Sure enough, there was a small shop which appeared to sell nothing but whisky. The owner was delighted to see me, produced a bottle of the right stuff, explaining that he did mail orders, and would be pleased to send me a bottle any time I wished to place an order. He gave me a few of his order forms, and we parted on the best of terms. The return trip is worth a paragraph to itself. I was settling down nicely in the Viscount as it made its leisurely way towards the runway. The hostesses were going up and down making sure all our seatbelts were done up and so forth. Suddenly the lady sitting next to me became very agitated. Always the perfect gentleman,(no rude remarks from the peanut gallery, if you please), I enquired whether I might be of assistance. In tears, she told me she had just discovered her car keys in her purse. She had forgotten to hand them to her husband in the excitement of boarding, what was he going to do and so forth. Well, I thought, it‘s worth a try. More in hope than in expectation, I hailed a passing hostess and explained that this lady was distraught because she had forgotten to hand over the family car keys to her husband. ―Oh dear,‖ said the charming girl, took the keys, made her way rapidly to the front, and disappeared through the flight deck door. The next bit is straight out of a Nevil Shute novel. The Viscount did a U-turn (itself no mean feat on the perimeter track), and went back to the terminal building, where I saw a white bag with a red streamer attached thrown out of a cockpit window. It was promptly picked up by a mechanic, who dashed into the terminal with it. The Viscount had not actually stopped, and now the pilot gunned the turbines and charged down the perimeter track as if he was driving a Formula 1 racing car. Doing a racing turn on to the runway, he firewalled the throttles, and with that starting

136 TSR-2 momentum we were off in half the usual distance The passengers loved it! Then the pilot‘s voice came over the PA system—pure RAF Bomber Command tickety-boo—‖Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, this is your pilot, Captain Colley. My apologies for the slight delay; I assure you we will arrive on time. Meanwhile, drinks are on the house. Enjoy your flight.‖ Arriving over Heathrow at twenty something thousand feet, we plunged into the gathering murk. I thought I saw from time to time rows of lighted windows sliding past, but, as you see, nothing untoward happened, and we were on the ground ten minutes early. Captain Colley, wherever you are, I salute you. My goodness, how things have changed. Where had the last three months gone? Our time was up at Oak Lawn, but Inge was ahead of the game. She had responded to an ad for a couple to live in a tied cottage, the man to tend the grounds, and the woman to be the house cleaner. We were to go for an interview next day. Hell‘s teeth, I thought—whatever next? Inge seemed to be all right with the idea of cleaning someone else‘s house in return for rent-free living, so it would be up to me. Well, if I could pass myself off as a rocket expert to DH, and a refrigeration expert to Avro, just show me a ground tender and watch me go! So, we met Mrs. Evershed, who obviously didn‘t think much of me, but as usual Inge‘s personality won the day, and we moved in the following week. High Broom Cottage was a lovely seventeenth century cottage which we both fell in love with straight away. Mrs. Evershed‘s late husband was Professor Evershed, a well-known astronomer of his day, noted for the ―Evershed Effect‖. Someone did explain this to me once, but I cannot have been paying too much attention at the time. Sorry about that. Inge was soon hauled into the main house and put to work, while I waited in some trepidation for my first summons. Mrs. E took me outside, indicated a handsome hedgerow about eight feet high and twenty feet long which looked as if it had been there since the Norman conquest, and said she wanted it pruning down to one foot in height. This struck me as sheer vandalism, but more to the point, I was wondering how to do it. ―Muggeridge will show you,‖ she said, indicating a shadowy figure who was watching us from a distance, and strode off. And so I met Muggeridge. Perhaps the best way to approach this is to refer

137 NUTS AND BOLTS to the classic English TV serial All Creatures Great and Small, assuming that most will have seen at least parts of it at one time or another. If so, you may recall the loopy woman with that repulsive dog, Tricky-Woo. The only reason the vets put up with her was that she frequently sent them a Fortnum & Mason hamper, and you don‘t turn those down. Anyway, she had a gardener, a saturnine type who prodded around the flower beds and gave her a look of malignant loathing whenever she went on by. That was Muggeridge. I went over and introduced myself, explaining my problem. He gave me a crooked grin, went into his tool shed and emerged with one of those electric hedge trimmers, which he applied near the base of the hedge, and in less time than it takes to write, half of this lovely remnant of English history was lying in bits all over the place. He threw the gizmo on to the ground, jerked a thumb in the direction of the tool shed, and left me to it. Well, screw you, I thought, and started contemplating ways of getting him on my side. During the course of the next few evenings and weekends, I made a point of accidentally encountering him in the grounds. The first time I thanked him for his assistance, and said I would very much appreciate his advice as to how I could prevent the old biddy from finding out how little I knew about this stuff until, hopefully with his help, I could learn how to do some of it. This seemed to be the right note to strike, for he began to look at me with interest, and in the end we became quite pally. He showed me how he made a bit on the side, by taking cars which had been written off in accidents, fixing them up, and selling them. He took me to his private grotto, in a secluded part of the grounds where Mrs. E never went. There was his cottage, his workshop and a ramp he had built. This ramp was rather like the entry to the wall of death that you see in circuses. Its angle increases until, in this case, it went over the vertical. Since most of the cars he treated had been written off in head-on collisions, the chassis was either bent or broken. His way of dealing with this was to tow the car up the ramp until it toppled over on to its side. He would then heat the affected area of the chassis to red heat with his welding torch and bash it approximately straight with a sledgehammer. Welding up some of the bigger cracks completed the chassis work. A damaged exhaust system was fixed with a few feet of exhaust pipe bandage, and so

138 TSR-2 on. The car was then pulled back on to its feet with the aid of a block and tackle attached to a nearby tree, the more obvious body dents were bashed out and smoothed over with filler, and the whole thing was given a coat of spray paint. Any engine oil leaks were minimized by filling the sump with heavy duty gearbox oil, and the car was ready for the first sucker. We lived in High Broom cottage for about three months, during which time Mrs. E came to accept me, thanks to Muggeridge‘s tips on how to please her. I think he was getting some sort of perverse pleasure watching me, in effect, conning her. However, things were not going quite as smoothly with Inge, who was getting frayed round the edges with what she described to me as ―all the ‗upstairs-downstairs‘ crap‖. Being Inge, she had already planned the next move, and told me we were due for an interview at some place called ―Bankside‖ in a couple of days‘ time. Little did we know that this was to be one of the most significant events in our lives. Following instructions, we went to the village of Ewhurst, Surrey, drove out to the north, and halfway up Pitch Hill turned left at the Windmill Inn along a narrow road called The Warren. About half a mile along this we found Bankside, a nice-looking house, where we met Mr. and Mrs. Williamson, Willy and Peggy, two of the finest people who ever drew breath. After they had recovered from their initial surprise (and, I think, pleasure) at finding they were talking to an engineer and a nurse, we developed what I can only describe as an instant rapport. They explained that they had come from Chile, where Willy ran the Santiago branch of the Bank of London and South America. He had been posted to England, to take charge of the London office, with a view to ensuring that all branches of the Bank would be in the mainstream of current European banking. They were renting this place from Brigadier Nielsen, who was currently serving in the British Army of the Rhine. They showed us where we would be living. The large lawn sloped steeply down to a pond surrounded by a bamboo jungle, behind which stood, not a seventeenth century cottage, but a modern-looking bungalow. It had been built by the Canadian Army during the war, for use as an officers‘ mess. We moved in as soon as we decently could, and spent three of our happiest years in that delightful place.

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Tearing myself away from thoughts of Bankside Cottage, back at Vickers I first came into some sort of prominence in the middle of a spat about the undercarriage. One day I had gone over to the assembly shed under some pretext, having heard that retraction tests were going to be held, and I wanted to see for myself how they would tuck those enormous bogies away. Not that it was any of my business, just morbid curiosity, really. When I got there they were hammering, sawing and grinding away. Discreet questioning revealed that, on first attempt, the gear would not go into the holes provided for it in the fuselage. Oh well, I thought, that‘s what you get when you try to make a supersonic tactical nuclear strike bomber capable of operating from a cabbage patch. They finally finished knocking a few corners off, and had another go. The whole aircraft had been jacked up so that the bogies could assume their attitude once in the air, that is, they hung almost vertically, the rear wheels being the lowest, and there was a complicated linkage to swivel them up so that they were lying snugly against the main legs, and the whole lot could then be hauled up into the belly. This time it worked, and I surreptitiously made a note of the timing. While everyone present was jumping up and down, slapping each other on the back and so forth, I was imagining the carnage in the wheel wells as those four huge wheels, still spinning madly having had no time to slow down appreciably, were hauled in. On the other hand, if they were stopped by braking, by the same token there would be no time for the large amount of heat generated to dissipate, and, as the wheel well doors closed, there would be four big bangs as the tires exploded. Not my concern, thank goodness. Oh, but it was. When I got back, John told me that they had approached him with a view to proposing a system to cool the wheels after retraction, to dissipate the heat generated by braking. He wondered if I would mind looking into it. I felt rather like that Panasonic ad: ―Just slightly ahead of my time‖. He excused himself, saying that he had an urgent meeting with Godfreys. Also, there was a meeting in half an hour to discuss the problem, and he would appreciate my going along to present our views on the matter. There, I thought, goes my chance of entering the popularity stakes. As I entered the meeting room I could sense the various moods—guarded, puzzled, hostile—the usual witches‘ brew. I introduced myself, and told

140 TSR-2 them that unfortunately Mr. Campbell had been called to an urgent meeting and had asked me to stand in for him. The chap who was chairing the meeting asked me to outline our proposals for a cooling system. Totally out of the question, I told him. That woke them up. He asked me if I would mind enlarging on that, so I told him there was not enough cooling power available in the whole aircraft to cool down the wheels before they got into the wheel wells and the tires exploded. He asked me if I could prove that, and I told him I didn‘t need to, because it was obvious, but if I could be allowed a whole day I could probably cobble something together to convince him. Very frosty now: ―Thank you, mister, er, kindly inform your group head that we will reconvene at this time tomorrow, when we hope to hear some more constructive observations.‖ I knew very well what that meant. It meant, ―Get lost, before you do any more damage.‖ Another of life‘s milestones—this was the first time I had been thrown out of a meeting, rather than leaving it of my own accord. Before going home that evening, I ingratiated myself with someone in the aerodynamics department, who was kind enough to let me know what was the theoretical unstick speed, which enabled me to calculate the energy of the revolving wheels, and from then it was just a hop, skip and jump to finding what would be the heat extraction rate required to remove the heat generated by stopping them before they got into the wheel wells in the time of retraction that I had measured. Next morning I told John what had happened, handed him my calculations, and said it might be as well if he took over, since I seem to have ruffled a few feathers. He spent some time going over my work, finally saying that it looked all right to him, and I might as well see the whole thing through. I think he was getting quite a kick out of this. And so I found my niche in my last job in the British aircraft industry— taking on jobs that nobody else wanted to touch. Into the lion‘s den I ventured once again. They were obviously by no means overjoyed to see that it was me again, but the chairman manfully overcame his repugnance enough to ask me what I had for them. I handed over my work, suggesting that he checked it, which should not be too much of a problem; it was only second-year mechanics, after all. However, no one seemed interested in entering the minefield of technical discussion, so they muttered something

141 NUTS AND BOLTS about looking into it. The chairman then asked me sarcastically whether I had any constructive suggestions. ―Certainly,‖ I responded, trying hard to put into that one word a sense of overwhelming relief that someone had at last said something sensible. ―Increase the retraction time. Let the wheels dangle in the air until they‘re cool enough; there‘s nothing like air rushing past at 200 mph to cool stuff. Trust me.‖ One of them asked how long I was talking about. I told them a minute should do it, which really brought the pains on. ―Well,‖ I finished, ―Forty-five seconds might just do it, but I wouldn‘t want to be on board when they try it.‖ At that, I picked up my stuff and left. One—all, I thought on the way back to the office. I heard no more about it, so obviously they had not succeeded in finding anyone who would trash my work. Years later, while watching films of the first flight trials at Boscombe Down, it seemed that the undercarriage took an inordinately long time to retract, but of course they may have filmed in slow motion to study something... My next adventure started when I was fingered to run our end of Vickers‘ first attempt to apply computer technology to system design calculations. Look, shut up will you and let me finish. At that time nobody in our lot knew anything about computers, and I was the furthest from the door. All right? Our air conditioning calculations reminded me of Gerry‘s tabular calculations for the heat transfer in a rocket nozzle, but in the intervening years great strides had been made in computer technology, and here I stood facing a large mainframe computer with its whirling reels, flashing lights and all the rest of the 2001 stuff. White-coated technicians moved with their clipboards in the air-conditioned atmosphere. One of them explained that they required the relevant equations and a specimen calculation and they would do the rest. Well, that should keep me off the street corners for a week. I asked John if we had any of Godfrey‘s calculations. He managed to obtain a calculation sheet, but actual numbers never appeared The whole business was like trying to squeeze blood out of a stone. I had better get on with it, then, and produce a sample calculation. Not that it was particularly difficult—just longwinded and tedious, which of course was why it had been selected to try out the computer. Unfortunately a brief description is necessary, so that you may better understand the ensuing cock-up. First, I had to

142 TSR-2 establish the supply conditions to the cold air unit for a particular design case, which meant that the engine compressor bleed characteristics had to be fed into the computer. Fortunately we had those. Then I had to assume an air flow, and work out the pressure and temperature rise through the compressor. For this I had to assume a compressor efficiency. Then came the cooling provided by the intercooler, which was a function of the aircraft speed and altitude. If they didn‘t have those on their computer, it‘s time they did. Nevertheless, to be on the safe side, I consulted my friend in the aerodynamics department, who was kind enough to provide me with the reference numbers of the charts they used. Finally there was the temperature drop through the turbine, determined by the power absorbed by the compressor, and for which another efficiency had to be assumed. If the resultant outlet temperature together with the assumed flow gave us the required cockpit supply conditions, well and good. If not, fresh starting conditions were assumed, and the process repeated until the temperature and flow were what was required. Armed with all this stuff, I handed it over to the computer people. A cocky young technician thanked me and assured me they would have the programme up and running in a couple of weeks. I must have looked a bit surprised, for he then said, ―Well, we need a week to programme it and another week to debug the programme.‖ ―Of course,‖ I said, not really knowing what he was talking about, and left. By judicious questioning I found that debugging meant fixing their own mistakes before they could start looking for ours. I thought no more about it, because the following day was a very exciting one for me. It was quiet in our corner of the design office. John was away at some meeting—he seemed perfectly happy to leave me in charge, and was probably glad of the opportunity to catch up on some of his backlog. The others were scattered round the drawing office checking up on things. I was checking Nick‘s heat transfer calculations which were part of my latest attempt to obtain a reliable figure for the cockpit cooling load, and he seemed to be making a good job of it. I looked up to rest the eyes for a while, and nearly jumped out of my chair. Outside the chief project engineer‘s office I spotted a

143 NUTS AND BOLTS compact figure in a Burberry raincoat, whom I would have recognized anywhere. It was Wing Commander Beamont, flight test manager at English Electric. Roly Beamont! One of my wartime heroes. Terror of the Wehrmacht with his rocket-firing Typhoons. Masterly demonstrator of the Canberra bomber and the Lightning fighter at Farnborough. The man who would be taking the TSR-2 on its maiden flight. My heart skipped a beat when one of the brass he‘d been talking to pointed in my direction, and he came over. I stood up as he approached and said, ―Good morning, sir.‖ He looked at me with interest. Probably the first time anyone down here had called him ―sir‖, let alone stood up for him. Clearly he accepted the fact that I knew who he was, for he wasted no time on preliminaries. ―Are you the chap doing the air conditioning?‖ I told him our group was working on it, but unfortunately I was the only one here at the moment, and hoped I could be of assistance. ―Well,‖ he said, ―in the Lightning, when I throttle back to land, a great wave of hot, humid air washes down my neck. I hope you can do better than that.‖ I said I was certain that we would give him a system superior in all respects to the Lightning‘s, but in any case I would personally make sure that this particular design case would be investigated with equal rigour to that of all the others. ―Well, see that you do,‖ he said, and went on his way. When my heart had resumed its normal rhythm, I reflected that I had come out of that quite well. I was certain that, if he had thought for one moment that I was bullshitting him, he would have devoted some time to dismembering me. I never met him again, but read everything he wrote about the TSR-2 development flying he managed to do before the chopper descended. Since that was still two years in the future, I‘ll leave it for now. Around this time, I became totally fed up with the compulsory- voluntary overtime. What was happening was that everyone sat around for the first hour talking about last night‘s TV, thereby, no doubt, rationalizing the whole business. You will be astonished to learn that my mind doesn‘t work that way. Also, I couldn‘t care less about the Archers, worthy people though they may be. I arrived at nine, put in a full day‘s work, and one evening at five I put my papers away, said goodnight to everyone, and went home. Nobody said anything, so this became my routine. Two weeks later, I was

144 TSR-2 awarded an increase in salary. Now I ask you—what kind of message does that send me? What‘s a man to do? You figure it out. My next adventure started when John, rather diffidently I thought, asked if I would look into the design specification side of things. I knew where he was coming from; he recognized my ability to concentrate on getting all the small details right (hence Nuts and Bolts), whilst being aware that every meeting I attended ended in some sort of chaos, whereas he enjoyed swanning around going to meetings, and had been putting off this business for months. We made a good team, really. I agreed readily, and got stuck into it. The main work was concerned with calculating the airframe temperatures and system conditions at various points in the flight envelope, for environmental test purposes. The rest was mostly contractual stuff, presumably so that we would be one-up on a supplier, if some wheel came off. After a month, I had written and issued about ten of the things, and had brought it to a stage where it could safely be turned over to one of the group. Then one day the phone rang, and Major Someone-or-other would appreciate my dropping into his office for a chat. I asked John who it was. Blowed if I know, was his reply. Off I went, following directions, and found myself at one of the prewar buildings adjacent to the old Brooklands racetrack, probably a meeting room for race stewards, drivers, pit crews and so forth. Outside stood a genuine, immaculately restored Red Label Bentley, complete with union jacks on the sides and that huge supercharger up front—a Blower Bentley! The first door I saw upon entry said Major Whatshisname, Security. Oh hell, one of those. Maybe my car was parked in the wrong spot, or they may have decided to make me do the Official Secrets Act thing again, after all. Behind a huge desk sat a typical upper-middle-class civil servant who‘d wangled himself a cushy number in MI5 or whatever, complete with tweed jacket with leather elbow patches, handlebar moustache and pipe. He bade me sit down and said I could smoke if I wished. Since he didn‘t offer me one, I refrained from making any kind of response. Let‘s find out why I‘m here, I thought. He opened the bowling by fishing out a sheaf of papers. ―I‘ve been looking at your design specifications.‖ ―Glad someone has.‖

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―Problem is, old chap, that there are security implications.‖ I was at a loss for words. I just sat there staring at him. ―You see, old man, if the Russkies were to get hold of one of these, and looked at these temperature and pressure requirements and so forth, they would be able to work out how fast we go and stuff like that. Top secret, you know.‖ ―Oh‖ I said, ―if that‘s all that is worrying you, they already know.‖ This time he was at a loss for words. At this point in my writing I succumbed to a fit of the giggles, so give me a minute or two to get over it. Go and pour yourself a drink or something. He seemed to have retreated into some kind of shell. In a strangled voice he mumbled, ―Would you mind enlarging on that last remark?‖ This was getting to be hilarious; a situation which could have been dreamed up by John Mortimer, or maybe Tom Wolfe. Obviously he was thinking that I had already betrayed the whole shooting match to the Soviets, and was telling him that, whatever he did, it was too late. For my part, I was thinking back to a recent episode of That Was the Week That Was, a popular show featuring David Frost making his TV debut as the anchorman. They had a skit in which Lance Percival was a wing commander briefing a TSR-2 crew for an attack on Moscow. The whole thing was presented as if they had cobbled together a few comic strip capers to raise a laugh, whereas it was in fact a perfectly accurate description of the hi-lo attack trajectory. Where they got it from I have no idea; I promise you it was not my doing. I may be a loose cannon in many respects, but would never do a thing like that. Anyway, the skit was made memorable by the punch line. The navigator had been scribbling on his pad throughout the briefing, and at the end he put up his hand timidly. ―There‘s just one thing that worries me, sir,‖ he said. ―According to my calculations, we don‘t have enough fuel to get back.‖ The wingco‘s face suffused with outrage. ―BACK?‖ he bellowed. ―You‘re not coming BACK!‖ I explained all this to the major, hoping he would see the funny side and we could have a chat about Bentleys and forget the whole business. Some hope. These pongo types don‘t have a funny side.

146 TSR-2

He listened to me as a judge might listen to a last desperate defence plea in a case of child rape, and delivered his summing-up. ―I hear what you say,‖ he said, ―but there‘s no point in making matters any worse, what? I must insist that you delete the references to temperatures and so forth.‖ That did it. ―I shall do nothing of the sort,‖ I said. ―I‘m not listening to any more of this bullshit. I have important work to do.‖ I got up and left. Well, there goes another job, I thought, on the way back to the office. But nothing happened. My next job was not long in coming. I was to look into the question of windscreen clearance. Apparently the brass were beginning to worry about the screen getting covered with bugs while belting along just below the speed of sound at 50 feet, and I couldn‘t find it in my heart to blame them. Since nobody seemed to know anything about it, I had to start from scratch. After some ferreting around, it transpired that a Farnborough scientist had a lab specializing in windscreen clearance, which seemed a promising starting point. And so it came about that I made my first ―official‖ visit to that Holy of Holies, the Royal Aircraft Establishment, Farnborough. I found the guy in a small lab on the edge of the airfield. A real Michael Redgrave type, he welcomed me effusively and asked how he could help. I explained the situation, and he said, ―Oh yes—I had a chap in the other month from Blackburn, who was saddled with a similar problem on the Buccaneer—how to prevent salt spray from covering the windscreen when they were jollying along very fast at sea level. And now here you are, doing the same thing over land.‖ This was getting interesting. My problem was that I had difficulty in finding a starting point. I had a vague idea that a large blast of air would be required, but could not think of a way of calculating how much. If I could somehow find out how much the Blackburn people were using, that would be a starting point, which was all I needed at this stage. And don‘t start saying why did I not just pick up the phone and ask them. It doesn‘t work like that. They were not about to hand us the results of their development work on a platter, particularly since there was an increasing groundswell of opinion to the effect that the Buccaneer could do

147 NUTS AND BOLTS everything that our machine could do, and in addition operate from an aircraft carrier, so why were we wasting everyone‘s time? I decided to bide my time and wait for an opportunity. He was very willing to tell me about his test rig, and how he set about investigating windscreen clearance problems. It transpired that his work consisted mainly of breeding fruit flies and firing them at various windscreens with a large compressed air cannon. I am not making this up. He showed me round his firing range, his fly incubator and his cannon, at which point I finessed the conversation round to the question of how much air he had found necessary for the Buccaneer‘s windscreen. He became very apologetic, saying that he had no idea. Seeing my raised eyebrows, he went on to explain that he was connected to the compressed air supply used by the transonic wind tunnel—here he indicated a hangar-sized building just down the road—and all he had to do was turn up the flow until he achieved the result he wanted. Unfortunately he had no means of measuring it. For the last two years he had included in his budget a request for a high capacity air flowmeter. ―Which,‖ as he rather bitterly put it, ―the bean counters at the Air Ministry turned down because a) they couldn‘t afford it and b) they saw no need for it anyway.‖ Oh well—scratch one idea. However, he went on—and this was where it got really interesting—if I cared to study the development of the Mirage 1V, I would find that with extensive wind tunnel testing they had established a configuration for the nose which deflected air away from direct impact on the windscreen, thereby eliminating the problem. Now there, I thought, is pure Gallic logic at its best. Since there was no other reason for giving the nose any particular profile, apart from the eye of the designer, you might as well make it serve a useful purpose. I knew about the Mirage 1V, of course. A delta- wing supersonic bomber, it was the mainstay of the French Force de Frappe, capable of making a hydrogen bomb attack using a high-low approach trajectory, just like us. I departed reluctantly from this fascinating place, but not before he had introduced me to his colleague in the next lab, who specialized in temperature- sensitive paint. By this time I was ready for anything, This lab was full of small cans of paint having a bewildering assortment of

148 TSR-2 colours, together with a workbench holding thermocouple measuring circuits, ovens, blowtorches and suchlike stuff. The chap explained that he could supply a paint for any required temperature such that, upon reaching that temperature the paint would fluoresce. By putting dabs of various paints on a structure, engine or whatever, one could obtain a complete temperature plot of critical areas It seemed to me a brilliant idea, which pleased him. On the way back, my thoughts were concentrated on the idea that, if I could get a handle on the Buccaneer system, the next meeting could be approached with confidence. However, the whole thing was put on the back burner for the time being, because the following day was the high point of my year, the annual day at the Farnborough show, with a technician‘s ticket, this year provided by Larry, a vendor of stainless steel flexible pipes, for goodness‘ sake. After the show, I found myself in the familiar ambience of the Cricketer‘s Arms in Bagshot, one of my favourite places on earth, enjoying escargots, their spécialité de la maison at the time, at Larry‘s expense of course. At the next table sat a boisterous bunch who had obviously got there a few drinks ahead of us, and Larry mentioned that they were from Blackburn, working on the same kind of things as me. Could it be that this was my chance? It was certainly worth a try. I tapped the nearest one on the shoulder. ―Eh, ‗scuse me, couldn‘t help overhearing you. I‘m in the air conditioning racket myself, and it‘s always good to chat to someone who knows something about it.‖ (Voice a little slurred—make them think I‘m as pissed as they were). He sized me up; a chap about my age, but not half as handsome. ―Vickers,‖ I said. ―TSR-2, you know.‖ Doing what, he wanted to know. I told him I‘d just about got the air conditioning sorted out when Beamont had started chasing me about the Lightning system.... I gave them that little anecdote, which raised a laugh, and then mentioned that all this talk was making me thirsty, and could I buy them a round? This went down well, and I went on to say that, just as the worst seemed to be over, they had landed me with a real stinker, namely to design a windscreen clearance system to keep the bugs off when transonic at 50 feet. I had told them it was impossible, but...

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One of the group said not to worry about it, they had one and it worked fine. I made it plain that I did not relish the interruption, and just wanted to boast about my achievement. I said I had done a thorough theoretical analysis, and was quite sure that 60 pounds a minute would do the job nicely (to drag a number out of the air). He gave me a condescending look. ―That‘s only one pound per second,‖ he said. ―Wouldn‘t even touch it. Would you believe four times that?‖ Bingo! I had it! Four pounds a second. I was almost looking forward to the next meeting; being able to present them with three totally inadmissible alternatives. I‘ll get back to this, because now there has to be a slight diversion. Mention of flexible stainless steel pipe salesmen reminded me that, while the main story was unfolding, a subplot was being enacted, the principal character being the previously mentioned Gwyn T. He had taken to visiting me frequently, and one day he told me he had gone into partnership with a firm called High Temperature Engineers, and wondered if I would be interested in doing some consulting work for them. I was naturally intrigued, not having been approached in this manner before. Well, that‘s not quite right, if you count that stupid ice tray business. Also, something I forgot to mention at the time. In the early fifties I designed an automatic tea-making machine for a friend who made a bit of extra income on the side by marketing inventions. This thing would, at some preset time, make the tea, ring the alarm and turn on the radio and bedside light. I christened it ―Teasmade‖, handed over the drawings, then lost touch with him. Not being a great tea drinker, I forgot all about it. No doubt it went down the drain, like a lot of useless household gimmicks. Anyway, to get on with the story, I asked Gwyn what he had in mind. He explained that they intended to submit a proposal to the Ministry for a ground trolley to air condition V-bombers while they were on standby. I should explain that we were still at the height of the Cold War, and some Ministry birdbrain had got hold of the idea that, once the Russians had launched a big one at us, we had four minutes to react. So, the edict went out that the V-bomber force was required to have a specified number of aircraft on ―four- minute standby‖. Since it takes about ten minutes to get into the

150 TSR-2 things, get plugged in, checked out and so on, this meant that the hapless crew had to be in their positions already. Not for them the Battle of Britain scramble. Anyone who has sat in an airliner on the ground in summer when the air conditioning truck has broken down, or sat in an unheated railway station waiting room in midwinter, will recognize their problem. My friend gave me a copy of the Ministry specification, and I told him I would look into it. It seemed straightforward enough. Knowing how far the trolley had to be from the aircraft, and the likely heating and cooling delivery conditions from the trolley, I could determine the insulation required on the supply duct to ensure the correct aircraft inlet conditions. Godfreys had just started to handle the Lysholm screw-type compressor for refrigeration systems, which had not been approved at the time of Blue Steel, and I had access to their performance data, which would look good on the proposal. I knew the supply duct had to be connected to the aircraft with a quick- disconnect coupling, and I knew a lot about those. Altogether, I thought it was a pretty snazzy proposal I handed over to them. Funnily enough (you might think), no money ever came my way for all this stuff I did for them, although there was the odd turkey for Christmas. Looking back, there was probably the expectation that it might lead to something really worthwhile, but in any case I was never able to get the better of a really dedicated, determined, skilful crap artist. Another proposal I did for them was a portable cooling unit for astronauts—you know, the pack they carry when on their way to boarding the spacecraft. This would have been a first for England. I never found out what happened to either of them. It certainly led to something else, but that was still in the future, so I‘ll get back to the present. At Vickers I had discovered that the chap with the desk next to mine was Barnes Wallis Jr., son of the world-renowned scientist who designed the Wellington bomber, the ―Scampton Steamroller‖ that demolished the Ruhr dams, the 22,000 pound earthquake bomb which took out the U-boat pens, the Tirpitz and sundry other difficult targets, the ―swing-wing‖ for supersonic aircraft, and goodness knows what else. He was very friendly, and I feel privileged to have enjoyed his friendship, albeit for such a short

151 NUTS AND BOLTS time. He told me his father had an office out by the old racetrack, and took me out there one lunch hour to introduce me. Talk about the thrill of a lifetime! There sat one of my life‘s heroes, munching a ham sandwich. His office was dominated by a large model of the ―Swallow‖—his name for the supersonic airliner proposal using his variable-sweepback wing. On one wall was a large picture of water pouring through a big gap in the Mohne dam. There was a model of the Wellington bomber, together with a section of the geodetic structure he had designed for it. He was obviously very pleased to see us, and engaged me in one of the most interesting and stimulating conversations of my life. He wanted to know what I was doing at Vickers, what I had been doing, and what I wanted to do. He seemed particularly interested in my rocket work, which was understandable, but also in my refrigeration experience, which I couldn‘t figure at all. It turned out that his son was cast in the role of TSR-2 de-icing specialist which, considering that the thing spent most of its time bombing along with a skin temperature hotter than boiling water, didn‘t seem much of a chore to me, although I was too tactful to say so. In my turn, I asked if we could talk about the dams bomb. ―Oh my dear boy I‘m so sorry,‖ he said (he talked like Michael Redgrave in the film). ―You see, it‘s still on the secret list—I can‘t think why, because it was quite simple once I‘d seen the obvious, which I should have done a lot sooner. Besides, I don‘t suppose anyone will try that trick again.‖ I then asked him tentatively if he could discuss his plans for the Swallow supersonic variable sweepback airliner. ―Oh that—they sold the rights to the Americans. Still, as long as someone‘s using it, I suppose that‘s the main thing.‖ Whoever thought up that bit about a prophet being without honour in his own country knew what he was talking about. Despite all this, my visit that day remains one of the high points of my career in the British aircraft industry. Another time, Junior took a small party of us over to the flight shed where the VC-10 airliner was being prepared for its maiden flight, which was expected to take place very soon. Readers who remember the VC-10 will recall that its tail was perched high on top of the fin. I never did find out why people do this, and frankly,

152 TSR-2 my dear, I don‘t give a damn, as long as I don‘t have to fly in such a design. Anyway, Junior mounted the scaffolding which surrounded the tail unit, and started to tap the underside of the mighty tail with a pencil, consulting his watch the while. He was obviously aiming for a particular frequency, but I couldn‘t guess why. In about a minute he had the whole tail going! Up and down at the frequency he had given it. Never seen anything like it. Nobody said a word. He climbed down from the scaffolding, and we continued our tour of the hangar in a thoughtful mood. In one corner we spotted a Viscount looking rather sorry for itself, half covered with dust sheets, its only paintwork being an American registration. Junior told us it had been ordered and paid for by Howard Hughes just before he went bananas and holed up in that hotel, so they never received any delivery instructions, and had no idea what to do with it. Funny old world. Two days later we were all given the morning off to watch the maiden flight of the VC-10. The entire population of Vickers lined both sides of the runway, watching Jock Bryce taxiing up and down, getting a bit faster each time. When he started easing the nosewheel off the ground we knew it wouldn‘t be long. Finally he went right down to the far end, revved up the four mighty Rolls- Royce Conway engines against the brakes, and off he went. He was airborne halfway along the runway—didn‘t even need the great gap they had cut in the banked racetrack to enable the Wellingtons to take off. Junior, who was standing next to me, turned and said ―There goes the last nail in the coffin of the British aircraft industry.‖ Oh dear, I thought, what a pessimistic chap. Looking back, I think I can see what he was getting at. When I finally quit, it certainly wasn‘t the outfit I had entered years ago. I have spent quite a long time on this relationship, because it was so interesting. Perhaps another couple of notes to round it off. When he became aware of my refrigeration background, he started discussing his work with me. He was attempting to design an instrument which could determine dew point, thus providing advance information of the imminence of icing conditions. He asked me how I did it, and I told him about the sling psychrometer. This is where you have two thermometers side by side, the bulb of one being encased in a wick, the other end of which is immersed in

153 NUTS AND BOLTS a water reservoir. The whole lot can be whirled around, using a handle connected to it by a universal joint, thereby creating a good airflow over the thermometer bulbs, and ensuring accurate readings of the wet-and-dry bulb temperatures. ―And then?‖ he prompted. By this time I was feeling quite chuffed that I knew something he didn‘t. I explained that these were then plotted on a psychrometric chart, from which the dew point could be read off. I added, somewhat facetiously (I thought) that since computers seemed to be the coming thing, they could probably make light work of all this. I left him looking rather thoughtful. Our discussions were by no means confined to talking shop. I remember one particularly heated exchange about politics, when he suddenly said, ―Look, John, if you hate government so much, why don‘t you join them and change it?‖ Do you know, for the life of me I couldn‘t think of a sensible response. I knew it was nonsense, of course. For one thing, what has been described sarcastically as my ―silver-tongued oratory‖ wouldn‘t go down well with the average citizen. Nevertheless, he was damnably right, of course. If you feel strongly enough about the way your country is run, you should make an attempt to change things, not just sit around bitching about it. After several months of occasional introspection, I managed to sort out my thoughts on the matter, but since the conclusions have nothing to do with this narrative, I‘ll leave it there. Mention of computers had, however, brought me back to reality with a thump. I was asked to go to the computer department, where chaos reigned. They were knee-deep in printout paper, and were just about ready to toss me into the nearest volcano for giving them a bad programme. I was halfway to the door when the chief honcho intercepted me. He said he wanted to discuss the programme with me. I feigned astonishment. ―You actually want to DISCUSS it? Well—by all means.‖ He explained that the programme seemed to be taking rather a long time to achieve the correct answer. I looked at one of the millions of printout sheets, and realized instantly what had happened. My first design case had called for a cockpit supply temperature of twenty degrees Centigrade, and here was the printout showing 19.99999...

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I may know less than nothing about computers, but at least I understand the basic rules of grade eight arithmetic. So I asked him by what strange process his stupid machine was attempting to get an answer correct to umpteen decimal places, when the input figures were correct only to one. Well, he said, I hadn‘t put any limits on it. Well, I said, nobody told me I was supposed to; I should have thought it was bloody obvious. At which point I left, after advising him to get an engineer on his staff, and no doubt reinforcing his opinion that engineers were ignorant cavemen, unfit to share the same planet with computer scientists. And there, ladies and gentlemen, you have it in a nutshell. Computer scientists know nothing about engineering, and engineers know nothing about computers, so where does that leave us? Nowadays, of course, everyone knows everything about everything, but precious few people seem to know what it all MEANS. Better leave it there for the time being, but don‘t worry—it will be back. Our life at Bankside was progressing along extremely pleasant lines. Inge and Peggy were by this time the best of friends, and Inge would spend a large part of the day with her, while I was at work. Sometimes in the evenings, if Peggy was having a snit with her husband, Willy would make his way down to the cottage with a bottle of Old Kentucky Bourbon, and we would sit out under the stars, yarning far into the night, while Inge slipped quietly up to the house to keep Peggy company. Many times we managed to sort out the universe, while the level in the bottle fell steadily. The trouble was, I could never remember next day how we did it. On the weekends, Peggy‘s favourite occupation was to don tatty old jeans and a much-frayed shirt, and wander round the grounds poking the drains out, while Willy and I took turns driving the huge motor mower. We set up a lap record for circumnavigating the big lawn, and attempted to better it after every cutting session. It was an idyllic existence—far too good to last, of course, but the fond memories will stay with me for always. And now I must get on with the next item, or I shall lose the thread of the narrative altogether. There is so much to tell about Bankside, it really needed a chapter to itself. One more domestic tale, then, before we get back to the nuclear deterrent. This one is rather important, because it relates

155 NUTS AND BOLTS the circumstances of my departure from the world of motorbikes, which I had loved for many years. Derek, a member of our group, had sold me a Velocette 500 cc single-cylinder machine, which to me is still the finest motor bike ever built. It had a tuned exhaust system culminating in the well-remembered fishtail muffler; many times on deserted country roads I would wind it up to 70, at which point the tuning would kick in, the engine would come to life with the deep-throated cackling roar that only a Velocette can produce, and I was up to 100 in no time. What a machine! Then one day I was pottering down the winding narrow lane, steeply banked on both sides, which led to the next village. Suddenly, down the steep embankment, came slithering and sliding a deer, obviously out of control, and it landed right on top of me. I am not making this up. The misbegotten animal wandered off, limping a bit, leaving me lying there in the middle of the road with the bike half on top of me. It occurred to me that, were some local yokel with defective brakes (the usual kind around here) to come bombing round the sharp corner I had just negotiated, that would most definitely be the end of the story. Desperately I dragged myself and the bike to the side. Having recovered my composure, I rode sedately home. (Note regarding present-day motorbikes: If it fell over, a) would you be able to pick it up again? and b) would it ever go again without a thousand-dollar overhaul?). I didn‘t say a word to Inge, because...well, you figure it out. The final scene took place shortly after, when I was riding to work. The country road joined the main road leading into Weybridge about a mile upstream of Vickers. I had pulled up at the halt sign to survey the scene. All I could see was a large truck approaching, so confidently I pulled out and accelerated, only to realize that the truck was alongside me, going like a bat out of hell. When almost past, it pulled in sharply, its rear end caught my handlebar, and over I went, this time quite sure that the end had come. Lying there at the roadside, it finally dawned on me that I was still alive, and not only that, I could move. Dragging myself upright, I‘m told I went a bit mad. A friend who picked me up to take me in to Vickers said that, as soon as he saw me jumping up and down and making obscene gestures at the departing truck, he knew I was all right. This time, I didn‘t get away with it. Vickers checked me out in their medical department, and John, bless his heart, took me home,

156 TSR-2 thus meeting Inge for the first time, which resulted in another great friendship. She refrained, manfully(!), from saying what might be expected of a lesser person, no doubt realizing that I had finally reached the end of the line. At last I had accepted one of nature‘s universal laws—you always come out second in a motorbike accident. Back to work, then. I was called to the long-threatened meeting on windscreen clearance, and cannot recall any particular feeling, other than one of resignation (possibly in both senses of the word). When told to present my findings, I started with the one which had first occurred to me on being handed the assignment, namely to fix an Austin-7 bug-basher in front of the windscreen, available from Halford‘s for five shillings. I could see they didn‘t think much of the idea, although I was ready to quote a precedent. Someone who was there told me that, during the Battle of Britain, a batch of replacement Spitfires was delivered to a squadron, minus the rear-view mirror, which, you may recall, was attached to the top of the windscreen frame, and was a most essential item. The enterprising adjutant cycled to the village and purchased from Halfords their entire stock of driving mirrors, which the ground crews fitted through the night. Some thought that this was where the manufacturers got the things in the first place, and why not? Anyway, so ended my pathetic attempt to introduce a light note into the proceedings. Geoff Armstrong could probably have done it. Some people can, and some can‘t, so stop crying into your beer and get on with it. Someone asked sarcastically if Halford‘s equipment was cleared for operation at Mach 2.2. My response was to plead lack of data, since such clearance was not required for fitting to my Austin-7, but it seemed worth a try. At this point a change of tack seemed to be required, so I informed them that in our opinion, four pounds per second of air would be required. That attracted their attention. Although none of them had the faintest concept of four pounds a second of air, at least it enabled the chairman to recover sufficiently to ask if I could prove that, ―since it seemed rather large‖. Now it was my turn to put on a ruffled feathers act. ―Naturally. If you insist, I will get my notes typed up.‖ My whole demeanour radiated, ―How dare you question my judgement?‖—whereas in point of fact I still had not

157 NUTS AND BOLTS the faintest idea how to tackle the problem. As they say in academic circles, knowing the answer is 95 percent of the struggle. Before the ethics subcommittee convenes to reprimand me for not saying immediately, ―Well, that‘s what Blackburn are using on the Buccaneer, and it works well,‖ let me say that I knew exactly where such an admission would have led to. If readers cannot by now accept this insight, then I haven‘t been expressing myself very well. Pushing this problem to one side for the moment, I mentioned the third alternative, which was to change the profile of the aircraft nose, as had been done on the Mirage IV, to deflect the slipstream away from the windscreen. That really caused an uproar. Cries of ―Nonsense!‖ and ―Impossible!‖ filled the air, as I had suspected. ―So it looks like four pounds a second, then,‖ was my last remark as I left. It was obvious (to me, at any rate) that the brass would not accept it. Why, only the other day my spies had told me of a meeting called by an irate chief designer for heads of departments, to berate them about the vast amount of air being bled from the engine compressors, some of it for stuff he had never heard of, and also for the proliferating number of air intakes scattered all over the place. To toss another four pounds a second into this toxic brew would be suicidal—just another half-baked idea from some Johnny-come-lately intellectual twit (one of the politer things I have been called), particularly if there was no evidence to back it up. There was always the chance that I might be able to track down some article in The Aircraft Engineer, or maybe a Farnborough report dealing with the matter, into which I could plug some numbers before the witch hunting started, or maybe my pal at Farnborough would get his flowmeter in time to justify my assertion. Or, of course, the project could be cancelled before the eggs hit the fan. I tell, you, this is no game for sissies. Just a few more notes on this matter, before it starts boring everyone to death. I had gone over to the assembly shed, having heard that the English Electric rear end had finally arrived, and keen to see the complete aircraft, whilst casting an eye on the nose, to see what would be involved in changing its shape. Once again I had arrived at a critical point in British aviation, which does not appear to have featured in any of the history books, for some reason. To everyone‘s surprise except mine, the two halves would

158 TSR-2 not fit. All the draughtsmen were milling around, and I offered up a quick prayer that this would finally teach them to turn out proper engineering drawings, not just scribbles to make up a weekly quota. Quietly melting from the scene before they could start blaming me for it, I slid round to the sharp end and had a good look at the windscreen. By this time I had found out (don‘t ask, don‘t tell) that this was the first to be delivered, for which they had paid the Pilkington Glass people a million pounds, which was quite a lot of money in those days. I gathered that this was because, not only was it armoured, but it embodied one of the first gold film laminates, which served the dual purpose of de-icing the outside and de- fogging the inside. No messing with that baby, then. The worst thing you can do is change anything, once having placed a subcontract, because then the subcontractor has you by the—er— throat, and your heart and mind must follow. Then there was the forward-looking radar, which started about an inch in front of the windscreen, so I would have had Ferranti to contend with as well. No, it would have had to be done in the preliminary design phase, and it wasn‘t, so that‘s that. Then John and I went to Farnborough to have a look at the cockpit air conditioning rig they were operating. It was certainly an impressive sight; a complete TSR-2 nose section connected to a controlled air supply, with a white-coated technician taking readings from a number of thermocouples distributed around the cockpit. Not what I had hoped to see at all. It was a perfect replica of what my pal in the drawing office had done. The technician reminded me irresistibly of Roger at Frigidaire, taking his readings. He would no more have dreamed of altering the design that of flying to the moon. I had hoped to see boxes full of alternative air distribution galleries, controllable air inlets (punkah louvers, Jim used to call them, as found on all the best airliners), and a few RAF officers lounging around waiting for their turn to sit in and make rude remarks about the comfort level. Dammit all, we were supposed to be providing a shirt-sleeve environment. How were we supposed to know if we were succeeding unless someone sat in the damned thing and told us they were comfortable? I thought about it for a few minutes, finally realizing that I had no hope whatever of changing what was going on. Just another

159 NUTS AND BOLTS brick in the wall (Pink Floyd). For a brilliant and sympathetic insight into the way they did things at the R.A.E., read Nevil Shute‘s novel No Highway. In our case, the whole thing was a complete waste of time. In a despondent mood, I travelled back with John, who I think was himself a bit disappointed. To take my mind off it, I got him going on the Spanish Armada, knowing it was a great hobby of his, about which he had an encyclopaedic knowledge. I found it quite fascinating, and could listen to him for hours going on about it, but there lurking in the background was the recollection of the promise I had made to Roly Beamont. I knew that the first time he felt a wave of hot, humid air or, even worse, a blast of snowflakes (which has been known to happen), he would be after me with a machete, and there would be no place to hide. Realizing that there was nothing I could do about it, I put it behind me and started thinking seriously about an unexpected development which had just cropped up. Gwyn T came to see me, and announced that he was negotiating to buy a small company with an excellent machine shop and many contacts in industry, whose owner was retiring. At present he was two thousand pounds short; if I would like to buy in, he could close the deal. He painted a glowing picture of how I could do my designs, and go in at the weekends to supervise their manufacture, while he would be on the road getting orders. The shop foreman had agreed to stay and run the place when neither of us was there. If things went well, I might even want to go in fulltime, which would be terrific...and so on. I told Inge about it and, as always, she made no attempt to influence my decision. We could just about raise the money, and were holding our own financially, thanks to being able to live in a tied cottage, but a little more on the side would be very welcome. For obvious reasons of continuity we kept the same name, and so began my final attempt to have my own company, as a director and junior partner in Alexander Bros (Engineers) Ltd. And then occurred a situation which led to my achieving what I can modestly describe as a tour de force, which can have few equals in this business. It came to my attention that there was a requirement for an oxygen connector, to connect the pilot‘s oxygen mask with the aircraft supply. The main stipulation was that the connector must have zero pressure drop, the Institute of Aviation Medicine having

160 TSR-2 decreed that aircrew flying the current generation of high-speed aircraft needed a higher oxygen flow, and the best way to achieve this within the current space constraints was to eliminate all restrictions in the supply system. Thus all the existing connectors were unsuitable, because they all embodied some form of self- sealing. Anyway, it looked like what I believe is called today a market niche, so I got to work on a specification. Not that it was any of my business, but nobody else seemed to want to touch it, and in any case I had, by now, pretty well cornered the market in specification writing. The specification was duly issued, and nobody queried it, so I got down to designing it. This involved many late evenings at home, immersed in tables of O-ring and groove sizes, spring design data, tolerances for various fits.... God is in the details, as someone once remarked. Finally I finished the drawings and persuaded a friend in the drawing office to reproduce them. Couldn‘t just slide into the print room and snitch a couple of Xeroxes in those days. I think the process was called dyeline photocopying; I know it stank of ammonia for a few hours afterwards. Then I started going into Alexander Bros on weekends to go through the drawings with the foreman, who would make them through the week, until finally I had a set of parts. It was Gwyn‘s job to obtain materials whilst on his sales rounds, and to place orders with other firms for specialist parts, so he duly brought me in a set of ball bearings (well, actually the balls that go into the bearings, but everyone calls them ball bearings, so I plead common usage). Also, he ordered some outer sleeve springs from a local spring-making firm; I asked him particularly to point out to them the importance of the outside diameter, although I had festooned my drawing with notes drawing attention to this. At last came the day when I had a complete set of parts. I was like a kid with a new Meccano set. This was another milestone for me—the first aircraft component I had not only specified, designed and made, but if Gwyn could sell it to Vickers while I was still working there, I would most likely be responsible for its approval testing. As I remarked earlier, a veritable tour de force. The outer sleeve spring was too big! I could have spit. The foreman, a friendly, understanding type, showed me a trick he had learned as an apprentice for reducing the diameter of a spring, which he

161 NUTS AND BOLTS proceeded to do, thus enabling me to complete the first assembly. It worked perfectly. Push on, with a Rolls-Royce type click, pull off no problem—just what I had hoped for. A smart-looking, workmanlike job. I have it still, in my desk. I let fly at Gwyn next time I saw him, about the spring. Am I the only one who can read drawings around here, so forth. He calmed me down, took the springs back to the supplier, and came back with a set which did conform to the drawing. The next stage was to get it type tested, for which a facility existed not too far away. We had agreed that I would handle it, and so, one day, I found myself facing Mr. B, in charge of type-testing aircraft components, whom I recognized instantly as Corporal B, who had been in charge of the ground crew who serviced the Nottingham University Air Squadron Tiger Moths when I was Cadet Pilot Under-Officer Tysoe. If he recognized me he gave no sign. The whole thing was kept strictly official. He showed me round the facility, and explained the various devices he would be using. There was a little machine which would couple and uncouple the connector a preset number of times, after which a leak test would be done. Another would bang it around a bit, and then it would go into the climate test chamber, where it would be heated, cooled and sprayed with all sorts of unspeakable bugs. One of these—aspergillus niger—stands out in my memory, because I was to come across it many years later, in a totally different context. I left it with him, and resigned myself to a few weeks of waiting. Finally he called me in, and said he was sorry but the connector had failed the type test. I was thunderstruck. ―B-b-but why?‖ ―Well, your balls went rusty.‖ Somehow, I refrained from looking down. ―How can that be?‖ ―Well,‖ he said, ―I can only assume that they were not of aircraft approved material.‖ This time I really tore into Gwyn. ―Where the hell did you get those ball bearings???‖ ―Take it easy, John, you know as well as I do that all ball bearings are stainless steel.‖ ―WHERE???‖ ―Well, at the local ironmongers, if you must know.‖

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―Are you aware that stuff we make for aircraft has to be made of aircraft-approved materials?‖ ―Yes, but do you know how much that stuff costs?‖ By this time I was just about gibbering. ―Well, you may have saved ten bob, but you cost us the type test, and now we have to do it all again, and it‘s going to cost us!‖ He still didn‘t get it, so I calmed down enough to explain that there were many kinds of stainless steel. There was the kind you made knives and forks from, but which was useless for anything else. There was a special kind which did not react with hydrogen peroxide, but any other kind would set it off. The kind I wanted was what was used in aero- engine bearings, NOT BLOODY ROLLER SKATES. To round this off, the correct ball bearings were fitted, the connector passed its type test, Gwyn sold it to Vickers, and it was on the TSR-2 for such flying as it was allowed to do. I recalled uneasily a saying I had picked up from a James Bond film: ―First time it‘s happenstance. Second time it‘s coincidence. Third time it‘s enemy action.‖ I reluctantly resolved to keep a sharp lookout for a possible third time, and then had to concentrate on things that were happening back at the ranch. It wasn‘t that there was any question of the TSR-2 being cancelled, just that certain members of the staff (last in, first out, usually) were being asked to consider moving to another part of the Vickers organization. Unfortunately the civil side was full up. No alternative was mentioned, but the unmistakable threat hung in the air. Oh well—time to move on. I discussed it with Inge that evening, and we agreed that the best thing seemed to be to go fulltime at Alexander Bros, at least for the present, and see how things turned out. Meanwhile I could be scouting around. At least we would be able to enjoy our lifestyle at Bankside Cottage for a bit longer. But then fate hit us with a double whammy. Brigadier Nielsen was being posted back to England, having completed his stint in BAOR, which of course meant that Peggy and Willy would have to leave, and, by extension, us, since I rated the chances of him keeping us on, after five minutes of conversation, as less than my dad winning the football pools. As usual, Inge had a solution. She had been nursing Lady MacMillan, mother of Mac the Knife (sorry—The Right

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Honourable Harold MacMillan, sometime Prime Minister of England), one of whose farm cottages had just become vacant, and we could move there any time we wanted. I had always been amazed at the way in which Inge always managed to produce a solution when we were faced with a crisis. I now realize in retrospect that she must have devoted considerable time and effort in preparing lines of retreat against the time when I would stop mucking about and make up my mind that some drastic action was required. What a gal! And so ended my stint at Vickers. The chaps in the group gave me a rousing send-off, and presented me with a pewter pint pot bearing the legend:

JOHN TYSOE A FRIEND OF BITTER WEYBRIDGE 1963

I have it beside me as I write, filled with Boddington‘s Pub Ale. Then we said our goodbyes to Peggy and Willy, a sad time indeed. It turned out that Willy was up for retirement, and they had decided to live in Bermuda. We were to meet up with Peggy again, many years later.

164

CHAPTER 9: ALEXANDER BROS

y first few weeks at Alexander Bros were quite busy ones, what with answering the phone and working on an M assignment Gwyn had brought in, which was a quick- disconnect for a 5,000 psi hydraulic system for a Centurion tank. This was another challenge, there being no such coupling currently available capable of taking the pressure. The design itself was rather complicated, and of course the stress levels had to be calculated very precisely. It kept me out of mischief for a month; finally Ted the foreman started to make the bits, and I came up for air, only to find that things were not quite as they should be. We were quite friendly by this time, and one day he came to me with something obviously on his mind. He was wondering if I could have a word with the boss about his habit of breaking into a production run to make a one-off item ―to clinch a fabulous order‖. I had no idea this was going on, but I knew where he was coming from. We had some state-of-the-art automatic machine tools, and I knew it sometimes took a day or two to set them up for a long production run. If this setting was disturbed in any way, the whole thing had to be done again. I thanked him for letting me know, and promised to do my best to sort it out, although I had no idea how to approach the matter. Finally I decided on a light-hearted act. One evening when we were having a pint before going home I came out with something like, ―You know, Gwyn, you really shouldn‘t keep breaking the autos down—it‘s not good for the digestion—or the profits.‖ He didn‘t tell me to mind my own business in so many words—he just kept changing the subject. ―Oh, come on, John, can‘t we forget business and enjoy a drink together? Let‘s talk about it in the morning.‖ Another burr that got under the saddle again concerned the handling of production runs. I should explain that, in our type of business, it was common practice, in the case of production runs of several thousand items, to measure the output in terms of weight,

165 NUTS AND BOLTS with an allowable tolerance of plus or minus one percent of the actual number ordered—specifically, of course, so that no one would ever have to count the damned things. One such incident I can recall. We had an order for 5,000 of those bolts with a round top, a square shank and a threaded stem, which are used to hold garden shears together. The actual manufacture took very little time, but Gwyn had insisted that we must produce exactly 5,000— one percent—and we had to count them. Words fail me. Finally, and, I suppose, inevitably, the ―third time‖ turned up. No doubt readers who have followed me this far will be wondering what took it so long. We had a major order from Plessey, for a thing called a Yagi Aerial. What it was for, I was never able to discover. It was like a monstrous version of today‘s TV antennas, with the crosspieces made of half-inch aluminium tube ranging in length from about twenty feet to ten feet, which had to be bent through 180 degrees at the ends. This involved some heat treatment, so I looked at the material specification on the drawings, and made arrangements with a firm up the road which specialized in such matters, and then got on with my main job, which was to set up a jig for producing colour bands at intervals along the main strut. So the project proceeded until one day there was an irate phone call from the heat treatment firm demanding to know what I thought I was playing at. It seemed that, every time they had tried to bend the tubing following the heat treatment I had specified, it had cracked. It turned out that Gwyn had obtained a bunch of half-inch aluminium tubing from a local scrap yard. That was definitely the third time. If we went on like this, it was obvious that we would go down the tubes sooner or later. I told Inge about it that night, and said it was time to move on, and I would start looking into it tomorrow. Why not tonight, she said, handing me a letter received that day from Jim, who had kept in touch with us since the end of the Avro group. He told us he had obtained a job as chief project engineer at Delaney Gallay, and thanked me for the experience he had gained in my group. I knew Delaney Gallay well, as suppliers of heat exchangers to the aircraft industry, based at Cricklewood, north of London, near the Handley Page airfield, and felt rather pleased that his time with me had enabled him to obtain what sounded like a first-class job. I wrote

166 ALEXANDER BROS back, explaining my predicament, and asking if he would mind letting me know if there were any other vacancies. He responded quickly, saying that he was pleased to hear that I was available, because they were looking for a project engineer to work on proposals to enable them to break into the automotive air conditioning market. He said he would put in a good word for me if I were to apply, and enclosed a ―sits-vac‖ ad for reference. I tarted up my resume a little, emphasizing the air conditioning bits and not laying too much emphasis on the rocket motors, and sent it in. Having done that, I began to wonder what was going on. Since when had Delaney Gallay been into cars? And they weren‘t in Cricklewood at all, they were in Barking, Essex, which was, I thought, somewhere along the Thames Estuary. A little research revealed that they were a major offshoot of the aircraft company, specializing in heaters for Ford cars. All right, then. So now they wanted to expand into the air conditioning side. Sounded good. A few days later they wrote back, thanking me for my application, and if I would kindly forward a copy of my university degree, they would review it and then arrange for an interview. I was a bit miffed about that; this was the first time anyone had asked to see it, and I had not the faintest idea where it was. In a cardboard box somewhere, most probably. I spent an anxious day or two rummaging around, and finally found it, in a battered folder containing all my letters of engagement and suchlike. I fired it off immediately, and a week later found myself sitting in the managing director‘s office being interviewed by him and the chief engineer. It was definitely a case of being in the right place at the right time. After a few minutes conversation, they asked me when could I start, and said that their chief project engineer would explain my duties, he having already told them that, in his opinion, I would be the ideal man for the position. I renewed my acquaintance with Jim, and over a pint I asked him what was all the b-s about my degree. He explained that they had almost been bamboozled by a crap artist who had claimed all sorts of impressive qualifications, and it was only by chance that someone had pointed out that one of his degrees was from a place that only granted diplomas. Upon closer investigation, his entire resume turned out to be fraudulent, so you couldn‘t really blame

167 NUTS AND BOLTS them. More to the point, he offered to put me up until such time as I could get a house organised, which was very good of him. This seemed to be the end of my time in the aircraft industry, but what the heck? We might have a bit of security and stability at last. Ha!

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CHAPTER 10: DELANEY GALLAY

t was agreed that Inge would remain at Farm Cottage until I had organized a house, and so I entered a new world. Jim I showed me round, starting with the experimental shop, where I saw, rather to my surprise, a Volkswagen Beetle, which looked as if it had been bashed around a bit. Jim explained that my first assignment would be to complete the development of a heating system. Oh Lord! Not another Beetle heating system! Anyone who has experienced the earlier Beetles will recall that the system provided by VW was completely useless, comprising a tin air jacket round the exhaust pipes at the back, through which air was blown into the passenger compartment. Not only useless, but sometimes dangerous, as when coasting down a steep hill with the wind behind you, exhaust gas could be sucked into the engine cooling air intake, and then into the car. My personal recollection of one harebrained scheme to heat the Beetle took the form of a gasoline-fuelled heater, which gave me a fright when it caught fire and burned through a hydraulic brake line before I could get the extinguisher on it. So, I could see their point—if it could be done, it would be a very lucrative product. Meanwhile Jim was trying to shoehorn an air conditioning system into the car, the problem being that all available components had been developed for use on such cars as Cadillacs, and in particular the compressor was a great lump which he couldn‘t squeeze into the engine compartment without cutting a hole in the hood, and he didn‘t think they would like that very much. The impetus for this project was that Volkswagen of America, with whom they were associated, could not sell any cars that did not have air conditioning. All very interesting, and I couldn‘t wait to get started. Jim introduced me to the chap who was in charge of the shop, Dennis, who reminded me instantly of the brilliant portrait of the shop steward by Peter Sellers in Lucky Jim.

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Immaculately clad in a dazzling white lab coat, aloof, precise, very correct behaviour—it was clear (to me) that he didn‘t think much of engineers, and if I got on the wrong side of this character, it was goodbye to getting anything done. Well, so be it. Gang warily, to borrow the motto of the Scottish Automobile Association. I had started my search for a house and, as I didn‘t have a car, Jim was driving me round looking at places. He mentioned that there were bargains to be had on Canvey Island, quite close to where he lived in Benfleet, and after a couple of trips I found a pleasant bungalow for sale at 2,400 pounds. With our combined salaries, there was no problem arranging a mortgage, and within a month we were in. That month was a very interesting one for me. At home, Jim‘s family introduced me to a whole new world of TV watching (―trogging‖). Their favourite was all-in wrestling, and it was fascinating to watch them on the edge of their seats, including the young daughter, shouting things like ―Tear his arm off!‖ and ―Break his leg!‖ whilst knowing that they knew it was all an act. Their second favourite was pop group concerts, and it was here that I first heard The Mamas and the Papas with ―Monday Monday‖, and The Animals with ―The House of the Rising Sun‖. For getting to work, Jim and his friend Mac, the chief draughtsman (!)—peace, reader, he was the exception that proved the rule, a very pleasant man—took it in turns to drive in along the Southend arterial road, and they gladly accommodated me. When Jim was driving, we would bowl merrily along until his engine sputtered and died due to lack of fuel, whereupon he would top up the tank from a gallon can which he carried in the trunk, and off we would go. When I commented on the large number of derelict cars lining the road, it was explained that, if you were unfortunate enough to break down along the road, by the time you had managed to arrange recovery, all the wheels would have gone, and by the end of the following day everything that could be removed had gone. There was also a very good electric train service from Benfleet to Barking, which we often took. It went very fast, was always on time, and most of its passengers were people commuting to work from around Southend, a very pleasant part of the world. Nearly all of them were reading the Daily Telegraph, open at the ―Sits Vac‖

170 DELANEY GALLAY page, although some were attempting the crossword. I never saw anyone trying it in ink. It was a great day when Inge and the kids arrived. They loved the place from the word go. The kids played on the beach—yes, it was just like being at the seaside, the Thames Estuary was about a mile wide at this point, and you could just about see the other side. Big ships sailed to and fro, and the seawall was an exciting thing to climb. Quite a change from the leafy lanes of Surrey. And just down the road was the Lobster Smack, a lovely pub right next to the sea wall, which became our favourite local haunt. Forcing myself back to the work in hand, my enquiries showed that some guru at Cricklewood had conceived the idea of a steam heating system—no, wait, don‘t throw the book away—let me finish. A miniature boiler, forming part of the exhaust system would raise steam, which would then be passed to a condenser in the front of the car, the latent heat of condensation being blown into the passenger compartment, while the condensate would be pumped back to the boiler to complete the cycle. I thought it best to get in touch with whoever had thought this one up, before doing anything drastic. I introduced myself, and said there was one thing I would like to clear up before I started. Why, I asked him, had he laid so much emphasis on it being a sealed system? In my view it would be better to... He broke in. ―Of course it has to be sealed, it‘s obvious,‖ and hung up on me. Oh well, on my own again. Screw you, I thought. My system is going to be an open one, so that I can muck about with the operating temperatures and pressures, and top it up if it springs a leak. On this basis I set to work. First, I estimated the heat available from the engine; not very much. Then the heat input required to make the interior reasonably civilized in the average European winter. After that, the steam flow required to produce this input, and finally the surface area of a heat exchanger to raise this amount of steam. It was this latter figure which seemed to me to put the kiss of death on the whole project. It was enormous! All right—so it was going to be a case of finding the best that could be done, and presenting it to the brass, in the hope that they would redirect their efforts in a more practical direction. The first stages were easy enough. I purloined a Ford heater block from one

171 NUTS AND BOLTS of the many bins lying around full of them , and took it into the experimental shop, where I asked Dennis very apologetically if he could spare the time to advise me on whether it would be possible to mount this block in the front passenger area, with a fan to blow air into the car. I could almost see his feathers preen. Yes, he would certainly give it his full attention, and would I care to indicate which particular fan I had in mind. He led me to a cupboard in which were several dozen fans of all shapes and sizes. Heaven help me, I had never before seen a tangential flow fan, and as soon as I set eyes on them, I knew that was the kind. Long and slim rather than short and fat, it could obviously be accommodated almost anywhere in the dashboard region of a car. I pointed to one, saying it looked about right, but unfortunately we did not seem to have any design data on this type, and could he inform me where I might obtain such. He opened a well-stocked filing cabinet and handed me a Torrington catalogue containing page after page of performance graphs This was one of the best bits of luck I had while with the company, for it stood me in good stead later on, as will be related. I then turned my attention to the boiler. As mentioned previously, it was impossible to obtain the heat transfer area theoretically required, so the work involved stuffing as much tubing as possible into the space available. The company had hired a bright young garage mechanic to act as our fitter, maker of parts and so on. Unfortunately I cannot remember his name, so I‘ll call him Dave. Together we set to work on our development programme. The first thing was to obtain from a nearby VW dealer three of the tin air jackets which fitted around the exhaust system to form the so-called heater. I would design the boiler using copper tubing of various diameters, Dave would make it, fit it in one of the air jackets, install the assembly into the car, call me in, and we would take it for a run round the block. All this, as may be appreciated, took a long time. When it was running smoothly I asked Jim if there was something else I could be getting on with, while waiting for Dave to complete the current installation. Jim looked relieved and said that he was fully occupied with an air conditioning system for the new Ford Cortina, and would I look into a request they had received from Aston Martin, for an air conditioner for their new

172 DELANEY GALLAY

DB-5. Would I ever! I cleared my desk, made sure that Dave would be okay for a few days, and hot-footed it down to Newport Pagnell. At the Aston Martin works I was welcomed by the chief engineer, a very pleasant chap who took me on a tour of the factory. They were building their cars five at a time, and there they were—five of the finest examples of automotive engineering in the world—awaiting my inspection. I fought down the feeling that I had died and gone to heaven, and continued to engage him in conversation. One of the things I asked him was whether he was contemplating supercharging, in view of the emerging technology of turbocharging, based on the rotating assemblies of cold-air units, with which I was familiar. That got his attention, and he told me that he had considered it, but since he was already getting 110 BHP per litre, any increase due to supercharging would not be worth the effort. We had lunch in their canteen, which was better than a lot of restaurants I know, during which he regaled me with his latest problem, which was how to stop the back end from lifting at 200 mph. He had hoped to do it by shaping the rear of the body appropriately, but wind tunnel tests had shown that whatever shape it was, it would still lift. So, he spent a lot of his time at MIRA, trying out different spoilers. I knew about MIRA—the Motor Industry Research Association test track based, as were many research facilities of the time, on a refurbished wartime bomber aerodrome. It was not just a test track—it had climate test chambers, a wind tunnel, dynamometers, and all sorts of goodies, paid for by a sort of co-op, to which all the car makers contributed. My turn would come—I hoped. He told me he hoped to get it sorted out before the delivery deadline set for his latest customer, who was George Harrison. I must have jumped or something, because he said, ―I know what you‘re thinking, but they are the ones with the money—the only ones who can afford to buy our cars, and they buy our cars because they GO!‖ I mentioned tentatively Colin Chapman‘s work on streamlining the underside of the car. ―Yes‖ he said, ―we already do that, but we go a lot faster than Colin, you know.‖ Finally he came to the point. He told me he was taking a DB-5 to Italy for his summer holiday, and would like to have an air conditioning system fitted, so that he could evaluate it under

173 NUTS AND BOLTS pleasant conditions. Could I provide that? I assured him that it was possible. ―Good, then,‖ he said, ―I will get someone to deliver a DB-5 to your works in the next day or two.‖ I floated home on cloud nine, and told Jim about it. He was pleased, being himself occupied with meetings, writing reports and so forth. Truly, the shoe was on the other foot. Now he was experiencing what I had to put up with at Avros! We had a good laugh about it. He warned me that P (the managing director) had been sniffing round the VW, and he hoped I would have something to show soon. I went to see Dave, who had finished the installation of my latest design, so we took it for a drive round the block. Just the same as the others—a bit of a wet fart out of the front; slightly better than the existing system, but nowhere near what we wanted. When we got back, Dave hesitantly mentioned that he knew a chap who had a workshop in Barking, and who could manipulate tubing into any shape you liked. If I would care to do a layout of what would be required to give the maximum area in the space available, no matter how difficult it might appear to make, Dave was sure he would be able to do it. One last try, then. I sketched a tightly wound coil, which had been at the back of my mind, but had been rejected because of the impossibility of making it. If done, it would have three times the surface area of previous layouts, but I wasn‘t holding my breath. Dave took me to see the chap, who certainly had an impressive workshop, and seemed highly competent. Give him a week or two, he said, and he would see what he could do. When we got back, there was an Aston Martin DB-5 sitting in front of the experimental shop, being admired by all and sundry. I couldn‘t wait for the morning. Next day I spent with the hood up, contemplating the mighty engine, notepad in hand, trying to figure out the best way of arranging for the compressor drive. Most importantly, it should not adversely affect the vibration characteristics of the engine, neither should it interfere with other servicing functions, whilst ensuring that the valves were easily accessible for charging and resting purposes. In the course of producing a lot of sketches, I noticed some tapped holes in the front face of the crankcase casting, which seemed intended for some kind of bracket. They looked ideally

174 DELANEY GALLAY placed for my purposes, but better to make sure first. The chief engineer sounded pleased. ―By all means—they were some first thoughts which were too much trouble to delete.‖ After that, it was a matter of a few hours to draw up a bracket, book out a compressor, hand the lot to Dave and tell him to get on with it. My attention then shifted to the driver‘s seat, the part I had been looking forward to. A couple of days were spent sitting in there, alternately dreaming of doing 200 mph along the Autostrada del Sol and building up with cardboard and masking tape my vision of the air conditioning control console. With the help of Jim and his large collection of catalogues, I was able to obtain two of the spiffiest punkah louvers you ever saw, and an evaporator coil which just fitted nicely into my console. Then I made a drawing of the whole thing, and, believe it or not, handed the whole lot over to Mac the chief draughtsman, asking him to have it drawn up and issued to the shops for manufacture of a prototype. Can‘t take a chance with a thing like this—it has to be perfect. In any case, I already told you that Mac was the exception that proved the rule. When it came, even though I say it myself, it looked marvellous—the nearest approach to the centre console of an airliner that I could manage. Sprayed flat black, with the two gleaming punkah louvers taking up most of the front face, and fancy handles controlling the proportions of fresh to recirculated air, and the usual on-off, temperature and fan speed controls, it made an elegant addition to the car interior. After that, it was just a case of turning it all over to Dave, to install and pipe up. I rounded the whole thing off by charging and testing it (having been taught how to do this by Jim at Avros), and then the ultimate experience, taking it for a test drive. Only the absence of a nearby motorway prevented me from taking it up to 200 mph, but I tell you—if I could‘ve I would‘ve!. Then I offered Dave a drive, which did my relations with him no harm at all, and finally turned it over to Jim for his approval. He drove it around for a couple of days—I think he took the brass for rides, but that was his prerogative, of course—then announced that everything was in order. I called the chief engineer to tell him his car was ready, and he sounded really pleased; he was hoping to take his holiday in a week or two, but it all depended upon the car being ready. In very short order a team of technicians

175 NUTS AND BOLTS arrived in one of their Le Mans support trucks to check it out and take it away, after which I breathed out for the first time in ages, offered up a quick prayer, and got on with my life. Life on Canvey Island was fun. I found out a lot of fascinating stuff about the place. There were vague memories of some kind of disaster; in 1953 an unprecedented North Sea surge into the Thames Estuary had caused the seawall to collapse, the island was inundated, and everyone had to be evacuated. There was a huge government enquiry, and it turned out that the contractor, like many before and since, had made a huge profit by not putting enough cement in the concrete mix. According to Private Eye, he is living in luxury on the Costa del Sol, having got out five minutes ahead of the cops. It seems that the whole island rises and falls six inches with the tides, and the building code requires that all structures be based on a reinforced concrete pad, so that the whole lot goes up and down with the tide. The island is connected to the mainland by one bridge, which is one lane wide. When the traffic lights fail there are horrendous backups. For years petitions have been circulated asking for a two- lane bridge. They may well have it by now—I sure hope so. However, it must be said at this point that, some twenty years later, in a third-world country, I saw a much more elegant solution to this problem, using an eight by four sheet of plywood. I often wonder who is smarter? There was a great boat building tradition on the island. While we were there we attended the launching of what was at the time the world‘s largest catamaran. Back at the works, I received word that our tube-bending friend had finished the coil. It was a beauty, slightly flattened, but that didn‘t matter. Dave lost no time in fixing it on to the car, and in due course we set off round the block, for the umpteenth time. Bingo! A wave of hot air issued from the unit, hotter that any I had previously experienced in a Beetle. We‘d done it! I treated Dave to a pint in the local pub, and we drove back very pleased with ourselves. There was obviously a lot of work ahead—first and foremost how were we going to get this coil mass-produced at a price VW were willing to pay. Then we had to find out how much the performance would be degraded when antifreeze was added, since

176 DELANEY GALLAY the heat transfer coefficient of antifreeze was less than that of plain water. Also a lot of running time must be accumulated to see what might go wrong. I was in the middle of these introspections when in walked P, the managing director, to see how we were getting on. I was pleased to take him for a run round the block, when he was able to feel the blast of hot air. When we returned, he was fairly bubbling with enthusiasm. ―This is splendid—absolutely splendid! We must show it to Volkswagen straight away!‖ Oh no!! ―But sir...‖ ―Sorry...have to dash...meeting you know...well done,‖ and he was gone. Next day he told me he had booked us on the car ferry from Dover for the following week. I had an awful sense of premonition. Burned across my brain was one of my guiding principles: ―If it works perfectly the first time, you have obviously overlooked something.‖ What was I going to do? Well, I know now what I should have done. I should have refused to go, explained what still had to be done, and stood my ground. However, when you are a relative newcomer, with a wife, three kids and a mortgage, your options are rather curtailed. Even now, whenever I think back to this unfortunate episode, I squirm with embarrassment. Had I been given a little more time, I could have discovered what I had overlooked, and blown the whistle on the whole project... Well, I wasn‘t so I didn‘t, so let‘s get it over with. After an uneventful trip, we arrived at the VW works. Sorry I can‘t make it more exciting, or at least descriptive, but the only thing I remember about the trip was that I cannot remember anything about it. Strange, isn‘t it? I mean, here we were, two fairly well-educated people, in a small car for hours on end, presumably talking to each other, yet I cannot recall a word that was said. Different worlds, I suppose. Anyway, we were welcomed by the chief engineer in person, who quickly arranged for our car to be taken to their experimental shop, and we would talk about that tomorrow, but meanwhile, perhaps some refreshment? This turned out to be one of the finest dinners I have ever enjoyed. It took place in their dining hall (no ―canteens‖ here), and I rapidly found out that ―Fau-Weh Ochsenschwantzsuppe‖(VW Oxtail soup) was the envy of chefs across Europe. Years later I worked with Inge in

177 NUTS AND BOLTS an attempt to duplicate it, and sometimes came close, but never quite reached those glorious heights. After the feast, the reckoning. Early next morning I was in the lab with the technicians. They had the car on a dynamometer, were running the engine flat out and crawling all over it with temperature gauges, air flow anemometers, leak detectors—you name it, they had it. Not a whiff of hot air could be detected emerging from the system. I honestly felt that they were feeling it was their fault; I had said that it worked, therefore they were doing something wrong. I gave them permission to strip down the exhaust heat exchanger and unseal the system. It was bone dry. Yet their leak detectors had found nothing. Oh, I knew what had happened, all right—it had worked perfectly the first time. God! How stupid can you get ??? In sombre mood, I made my way back to the management side of things. By this time, Bob B, the European rep for Volkswagen of America had joined our happy group, and a meeting was about to commence. There they all were—the Volkswagen top brass, in their lederhosen and Tyrolean hats, while we were sweating in our business suits. The meeting was chaired by the chief engineer, Herr Ruge, whom I will remember with gratitude as long as I live; he was truly one of nature‘s gentlemen, and very obviously appreciated the fact that I spoke German with him the whole time, whereas neither of the others knew a word of the language, and not only that, they made it plain that such important discussions should be carried out in the only language suitable for a gentleman, i.e., English. Herr Ruge opened the meeting by introducing his interpreter and the members of his staff, and asked me to report on the morning‘s work. Speaking entirely in German (which I had been thinking about for most of the previous night), I explained that the system had failed to function, that I was terribly sorry to have wasted his time and that of his colleagues, I thought it might be some kind of metallurgical problem, but had not been given sufficient time to investigate in greater detail. During the course of this, I had used a German word for ―pipe‖ which was more appropriate to a four-foot sewer pipe than a half-inch copper pipe. Herr Ruge had pointed this out, very politely, and I had responded by saying, ―Oh blow—if Inge finds out I made a silly mistake like

178 DELANEY GALLAY that, she‘ll kick me out of bed.‖ This broke them all up, and, when it became obvious that neither of the other two had the slightest idea what was going on, the Germans relaxed and started to pass ribald remarks among themselves. Finally P, unable to stand it any longer, took charge via the interpreter, and said, ―Mr. Ruge, my company will give you very favourable terms with respect to our equipment, if, in future, negotiations can be conducted in English.‖ Herr Ruge, summoning all his limited command of English, gave a reply which I have often used subsequently, and will remember to my dying day. It is part of my family folklore: ―Herr P, zee preis iss too high.‖ After the meeting, Ruge told us that he had asked his cost estimating experts to look at the system, once it had been stripped down, and their opinion was that, while it was a clever design, the cost of production would make the Beetle uncompetitive. How right they were, as I subsequently found out. In any case, he went on, they were about ready to introduce their new car, to replace the Beetle. This one has a liquid cooled engine, so that the heater problem is eliminated, but he would be interested in a proposal for an air conditioning system. Would Mr. Tysoe like to take one back with him, and we would look forward to seeing him again, with an installed system for our consideration? Well, that had them. They couldn‘t very well fire me, although that‘s what I richly deserved. So that was how it was left. P and his American pal flew off to some Ford plant that was making a thing called a Taunus, I think, which had one of our heaters in it, and I enjoyed another day in Wolfsburg while they got all the papers ready for exporting the car. They gave me a tour of the factory, and I stood ―on the bridge‖, watching six lanes of Beetles advancing towards the exit, where they were loaded on to railway wagons at the rate of one a minute, I think. A huge clock face above the exit ramp kept the score, which was currently standing at some enormous number of millions. And then there was the delightful bonus of being able to enjoy another day sampling the fare in one of Europe‘s best dining rooms. Next morning I drove away from Wolfsburg in a brand new prototype, with a sheaf of papers half an inch thick, feeling almost

179 NUTS AND BOLTS at peace with myself again. I drove through the night, mainly because there was not a room to be had in any of the rest stops along the Autobahn, and caught an early car ferry, arriving in Dover around midmorning. Patiently I inched forward as the line of cars were cleared, and when I got to the head of the line, I was just about to drive off when a customs officer stopped me and said, ―We‘re impounding this car.‖ I will draw a veil over the next few minutes. I went home by train, told Inge what had happened, and went to bed. There was no pressing reason to go into work on the following day. I was back a day early because of the overnight drive, so I devoted the day to finding out who my MP was, writing him a letter, and preparing a report for the management. Now, in my lifetime there have been three MPs representing me whom I respected, and Bernard Braine, MP for South-East Essex, is at the top of the list. He wrote back immediately, expressing his deep concern that such a thing could happen, and informed me that he had been in touch with the Treasury Minister, or whatever ponce was supposed to be in charge of the cretins (beg pardon—Her Majesty‘s Customs and Excise), demanding an immediate enquiry and a rectification of the situation. Then the eggs hit the fan at Delaney Gallay. I was summoned to the presence and informed that a representative of H.M. Customs would be visiting to work out a solution, and I was required to attend the meeting, together with the sales manager, who was good at working out deals. Ha! I was still so filled with an overpowering rage and frustration that I had, as the saying goes, ―lost it‖. This won‘t be necessary, I told them, all they had to do was get the bloody car up here and let me get on with my job and, if there was the slightest scratch on it, I would report them to the police. As usual, the establishment won out, and I found myself in the sales manager‘s office, face to face with some smirky clown up from the snake pit. I ignored his proffered hand, sat down with my large notepad in front of me, and asked him his name, which I wrote down, together with the date and time, and sat there glowering at him. The sales manager tried desperately to make the thing go with a swing. ―Well, chaps, let‘s sort out this little, er, misunderstanding, then we can have a coffee, what?‖

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My turn. ―What‘s to sort out? They impounded my car. They are sabotaging our humble attempt to boost Britain‘s export trade. They ought to be—‖ ―Yes, yes, quite,‖ from the sales manager. Then old smirky had a go. I fixed him with what I hoped was a basilisk stare (although it‘s a bit difficult to judge when you don‘t have a mirror to practice with), and when he‘d finished I asked him, as if he hadn‘t spoken at all, what made him think that Volkswagen, one of the biggest and most successful car firms in the world, didn‘t know how to export cars? The sales manager made one last desperate effort. ―Well, gentlemen, it seems that we will have to agree to disagree, what? Ha ha ha.‖ At which point I picked up my stuff and left. The matter was never resolved to my satisfaction, and my connection with it finished a few days later, when they told me the car had been released, and was ready for me to pick up. Oh no, not me. As far as I was concerned they could bring it up themselves, or shove it into Dover harbour for all I cared. No way was I setting foot in that madhouse again...and so forth, until finally they stopped talking to me about it. Even after nearly half a century, thinking back to this low point in my career fills me with depression. I read everything I could find on the composition of exhaust gases, their effect on engineering materials, the properties of copper in the work-hardened state.... I won‘t bore you much longer, but just to say that I came to the conclusion that the tightly-wound copper coil had, under the onslaught of the highly corrosive products in the exhaust gas, become porous. This would not have been detectable to the VW technicians with their soapy-water leak checks. The inescapable conclusion was that, although the system worked as designed, the exhaust heat exchanger would have to be constructed of the highest grade of jet engine materials, and fabricated by the advanced processes used in that industry. In other words, the heater unit would have been worth more that the entire car. And I should have spotted this right at the start, and blown the whistle on the whole business. How I wished I hadn‘t slept through those metallurgy lectures at Nottingham! Too late now. Besides, the last act in the ―English Drama‖ was about to commence.

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Before going into that, another look at some of the good times we had on Canvey Island would be in order. Neil was a frequent visitor, and at the time I was a member of the Flairavia flying club, based at Biggin Hill, one of the few remaining clubs to have Tiger Moths. One day we decided to have a photographic flight, which he filmed from swinging the prop to the landing—I still have the eight-millimetre movie reel, which I run frequently. I made a beeline for Canvey Island, and upon arriving over our house I put the Tiger into a steep turn with Neil filming like mad. When we‘d had enough of that, I flew the return trip along the Thames, the route followed by the German bombers in the closing stages of the Battle of Britain and the start of the Blitz. I was climbing all the time, and when we reached 4,000 feet I put the Tiger into a spin, which he filmed from start to finish. It makes a great home movie, for those who like that sort of thing. On another occasion, we were on the beach with the kids, waiting for the Lobster Smack to open I suppose, and he took a photo of our first born, Carole, which won a prize in some competition, a print of which stands on my display shelf. Back to work. One morning, into the office came a giant bearded gentleman, immaculately dressed in navy blazer and sharp pants, who introduced himself as David Wisken, the new sales manager. Think of James Robertson Justice, and you won‘t be far out. I was alone in the office, Jim having just left on a month‘s jolly in Texas, to sort out some air conditioning problems with Bob B. I was sure I‘d seen him before, so I tried a welcoming tack. ―Are you by any chance Lt-Commander Wisken?‖ He looked at me with interest. ―Well,‖ he said, ―that was some time ago.‖ Being the only one there, I showed him round our facility, after which he took me to lunch. He told me that he was hoping to find an engineer who would have the time to assist him in a project he was working on with BMW in Germany, namely the design and installation of an air conditioning system for their latest sports saloon, the BMW 2000C. Well, I certainly had the time, and could sorely do with a sensible-sounding project to restore my credibility within the organization, so I agreed to look into it. A day or two later he breezed into the office, presumably to start the ball rolling, only to find me half immersed under sheets of calculations,

182 DELANEY GALLAY diagrams, sketches and whatnot, having just completed a cooling load estimate It was based on a general arrangement drawing of the BMW 2000 which had appeared in a motoring magazine loaned to me by a draughtsman who was also a motoring nut. W looked a bit taken aback. ―You don‘t mean you‘ve actually done a heat load?‖ ―Well,‖ I said, ―you‘ve got to start somewhere—where do you usually start?‖ ―Oh,‖ he said, ―I just call it two tons and get on with it.‖ I looked at my last page, and gave a wry grin. Minimum estimate 1.9, maximum 2.05, call it two tons for initial design purposes. ―Your guess seems to be as good as my guess.‖ We had a laugh about that, then he got down to business. He handed me some drawings received from the engineer in charge in Munich, Herr Hofele, showing the space available for the unit inside the car, on which he had sketched his idea of what it might look like. He was now concerned about more detailed stuff, such as lengths of system piping from the front end to the car interior, maximum space available for the condenser and so on, and wondered if I would be up to talking to this chap on the phone and sorting it out. His English was quite good, so I should be all right. I told him I would be all right anyway, which caused him to look at me sideways. He got on the phone—or, correction, please—he caused his secretary to get the number and put it through to him (I‘m moving in upper management circles now, by jiminy), and in due course he handed the phone to me. ―Guten Tag, Herr Hofele,‖ I began, ―Ich freue mich...‖ and so on. The entire conversation was conducted in German, and thank goodness I had spent all those hours with Inge boning up on the German words for various air conditioning expressions, using my much-thumbed copy of Collins English-German dictionary, quite the best I have seen for technical translation. We chatted away like old friends for quarter of an hour, during which I was scribbling numbers on a previously prepared sketch. It probably sounded better than it actually was, but my impression was that he was happier correcting my German than he would have been trying to express himself in English. Finally, I thanked him profusely and offered the phone to W. He shook his head, so I we ended on the gracious note adopted by Germans to terminate business meetings.

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I hoped for the opportunity to visit his beautiful city, and he said he would look forward to that, and would be delighted to show me round. I lost no time getting down to it, using the same procedure as for the Aston Martin, except that this time we didn‘t have a car to play with, so Dave and I set up a rig in the shop, using the pipe lengths and other information I had acquired from the phone call. One day I was mooching around in the shop, trying to find a leak in the system, and my standing in the firm suffered not the slightest when the tannoy went off loud and clear: ―Would Mr. Tysoe please go to the nearest phone to take a call from Aston Martin.‖ It was the chief engineer, calling to tell me how delighted he was with the air conditioning system, what a great holiday he had, and so forth. He finished by asking if I would kindly put him through to the managing director, which I was very pleased to do—you bet. The prototype system was produced quite quickly, because by now everyone was used to me and things went with a swing. And so we set forth to Munich, the system travelling in two boxes in the freight compartment. We were met at the airport and immediately introduced to Munich hospitality. Not in-house, as at VW, but in a nearby beer garden, where huge piles of sausages and sauerkraut were consumed, washed down with the crisp, flavourful German beer I had grown to like, or the heavenly Rhine wine, or both. Next day W left us to visit more of his European contacts, and I spent the day with Hofele doing a preliminary fit of the system into a brand new C2000. What a lovely car. In the evening he fulfilled his promise to show me around. We had been chatting about recent European history all day, and he recognized that I was not grinding an axe or pushing an agenda or trying to start something, but was genuinely interested, so he took me where I wanted to go. First stop was the street where Hitler‘s first attempt at a putsch had been broken up by police gunfire—Adolf was thrown into the slammer, where he wrote Mein Kampf, while his second in charge, Hermann Goering, had been shot in the groin, which had put him on cocaine for the rest of his life and reduced him from an honourable WWI fighter pilot, sometime commander of the Richthofen Staffel, to a fantasy-obsessed jerk. Of course, it was lucky for us that he was in charge of the Luftwaffe during the

184 DELANEY GALLAY

Battle of Britain, but a human tragedy nevertheless. After that, I was taken to the beer hall where Hitler had his first successful rally after getting out of jail, and we finished the evening in the beer garden where, according to my school rumour mill, the German teacher had been seen in amorous contact with the English master all those years ago. Couldn‘t have happened in a nicer place, I thought. The following day he showed me round the works, and I was particularly interested in the engine development section. There they were running engines 24 hours a day, investigating methods of complying with the latest California antipollution standards. At BMW they did this, not by hanging on a bunch of gimmicks, but by concentrating on combustion chamber design, valve timing and such like fundamental factors. That evening he took me round the cultural side of Munich— the opera house and such which, heaven help me, I hadn‘t even thought about, in my ongoing effort to try to find out what the war had all been about. As readers may have noticed, I have got on well with all the Germans I have met, but even Inge‘s dad would never discuss it—whenever I edged near it, he would adroitly change the subject, and I don‘t suppose there will ever be a rational explanation, so why don‘t I just shut up and get on with the story. We parted on the best of terms, after one of my most enjoyable company outings. When I reported to W upon returning, he had something else for me. There in the shop stood one of the new Triumph 1800 sports saloons, and I have to say it was a nice looking car. He said we had been given carte blanche to propose an air conditioning system, and he would like to see what I made of it. This was another challenge. They had clearly followed, when laying out the instrument panel, the time-honoured English definition of a sports car, that is, a car that requires a sportsman to drive it. In other words, it had to be very businesslike, rather than cosmetically attractive. All right, then. I cast my mind back to a glimpse of the cockpit of a Mercedes-Benz 300 SL obtained at some motor show, and drew up a mean-looking front grille, wide but thin, with a row of switches (the driver was supposed to know what they all were, be able to find them in the dark and so on...get it?), businesslike

185 NUTS AND BOLTS swivelling air supply louvers, and controls for fan speed, ratio of outside-to-recirculated air and so forth grouped in the centre. Behind this was a tangential flow fan, ideally suited for this layout, being, as mentioned elsewhere, long and thin. The cooling coil was mounted right up against the firewall, where it wasn‘t in anyone‘s way, and was connected to the fan via a plenum which nestled hard under the instrument panel. The whole thing scarcely affected the occupant‘s space at all. I must admit to being quite impressed by it myself. I christened it ―Slimline‖, and showed it to W, who went bananas over it. OK—so Slimline has been used for other things lots of times, but it was new to me at the time, and my own invention—honest. At this point, Jim returned from his American trip, full of beans and with tales to tell of his adventures in the desert, including grisly descriptions of what happened to people whose car air conditioning broke down when they were halfway across. Jovially he asked me how I had been passing the time while he was away. I told him about the VW cock-up which didn‘t surprise him a bit, and the Aston Martin and the BMW which pleased him mightily, and then I mentioned that I was currently working on a Triumph 1800, and would be interested to know what he thought about it so far. He was very enthusiastic. ―Well, if they‘ve given us carte blanche, we should really be able to...‖ It was at this precise moment that my sojourn in my native land commenced the countdown to its inevitable end. W broke in. ―Jim, this Triumph project is between me and John Tysoe, and I‘d appreciate it if you would leave us to see it through.‖ I couldn‘t believe my ears. I knew it was all over. I knew Jim well enough to know exactly what was passing through his mind. More or less what the other disciples must have been thinking about Judas after he had done his thing. Nothing I could say would make the slightest difference. That was it; finito. He never spoke to me again. As Puck remarked in A Midsummer Night‟s Dream: ―Lord! What fools these mortals be!‖ That evening I took Inge for a drink at our latest local, the Admiral Jellicoe, a pleasant spot, just steps from our house, and we held a council of war. I told her what had happened, and said it would be quite impossible for me to continue at Delaney Gallay,

186 DELANEY GALLAY but no alternative had yet occurred to me. She seemed quite relieved that the subject had come up, and was, as usual, ready for it. We were, in fact, in pretty dire straits. Money was very tight; I had taken out a pretty hefty bank loan to buy into Alexander Bros, and had been relying on Gwyn to refund my 2,000 quid when I left, but he was being awkward. And how was I going to get a job in the aircraft business while living on Canvey Island? We turned out our pockets, and had one pound between us. I gathered it up, bought a bottle of Piesporter Goldtropfchen, we took it home and drank it. During the course of this Bacchanalia, the conversation went something like this:

Me: ―What now?‖ Inge: ―Let‘s go to Canada.‖ Me: ―No.‖ Inge: ―Why not?‖ Me: ―It‘s too bloody cold.‖

Inge then fished out a copy of the Telegraph, open at the ―Sits Vac‖ page, and pointed out an ad in which de Havilland Canada was seeking a cryogenics engineer to work in their special products division. Write to box number so-and-so for application form. She listened patiently while I explained that I knew bugger-all about cryogenics, what a specialized thing it was, etcetera, and then clinched the deal by saying that she had invited Neil over for the weekend, asking him if he would kindly teach me enough cryogenics to pass an interview. In any case, it was just a bit colder than I was doing at Frigidaire, so what was I worrying about? What a woman! I often think that the engineering profession lost a first- class member when she decided to take up nursing. She would certainly have done better at meetings than I ever did. I wrote off for the application form. Neil duly turned up and did his stuff, which, as the rest of the book will show, hit the spot. How many, I wonder, can point to a friend who, with one good turn, changed their life completely, for the better? He is so much cleverer than me in all aspects of engineering that he managed to make it sound quite straightforward, and my confidence level improved remarkably over the weekend. He suggested

187 NUTS AND BOLTS concentrating on nitrogen, which , he was pretty sure was what they would be using. Learn some of the numbers, its liquefying temperature and so on, methods of liquefying—he went through the Parkinson cryostat and the Claude cycle—get used to chatting confidently about the Joule-Thompson effect...well, I‘ll leave it there, except to say that he was right on the button. Back at the office, fortunately for me, P had another project lined up, which enabled me legitimately to lose myself in the firm‘s library most of the time, hopefully until things settled down a bit. He gave me a brief rundown on it, saying that it seemed to him there was the possibility that it might prove to be a revolutionary breakthrough in the cooling of car engines, in which case it would be a good thing if our company were to be the first to introduce it. It was a rotary heat exchanger, which was under development in a laboratory in southern Germany owned by a Doktor Laing, who had sent him a write-up. What he wanted me to do was to study this, become familiar with it, and then visit the lab to observe the machine on test. I would then write a report, giving my opinion as to the viability of the whole thing. I could see why he had fingered me for this. Having seen me in action at VW, wriggling out from under that Beetle heater debacle, he figured I was probably the only person in the firm who would be able to spot any, shall we say, skulduggery. It was obvious that he was hoping to make a name for himself with this one, but he had to be sure that he got it right. I started on the write-up, and very soon realized that never before had I been subjected to such a lot of concentrated codswallop. The proposal was, briefly, to replace the standard car engine cooling system, the radiator, cooling fan and water pump, with this rotary heat exchanger. It consisted of a tangential flow fan with hollow blades, through which the engine cooling water would be passed by means of a pump forming the front bearing of the fan. The point was that the rapidly revolving fan blades would provide a much higher heat transfer rate relative to the existing system, therefore the required surface area would be much less, space would be saved under the hood, and so on. Please understand me here; I had no problem with the basic system concept. Obviously, if you put hot water into one end of a rapidly rotating fan with hollow blades, it will come out cooler at the other

188 DELANEY GALLAY end. People do it all the time. But—not in a car cooling system, thank you very much. Not now, not ever. Just imagine the horrible increase in manufacturing costs; the fabrication of a fan with hollow aerofoil blades, its own water pump and rotating seals...compared with soldering some tubes into some fins, cooling it with a bent tin fan, and using an existing water pump, manufactured by the million. And if this thing didn‘t have its own water pump, but relied on centrifugal force, that brought another lot of difficulties in its train that I didn‘t want to begin thinking about. If I was to bow out of this company with a shred of credibility left, I was going to have to do my best to convince P not to touch it. All right—one shouldn‘t prejudge things. Well, I prejudged this, so sue me. During the course of these ruminations, the de Havilland application form arrived. It was a run-of-the-mill sort of thing, brief history of previous employment and so forth. Just a couple of things struck me as rather odd. First, it was to be sent to some place called Downsview which I hadn‘t heard of; I thought they were in Toronto, not realizing that Downsview was a suburb northwest of Toronto. Secondly, one question asked whether my salary had ever been garnisheed. We discussed this for a bit, and concluded that it probably meant withheld for some reason, most likely to pay off a debt. So, I wrote, ―Not sure what this means, but if it means withheld for any reason, the answer is no.‖ I posted the application, and then got on with the work in hand. This was going to be a tricky one. My plan was to fly to Bremen, hoping to borrow a car from Inge‘s dad (Vati), drive down to the lab overnight and arrive first thing. Their reception would tell me a large part of what I wanted to know. That was the easy part. Inge had it laid on very quickly. Vati would meet me at Bremen airport, take me up to the firm, where I could have a short visit, and lend me a company car; same thing going back. The problem was going to arise if this Laing fellow threw some scientist at me, to baffle me with some pseudoscientific gobbledegook. Well, two could play at that game. Fortunately I had those Torrington tangential flow fan catalogues, and had no reason to suppose that the performance characteristics of this rotary heat exchanger would look substantially different. I practised sketching those, together with the non-dimensional axis labels. Then came

189 NUTS AND BOLTS the heat transfer bit, which required considerable attention. For some reason which has always irritated me, the original investigators of this aspect chose to cloak their activities in a bunch of large, unwieldy formulas, festooned with obscure Greek letters. Again, fortunately, I had mastered most of these while ploughing through Gerry‘s tabular method for rocket nozzles, so I dug those out and made sure I could pull them out of the hat if and when required. Then I looked up all the German words and phrases I could think of for such things as turbulent boundary layer, forced convection and so on. Finally, I covered sheet after sheet of scrap paper with what was intended to look like rough calculations, selected the most likely-looking three, and made sure I could reproduce them whilst talking at the same time. I was as ready as possible. Everything went like clockwork on the way down, and at 9 A.M. on the appointed day I rolled up to Laing‘s front door, ready for anything, which was just as well; I couldn‘t have created more consternation if I‘d stepped out of a flying saucer. Verging on panic, it seemed to me. So, that settled that part of the programme, although the reason for all the fuss was by no means clear. I‘d half expected to catch him red-handed, showing some bunch of suckers round his fancy invention, but it went much deeper than that. The last thing in the world I expected was to be denied access to the lab altogether; I never saw a thing the whole time I was there, which for me put the kiss of death on the business. Might as well go home. Must put on a bit of a show first—some window dressing for my report, so forth. Laing was nowhere to be seen, but in due course a chap appeared who introduced himself the way the Germans do—he marched up to me, extended his hand, and said ―Frietzsche.‖ I can‘t honestly remember whether he clicked his heels, so I won‘t push that bit. This would be the token scientist, said my subconscious. Responding in kind, I introduced myself as the engineer sent by my company to evaluate the rotary heat exchanger project, and would appreciate the opportunity to observe the machine in operation, and perhaps see some performance figures achieved to date. I could see that I‘d caught him on the wrong foot, and pressed home my advantage. He was making noises about Herr Laing having been called away on urgent business, and if he

190 DELANEY GALLAY could be of assistance in the meantime...to which my immediate response was that I would be delighted if he could show me round the lab and explain the test facility to me, so that I would be better prepared to discuss the project with Herr Laing. He played his last trump by saying that no doubt Herr Laing would wish to have the pleasure of escorting me round the facility himself, and he would be along shortly, so another approach was obviously necessary. I asked for a writing pad, and started my doodle of a fan characteristic, covered the page with all the relevant formulas I could think of, and filled the gaps with numbers in units of pounds, square feet, inches, BTUs, degrees Fahrenheit, at the same time requesting figures for rpm, rotor diameter and so forth, to enable me to evaluate the size of unit required for some of the cars we were working on. ―Rpm?‖ he queried. ―Umdrehungsgeshwindigkeit,‖ I offered. He thought about this for a while, then exclaimed, ―Ach so! Drehzahl!‖ Well, if he said so... He then pointed out that in Germany, somewhat different units and symbols were used, and we had a splendid time discussing units, Greek letters and such until finally, it having become obvious that a stalemate had been reached, he asked if I would care to join him for lunch in a nearby hostelry. Being relieved of the necessity to continue stalling me, he turned out to be a very pleasant chap. He regaled me with the local folklore about the mad King Ludwig (Ludwigsburg being just down the road), and exhorted me to visit the weird and wonderful schloss he had built, while still in the area. He expanded my knowledge of Lola Montez, who turned out to be an Irish whore who had managed to seduce Bismarck, among others. Only one thing marred an otherwise excellent lunch, and that was the Blutwurst. Normally I like German sausages, but have to make an exception in the case of Bavarian Blutwurst. That aside, we made our way back to Chez Laing, and there he was, welcoming me with open arms, how nice to see me, etcetera... I threw the dice one last time, praising Fritz for looking after me so well, and mentioning that he had said that you would be pleased to show me around the lab. He didn‘t miss a beat. Unfortunately there

191 NUTS AND BOLTS had been a small fire the previous day, and the lab was temporarily out of commission, however, in a day or two... Looking back, I think this must have been the first time that the ―unfortunately a fire...‖ thing had been worked on me, but it was by no means to be the last. Meanwhile, he wished to extend the maximum hospitality to me, and trusted that my stay would be a pleasant one. We adjourned to his house, he introduced me to his daughters, and we disported ourselves in his outdoor swimming pool. I was trying to figure out how to leave without starting World War Three when salvation came in the form of an urgent phone call from my father-in-law, concerning a serious family emergency. It was Vati, telling me that Inge had told him that I had an interview lined up at Ontario House for the day after tomorrow. I put on a suitably anguished expression, made my profuse apologies to Herr Laing, leapt into my car, and roared off back up the Autobahn. It was hard to tell which one of us was the most relieved. To this day I‘m not sure whether he really thought he had taken me in with all this b-s or if he was telling me, in the nicest possible way, to get lost and leave these important matters to the big boys. Not that it mattered to me any more—my whole energy was devoted to getting to Ontario House by 3 P.M. the day after tomorrow. I arrived at Vati‘s factory in time for him to drive me to Bremen airport, where he put me on a plane to Düsseldorf, whence he had managed, by dint of several phone calls, to patch me through to London, arriving around noon, so, if nothing went wrong, I should just about make it. I arrived at Ontario House at quarter to three, to find Inge pacing the floor. ―Hi,‖ said I. ―Just passing by—thought I‘d drop in to find out what the prospects are. Fancy meeting you here.‖ She was good. ―Glad to see you‘re on time, for a change.‖ Then my name was called. I went in to meet John D. MacNaughton, of de Havilland Canada. He was a very pleasant man, who made me feel welcome. After casually enquiring about my previous employment with de Havilland, when I took pains to emphasize my interest in the European Space Agency, he mentioned that they were working with liquid nitrogen. I responded immediately, saying that I had always found that the main problem with using liquid nitrogen to cool infrared detectors

192 DELANEY GALLAY in confined spaces such as spacecraft was the difficulty of ensuring that the non-lubricated compressor necessary to power the Claude cycle would not emit particles capable of clogging the capillary tubes of the cryostat. After a bit of chitchat about the Joule- Thompson effect, I sensed that the corner had been turned, when he started saying that the company expected that engineers hired over here would be expected to sell up and move to Canada permanently, and how did I feel about that. That‘s the whole idea, I told him, so a starting date was set, and he promised that a letter of engagement would be with me within a week. As I left the interviewing room, the full enormity of what was happening to me started to penetrate, but when I saw the look in Inge‘s eyes all such thoughts were banished. I took her in my arms for as long as I thought would be considered allowable; it wouldn‘t have done to be chucked out just yet, for there was still something to be done while we were in Ontario House. A group session was just starting, in which someone was briefing us on various aspects of immigration to Canada. One thing I remember well; he was explaining that we could take with us money up to 10,000 dollars Canadian in value without any special procedures being necessary. Up spake one member of the audience: ―What happens if you have more than 10,000?‖ The chap looked at him and responded, ―God bless you, sir, and congratulations.‖ When we arrived home, Inge showed me what she had been doing. At the briefing session there had been a cardboard box full of red maple leaf lapel badges; when no one was looking she had scooped out a handful. There were over twenty; we wore one each for the remainder of the time we lived in England, and she wove the others into a belt, which we took turns in wearing. I have it still. She also managed to smuggle out a couple of Canadian newspapers, which we studied line by line in the bar of the Admiral Jellicoe. I‘ll get back to that, after a final tidy-up of the work situation. I stayed at home next day, to rough out my report on Laing & Co. When finished, I showed it to Inge who, you must have noticed, was playing an increasing, and very welcome, part in my working life. ―Well, Tysoe,‖ she said, ―that‘s what you want to write. THIS is what you‘re GOING to write.‖ Whereupon she

193 NUTS AND BOLTS deleted all the curse words, rephrased all the libellous statements, toned down the more strident criticisms, and in general gave the impression that she had been the personal assistant to the CEO of General Motors all her life. I made a feeble attempt to say that it would lose much of its impact, to which she responded that it would have had no impact at all the way I had written it—it would have been dismissed as an hysterical rant, and tossed into the garage. She was dead right, of course. Another of life‘s lessons absorbed. The following day I went back to work, trying to keep out of everyone‘s way by holing up in the library to finalize my report. P was not yet back from his European jolly, so I spent the time preparing the text for typing, and doing some calculations, in case anyone asked. I scaled up some drawings from the Torrington catalogue, which enabled me to guess at a number of blades for a diameter which would fit in a typical Ford car. I then assumed an aerofoil section for which I happened to have the lift/drag curves, from which I estimated the power consumption for a particular rpm per foot length. Plugging some numbers into the heat transfer formula allowed me to find the length of rotor, and thus the power absorption for a given engine horsepower. Nothing to it, really, except that it was all a blind guess, punctuated by frequent insertion of escape clauses, such as: ―Of course, if I had been allowed to see the machine in operation, I would have more confidence in these estimates.‖ (That‘s not quite right—Inge had altered ―allowed‖ to ―able‖.) Late on the Friday that the report was ready, P returned and I handed it to him. He thanked me and said he would study it over the weekend. When I got home, Inge showed me my letter of engagement from de Havilland Canada, offering a starting salary of 825 dollars a month, and asking me to confirm my acceptance, whereupon a travel voucher would be sent. We looked each other. It was happening. I pocketed my spare slide rule, Inge got the Canadian papers, and we spent the evening in the Admiral Jellicoe working out what it meant. At the current exchange rate, the salary they were offering was three times what I was getting in England. Houses in somewhere called Peel Village were going for about twice what we expected to get for our house,

194 DELANEY GALLAY so it looked as if we were going to be able to start moving forward, instead of just breaking even. Seldom have I had such an enjoyable evening in a pub. The following Monday, I went to see P immediately, and told him I was going to Canada. He then created another line which passed into our family folklore. ―Bit old for that sort of thing, aren‘t you?‖ I was forty! He said nothing about my report; I never found out what finally happened. W kept me busy with a few calculations, some report checking, and translating the odd letter from BMW. He also took me out for lunch several times, once when he was entertaining a visiting executive from Jaguar who was looking for an air conditioning system for their latest sports saloon. Presumably he brought me along in case the guest started to get technical, but— no worries, mate. (Now where did THAT come from?) I seem to recall that the meeting resulted in a sale for W, which was very good for Delaney Gallay—getting into the high-end, upscale market, as it were. So ended my last job in my native land. It was an interesting experience, but I cannot look back on it with any sense of pride. When the last day came, nobody gave a damn except W, who gave me a good lunch, and asked me to let him know if I saw anything suitable for him, once I got to Canada.

195

CHAPTER 11: ENGLAND SWANSONG

here was much to do before leaving England. We still had hardly any money, I owed the bank quite a lot, and Gwyn T was still showing no sign of refunding my investment. As a last resort I sought the services of a lawyer, and to this day I cannot believe how lucky I was. He listened to my tale, taking copious notes, and asked me to call on him in a couple of weeks. At this time we took a walk up the street to the bank, where the manager invited us into his office The lawyer (they were obviously buddies) had already briefed him on my case, and now handed him a draft for two thousand pounds, for which he thanked me gravely. Me! ME!!! I don‘t know what the lawyer said to Gwyn and I don‘t want to know. The upshot was that I walked out of the bank with a letter of introduction to the manager of the Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce in Malton, Ontario (where the Special Products Division was located), five hundred Canadian dollars in cash and a banker‘s draft for one thousand to start an account there, on the understanding that I would pay it back as soon as possible. Looking back, I can see their point of view. I was going there anyway, with or without their blessing. I could have just skipped, as had many before me, but had chosen to try to work something out. We were both young and fit and professionally qualified, and so were bound to do well in Canada. Good Lord—can anyone remember that far back? How times change! We had received an offer on the house, and a closing date had been set. We were getting twice what we had paid for it, and thought how clever of us, not realizing that we were witnessing the start of the insane upward spiral in house prices, culminating forty years later in today‘s credit crunch. That aside, we agreed that Inge would stay to look after the closing, and join me when I had some accommodation fixed up—hopefully in around a month. I was then able to inform de Havilland, as requested, of my date of departure, March 8, 1966—a date burnt in my memory.

196 ENGLAND SWANSONG

Then came a bit of a bummer. By return mail, I received an airline ticket for BOAC flight so-and-so, from London to Toronto, for the date concerned. But I didn‘t want to go on a bloody aeroplane—I wanted to go on the Queen Mary! Well, I‘d left it a wee bit too late, because 1966 was the first year when the transatlantic air fare became cheaper than the boat fare, thanks to the boneheaded stupidity of the people who ran the Cunard Steamship Company. Perhaps that merits an explanation. On board the Queen Mary was a crew of 900, to look after 1,200 passengers. In my view, it took five people to run the vessel—Captain, First Mate, Engineering Officer, Navigation Officer, and Purser. The other 895 were parasites, cleaning your boots, opening doors for you, always with the palm outstretched. If they were all beached, and replaced by 895 fare-paying passengers, the boat fare would still be competitive. And in any case, I particularly did not relish the thought of going on one of BOAC‘s latest planes—the first of the Boeing 707s. I had watched them taking off from London, making a noise you could hear in Newcastle, trailing clouds of black smoke, and just managing to clear the upwind fence. Also, they were having an interesting time over the Atlantic. One of them had an engine drop off, while another had got into a spin, giving rise to the current joke advert: ―Come for a spin with Pan Am‖. Well, DH was paying, so there you have it. I looked back at the fate of some of the projects I had worked on. Roly Beamont finally took the TSR-2 into the air, and pronounced it a first-class flying machine. However, it was coming under mounting criticism from the press, especially after one paper pointed out that it had been flying for nine weeks and still hadn‘t managed to get its undercarriage up. That stupid undercarriage! Several things about it interested me as the flight trials proceeded, and I followed them in Bee‘s magazine and newspaper articles, movie news in cinemas and so on. It seems that they had fitted cooling fans to the main gear, and this was the first thing he tried out during his initial taxi runs. He reported that, after braking to a stop from near flying speed, it took 45 seconds for the wheels to cool down enough to enable retraction. So that wasn‘t too bad a guess. It probably accounts for the prolonged retraction time which I mentioned earlier. Oh, it‘s so boring to be right ALL the time!

197 NUTS AND BOLTS

But the thing that really grabbed my attention was the time when, having finally managed to retract the gear, when he lowered it for the landing, the main bogies were hanging such that the rear wheels were ahead of the front wheels (see my picture). As the old design office joke has it: ―Well—that‘s the exact opposite of what I want—now we‘re getting somewhere!‖ First, he buzzed the control tower to let them see what they had wrought, then he got the chase plane to confirm that both bogies were in the same configuration, which was a good thing, and after that he got into conversation with the engineers in the tower. As he so sardonically put it (I love the way he writes), the best engineering brains of Vickers advised him to try re-cycling the gear. However, he went on to say that the airborne half of the debate had already decided not to do such a thing, because there was a strong possibility that it would make matters worse. He then offered the rear member of the crew the Martin-Baker option. ―What are you going to do, Bee?‖ asked the unflappable Don Bowen. ―I‘m going to make the smoothest landing you‘ve ever seen,‖ was the response.‖ ―Well, then—you‘re not going to get rid of me so easily,‖ said Don. Beamont greased her in very carefully, tire friction swung the bogies into their correct position before the full weight came on the wheels, and they were down. Magnificent! All in vain, though. The inevitable cancellation came, accompanied by the same political bloody-minded vindictiveness we had read about when the Avro Arrow was cancelled in Canada. There, they had cut them all up for scrap; here they sent them all to some Army sinkhole in the Thames Estuary for the brown jobs to use for target practice. All save one, which I was able to see at the Cosford aviation museum, as previously described. Back at Avro, Blue Steel Mk 2 was cancelled, to be replaced by the Douglas Skybolt rocket, which was then cancelled by the U.S. government, leaving our so-called deterrent in a bit of a mess. But did it really matter? Maybe my wing commander friend was right— if you ever had to use it the game was lost anyway. On a lighter note, one of my spies said he had mentioned to Sam Ashworth that I was going to Canada. Sam was the office manager, and he and I

198 ENGLAND SWANSONG were at daggers drawn, forever arguing about my expense accounts for my Normalair trips. Finally I had told him that I was too busy doing important stuff to waste time arguing about the price of a ham sandwich, for which I had received a colossal telling-off from Pat. It seems that, when Sam heard the news, he said, ―Well—good luck to the lad—he did well when he was here.‖

199

Air Squadron Rifle Team Seated, second from left, myself (Captain Tysoe); third from left, my instructor, “Tuppy” Jarvis; far right, Johnny.

Air Squadron party, 1950: Third from left, myself; fourth, Barbara; fifth, Robbie.

200

Top, waiting for the instructor. Centre, left, F/O Herbert, the only man I knew who could roll a Tiger Moth round a point, which is impossible; right, myself. Bottom, myself in the pilot seat, taken by an unknown passenger (probably Neil).

201

In Ireland just after WWII. Left, myself; centre, Red.

Left, camping south of Dublin; right, setting out to bag partridge in the north of Scotland, 1952.

Below, Paris, 1952.

202

Page from my logbook highlighting my first meeting with Inge. I included it with this retrospective drawing in a card celebrating our Golden Wedding.

Below: Tiger Moth

203

Top to bottom: Gloster Meteor T7; Percival Prentice; Hunter elevator showing the inboard end rib.

204

AJS 1929 Sprint Model motorbike: My first, sketched by me at RAF Upwood in 1951.

Below: My first appearance on an entry list for a motor race.

205

Above: With Inge in the West Special.

Below: Outside the registry office in Oldham: left, my sister; right, our best man, John Wilson. B.E.M.

206

Above: The SR-53 rocket/jet interceptor fighter – an imaginative project.

Below: The D.H. Spectre variable-thrust rocket – a contradiction in terms, with 20/20 hindsight. Neil has his hand on the turbine casing, which was prone to bulging out in the middle.

207

My diagram, inspired by Sutton‟s Rocket Propulsion Elements, of a typical temperature gradient in a liquid-cooled rocket nozzle.

208

The Theory of the Unicube (and other icy matters)

A refrigerator ice tray has six lateral partitions (except in France, but that‟s another story) and one central divider. Nowadays, one simply twists the tray or thumps it on the counter or holds it under the hot tap to free the cubes. In pre-plastic times, it was customary to have a handle connected to the partitions by a linkage, which would usually break all the cubes loose at once.

The Unicube was designed to free the cubes two at a time, by operating the partitions one after the other. And why would anyone want to do that, did I hear you ask? Well, it sounded a good idea at the time. The effect was produced by causing the partitions to ride up ramps on a pull- through bar. Unfortunately for me, the stupid thing worked perfectly the first time, no doubt due to a combination of circumstances which will not recur for another thousand years.

To me, ice is still a mystery wrapped in an enigma, or whatever it was that Mr. Churchill said of the Russians. Apparently I‟m not alone. As I write this, the news is reporting that a DH Dash-8, one of the best intercity airliners ever built, iced up (or so the investigators said) a minute before it was due to land at Buffalo, New York, and crashed, killing all on board. The fact that one of the passengers was the only remaining eyewitness to the Rwanda genocide, and had been running a campaign against that horror ever since, may have had something to do with it.

In any event, I don‟t want anything to do with ice ever again, especially slipping on it. If a skater who has been training eight hours a day all his life, with a view to winning Olympic gold, can still fall on the ice, what chance do I stand?

209

The I.N. crate

Blue Steel alongside a Vulcan

210

Top to bottom: Me 163 Komet at the RAF Museum, Coxford; TSR-2; and TSR-2 showing the undercarriage problem.

211

VC-10 tail that Barnes Wallis Jr. got going with his pencil

The prototype Aston Martin DB-5 about to enter the Delaney Gallay workshop

212

Bankside Cottage

Inge and the kids arriving in Toronto. Margaret is running to catch up, having gone back into the DC-8 cabin for a bag of sweets from the flight crew. Yes, it really used to be like that.

213

CHAPTER 12: “LET’S GO TO CANADA”

n the appointed day I marched up the ramp at London Airport, as it was then still known, to board the 707. My O mum had come to see me off, Dad having died two years previously. After a boring eight-hour flight I climbed down the aircraft steps and strolled across the tarmac to the immigration desk, where I was greeted by a friendly chap who handed me a card from the lieutenant governor of Ontario, welcoming me to Canada, wishing me every success, and expressing an interest in hearing of my progress. When I consider the ghastly, horrible nightmare that is today‘s air travel, this all seems like a dream. I sent Inge a telegram: ―Arrived safely, love John.‖ The lady at the telegram desk gave me a beautiful smile, and I made my way to the great outdoors. A taxi took me to the Aero Inn, about two minutes up the road, where DH had booked me in for the evening. This was a charming place, long since gone, which resembled a rather large log cabin from the outside. Inside I found a roaring wood fire, and a lot of friendly people. I had my first meal in Canada—steak and chips—and my first lesson in Canada-speak. ―Chips‖ are potato crisps, and ―French fries‖ are chips, usually abbreviated to ―fries‖. I did not find the beer particularly exciting, but that could no doubt be remedied at a later date. Also, there was confirmation of something I had been warned about—that Canadian buildings were grossly overheated, so the thing to do was to wear light clothing for indoors, and have a very heavy overcoat for outdoors. Replete, and with a bottle of beer in hand, I retired to my room to consider the situation. It certainly was hot in there! I went to the window, but it wouldn‘t budge. A cursory inspection revealed that it had been screwed shut. The reasoning was fairly easy to follow. Probably most of their customers were British immigrants straight off the plane, whose first action would be to open the window, thereby doubling their

214 “LET’S GO TO CANADA” heating bill. Well—they have their problems, I have mine. Out came my emergency screwdriver kit (oh, sorry—is this the first time it‘s been mentioned? Later, perhaps...) The problem was that the screws were of a type I had not previously seen. They had a square recess in the head, and nothing in my kit could shift them. I found out later that they were called Robertson screws, after the Canadian Engineer who invented them, and used no other kind from that time on. Pardon the digression. To get back to my first night in Canada, I decided to walk up the road and have a look at the company I would be joining in the morning. This was in itself quite an experience. During the hour it took me to get there and back, I saw not a single soul. The odd car went by from time to time, and occasionally an airliner would land or take off. The air was like wine, and the stars blazed down. It gave me a thrill to see the company sign. What was it going to be like? I was quite glad to get back to my overheated bedroom, and, having had a fairly busy day, slept soundly. Next morning I had a sumptuous Canadian breakfast—it was in the form of a buffet, so I helped myself to waffles, bacon (oh that Canadian bacon!), and maple syrup (another first). I booked in for another night at the Inn, just to be on the safe side, and walked to the de Havilland Special Products and Applied Research Company, where I was met by Al, the personnel manager. He showed me to a desk in the vestibule, among all the typists, purchasing agents and so forth, explaining apologetically that I would have to be accommodated here until my official secrets act could be updated. Oh God! I thought. Not that shower of brainless nincompoops again! Having sworn to behave myself in a new country, I refrained from expressing my feelings. Al said he would send someone out to show me around, help me to organize living accommodation and so forth. I had brought along my copy of Scott‘s Cryogenic Engineering, and busied myself with that, determined not to waste a single minute. In due course, a very friendly type named John A turned up, offering to take me around and help me get organized. Immediately I asked if he would take me to the Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce, which he was pleased to do. We climbed aboard his car—a Pontiac Laurentian, about twice the size of any car I had ridden in before—and a few minutes later

215 NUTS AND BOLTS

I was sitting in the office of Norman Tapscott, manager of the Malton branch of the CIBC, and a fine gentleman. After studying my letter of introduction, he lost no time in fitting me up with a bank account, chequebooks and so on, and finished by wishing me success in my new career. Well begun is half done, wouldn‘t you agree? My acting chauffeur then took me round town to show me the local shops and one or two eateries, which quite frankly did not look very salubrious. He agreed, saying that the firm provided food vending machines, which most people used. That didn‘t sound too thrilling either, but time would tell. Back in the ―front office‖, so to speak, he showed me how to extract a turkey sandwich from the vending machine, and while we were having what he was pleased to call lunch, he filled me in with some background. Actually, the sandwich was so bland and unappetizing that it put me off turkey for a long time, until...well, I‘ll tell you about that when we get there; meanwhile, back to the job. He admitted quite frankly that he was sweating out his time at D.H., until his U.S. visa came through, when he would be off to sunny San Diego, and to hell with Canadian winters. I found out quite a lot about the sunny San Diego bit as time went by, but more of that later. It was interesting to note that, every time I edged the conversation around to what was going on in there, he started to prevaricate, change the subject and so on. I began to sense that perhaps he was somewhat out of his depth, and it seemed to become increasingly probable that I had been hired to take over whatever he had been doing. Finally, he said he‘d better be getting back in there, and that was the last I saw of him. Then another piece of good fortune came my way. Enter Richard K, who said he had heard of my arrival, and wondered if I would be interested in taking a one-third share in a Toronto apartment which he was at present sharing with another just- arrived Brit. They were renting it by the month, there was plenty of room, and the idea was that we could drive around in his rented car doing our house-hunting and other stuff until we were all fixed up. It sounded too good to be true, and needless to say I accepted with alacrity. It was agreed that he would tell the other chap about me, and if all was OK I could move in with them tomorrow. Not too shabby for the first day, I thought, as I walked back to the Aero Inn. Next morning, suitcase in hand, I started my second

216 “LET’S GO TO CANADA” day as D.H. Cryogenics Engineer-in-waiting. At 5 P.M. Richard collected me, and we drove to the apartment, which was on Bathurst Street. The other occupant, Peter, had a job somewhere in Toronto, and went to work on the subway, so he was already home when we arrived. We decided to go shopping for some supplies, there being a huge supermarket five minutes‘ walk away. There we bought some TV dinners and other stuff. Next door was a beer store, so we stocked up on that too. I will not forget in a hurry our first attempt to cook the TV dinners. We were confronted by this mighty cooker, with its unfamiliar and totally incomprehensible control panel. Could we get that oven to fire up? No way! There was no instruction manual to be seen. Next to this was a hot plate, so in the end we tore open all the TV dinners and warmed them up on the hot plate, accompanied by several beers. I mentioned to Richard that I would like to visit some car dealers when we started to do our rounds; I wanted to buy a car as soon as possible, which would ease the transport situation, and make my house-hunting a lot easier. He thought this was a good idea, and suggested that I might like to try the GM dealer from whom he had rented his car. By the end of the third day I had found, at Richard‘s place, a nice-looking Pontiac Parisienne. Richard had warned me beforehand to avoid if possible getting involved in a GM financing deal, and had recommended trying for a bank loan. If this was repaid quickly it would be a good start to establishing a credit rating, which was a good thing to have. I took the car for a spin round the block, and liked it immensely. Not having driven a car with automatic transmission before, my takeoff was a bit lead-footed. Apparently the back wheels spun and threw up some loose gravel, but nobody seemed to mind. I explained my plan to the salesman, who drew up a sales document to show the bank manager. Then he called in the insurance chap from next door who sat with me, asking all the usual questions, then made out his proposal. Armed with these two documents, I met with Mr. Tapscott again, who arranged the loan without demur. So, at the end of the first week, I had my car, and could really get cracking on the housing bit. I was advised that I could drive for the first month on my British license, after which I would have to obtain a Canadian drivers‘ license, which would involve taking a driving test. Here again Richard came to the

217 NUTS AND BOLTS rescue, having already jumped through this particular hoop. He drove me round the ten-minute tour of city streets they used, then took me to the actual test centre, where they had their own little playground for checking out parking and stuff. I went into the office, where they booked me for a test the following Wednesday. In the intervening period I drove my new car round that circuit whenever I got the chance. Whenever I saw a parking space I backed into it, until I was fairly certain that I knew where all four corners of this huge car were. On the appointed day I was met by a very competent-looking chap in an immaculate khaki uniform with a hat just like the Mounties wore. Although I was wound up tighter than a whore‘s garters, as the saying goes, it was not with apprehension, but a determination to show him that I could meet his requirements. Rather like some flying instructors I had known, who could inspire that feeling within a few seconds. Off we went round the test track, and he asked me to park between two vehicles. The space was only just big enough, and upon straightening out I realized the car was an inch or two further from the kerb than intended. Damn and blast! What a start! Would he mind if I did that again? He looked at me with interest. ―By all means.‖ This time I got it right, and off we went round the town. As we turned back into the grounds, he said, ―You passed your test—congratulations.‖ On the way to the office to do the paperwork, he said, ―Just one thing—you would have done better at that left turn to have waited for that car coming towards you.‖ I humbly agreed, and said, ―Sorry about that parking bit.‖ ―It would have been all right,‖ he said. Having got that out of the way, I concentrated on the housing ads in the local paper, and decided to look at a townhouse in a place called Cooksville, on the western edge of Toronto, which was for rent at a price within my budget. Calling on the people who handled the renting arrangements, I was informed that the previous occupants had just moved out, and it was available for immediate occupancy. So, I immediately occupied it. They gave me a plan of the house, which I sent to Inge. They loaned me a camp bed and a sleeping bag until I could organize some furniture. We had a few beers and snacks, and I moved in, very satisfied with the day‘s work...until I found that there was not a single light bulb in the whole house. Oh well, if that‘s the way they do things in Canada...

218 “LET’S GO TO CANADA”

Next day I called on Simpson‘s, one of the two largest department stores in Toronto, the other being Eaton‘s. They looked at my credentials, got me to fill in a large form, and furnished me with a credit card. Using this, I ordered, first and foremost, a king-size bed. Having settled that most important matter, I ordered stuff as it came into my head—beds for the kids, a table and some chairs, a small TV, a few cups, glasses, knives, forks and so on. I didn‘t want to overdo it, because a) at this moment Inge would be boxing up our ―immigrants effects‖; b) she was better at this stuff than me; and c) she was going to have a good time with this credit card, and I wanted her to enjoy it to the full. NEXT DAY the Simpson‘s van turned up, with everything on board. The king-size bed would not go up the damned staircase. They struggled with it for half an hour, but eventually had to admit failure. The chap in charge, an immaculately uniformed, well- spoken type, having apologized profusely, suggested that perhaps I might consider exchanging it for a queen-size? Weakly I agreed, trying to visualize the screaming match that would have taken place in England, if I‘d been such a bloody fool as to have landed them in this mess. He got me to fill in a form, and next day, up they were again, this time with a queen-size bed, which was still much larger than anything we had enjoyed in England. I wrote to Inge, telling her I was ready, and would she please get over here soonest? Within a week she replied that they would arrive on April 22, on Air Canada flight so-and-so. She enclosed letters from each of the kids, telling me which rooms they had picked from the plan I sent. Just another couple of anecdotes before, believe it or not, I finally start work. Shortly after I moved into the town house, it started to snow. In the morning, I drove very slowly and cautiously into work, noticing quite a few cars in the ditch. It struck me as rather strange that so many people, who presumably had been living in Canada longer than me, had not got used to winter conditions. I asked Richard about this, and he said they didn‘t have snow tires. I knew that the Monte Carlo rally people had snow chains which they put on when tackling the icy bits, but this was a new one. He took me into the parking lot and showed me his car, whose tires were studded with millions of metal studs. All right.

219 NUTS AND BOLTS

Then I drove home, but the car would not go up the driveway, which had a slight slope. I left it there, and next morning drove cautiously to the Sunoco gas station, which was a short distance from my new abode. I asked them if they could provide me with a credit card, so that I could have my car fitted with snow tires. Since my list of credentials was growing by the day, and in view of my previous encounters, this struck me as a perfectly reasonable request, and I was surprised when they told me rather brusquely to get lost. Win some, lose some. I drove to the Esso station at the first major intersection, and tried again. There, I was welcomed by the owner, Bill Ritchie, to whom I am permanently indebted. He glanced at my credentials, wrote me up for a credit card, and said if I would leave him a cheque he would fix me up right now, and make sure that the amount was put on the card, when it came through. In less time than it takes to write about it, my car was fitted with snow tires, and so got through my first Canadian winter. One day, when I‘ve nothing better to do, I will try to estimate how much this decision cost the Sunoco company, since I swore never to do any kind of business with them, ever again—a vow which I have kept to this day. The other incident concerned a party to which we had been invited, and I volunteered to drive the other two; it was only a couple of blocks away, and we had a grand time, finishing in high spirits at four in the morning. While we had been enjoying ourselves, freezing rain had been falling, and the car was covered with a cocoon of ice. We couldn‘t get in! My emergency screwdriver kit was in the car. Rummaging in our pockets, we could raise one nail file and one cigarette lighter. Painstakingly, we took turns in chipping away at the ice covering the keyhole. Finally it was possible, by heating the key with the lighter, to insert it little by little until, the best part of an hour later, the door yielded to our efforts. How I loved that great gas-gobbling four-litre engine. With all that waste heat, it warmed up quickly. We had to sit there for another few minutes while the ice melted from the windows, and by the time we finally got home, sadder but wiser, we were almost sober. Having given me enough time to get organized, the official secrets wallah finally turned up, went through his meaningless ritual, and left, no doubt for a free lunch with the brass. No turkey

220 “LET’S GO TO CANADA” sandwiches for him. I was taken into the inner sanctum and shown to my desk. There I met Graham, whom I remember vividly to this day. He was one of those amazing chaps with total recall—the sort who could read a textbook from cover to cover, and never had to open it again. He told me that to the best of his knowledge I was supposed to work with him on the mechanical design of a liquid nitrogen cooling system for an infrared detector they were developing. In any case, he was just off for a month‘s course on gas bearings at Renssaeler Institute in New York State, and would I look after things while he was away. At that, he handed me a raft of papers, and left to catch a plane. Just like old times, I thought, tossed in at the deep end with no briefing, and only a rudimentary idea of what it was all about. Well—I‘ve done it before, I can do it again. First thing, find out what it IS all about, without letting anyone know that you haven‘t a clue. I started through the papers Graham had left me. There was an unlubricated nitrogen compressor which was to run at 6,000 rpm and was being developed by a firm called Air Products, in the United States. Well, they were welcome to that. Personally, I wouldn‘t have wanted to have anything to do with such a preposterous specification, but let‘s keep an open mind, eh? Then there was the detector itself, made of something called, I think, gallium arsenide, or something. This thing was suspended in what they called a Dewar. Ah—at least I knew what that was—a double-walled flask with a vacuum between the walls. But—this was no ordinary vacuum—this was high vacuum technology, because it said so on the cover. The word ―outgassing‖ appeared several times as a problem. Jeez—I had better find out about this stuff, but quickly. Finally, I found what I had been hoping for, some notes on expansion turbine design. This was similar in layout to the one I had worked on at the DH Rocket Division, but there the resemblance ended. This one was half an inch in diameter, and was supposed to rotate at 250,000 rpm. Hm—quarter of a million rpm—no wonder it needed gas bearings. Better find out about those suckers too, before I‘m much older. Some readers will no doubt realize that I am, of course, describing the ancestor of today‘s dentist drills. It seems easy enough today, but it was quite difficult at the time. I could find no drawings, or calculations. Just a few test reports, indicating that it

221 NUTS AND BOLTS had not yet exceeded 100,000 rpm. So, there was one floating around somewhere, but where? Where was it being tested? I was in a brown study, pondering my next move, when Richard appeared. He was glad to see that I was settled in (ha!) and apologized for not having looked me up earlier. He had his hands full with a project they had going in Montreal, with a firm called Jarry Hydraulics, for a hydrofoil control system to be fitted to a high-speed patrol vessel for the Royal Canadian Navy (as it then was). I asked him if he could give me an idea of how to find out more about this turbine—who had made it, where it was tested and so forth. He didn‘t know much about it, but led me through the drawing office to a door at the back bearing the legend ―Mechanical Systems Workshop—Authorized Personnel Only‖. He said this might be a good starting point, but not right now, he added, it being ten minutes before going-home time. A good point. The following day, having allowed time for everyone to get used to the idea, I made my way to the small back room, knocked and entered. Inside were two men, each at his own workbench. All around the walls were lots of miniature machine tools, watchmaker‘s lathe, tiny milling machine...the hobbyist‘s dream come true. I approached the first man diffidently, putting on my new-boy- seeking-advice act; I wanted these guys on my side all right. He was immaculately dressed, crisp white shirt with bow tie, bright yellow waistcoat, sharply creased pants—very impressive. He wasn‘t exactly unfriendly—aloof, rather. In response to my query, he said that it was nothing to do with him, but thought that his colleague might know something about it. I approached the other man—a big, burly chap wearing a lumberjack‘s shirt and battered jeans, a cigarette drooping from the corner of his mouth, head bent over a small tank containing trichloroethylene (I recognised the smell from the dry cleaners), peering at something through a microscope. He looked up. ―What can I do for you?‖ I explained who I was, and asked if he could give me any information on a half-inch diameter turbine. ―You mean this?‖ he said, extracting from his bench drawer one of the finest examples of miniature engineering I had ever seen—a perfectly formed impulse turbine rotor, machined integral with a shaft. After gazing at it for I don‘t know how long, I asked him if

222 “LET’S GO TO CANADA” he had made it. ―Sure—it‘s just like cutting gear teeth really— nothing to it.‖ ―But what about the, er, shape?‖ Out of the same drawer he fished a template, about twenty times full size, and showed me a pantograph attachment which guided a tiny end mill. There did not seem to be much future in taking the drawing business any further, but there were possibilities. If I were to supply a drawing of something slightly different, could he make it? ―Sure, why not? This thing don‘t cut the mustard anyway.‖ I asked him what he meant. ―Well, it‘s supposed to do 250K, and it won‘t go above 100, so why not try something else? Name‘s Ed, by the way.‖ He held out his hand, and so began a friendship which lasted through my time at DH. This is more like it, I thought on the way back to my desk. Having some idea of what was going on, it should be possible to get cracking on some constructive work. Better find out a bit about this detector business first, in case anyone asks, so I dug out all the drawings I could find of the dewar-detector assembly, and studied them for an hour or two. Just in time, as it turned out. Next day an Indian assistant design technician was introduced to me, and shown to a desk in the area. I was asked to put him in the picture, and get him started on project work as appropriate. Me! I‘d only just found out where the toilets were! Anyway, he was a pleasant chap, and a few minutes of chatting showed me that he knew a fair bit about heat transfer, so I asked him to collect all the drawings and design specifications he found necessary to estimate the cooling load required to maintain the detector at its required temperature. He was to report progress twice a week, and could consult with me should any problems crop up. Fortunately for me, he was very bright, as indeed were most of the Indian technical people I met in the course of my career. He got stuck into it, gave me no trouble, and at the end of the first week his desk was covered with sheets of calculations, marked-up drawings and so on, all of which looked pretty good to me. Which was just as well, because all at once the pace of events started to accelerate. The chief designer called me in and said he would like me to register with the Ontario Professional Engineers Association. I could hardly refuse. What was involved? Oh well, there would be

223 NUTS AND BOLTS an interview, and they would inform me of any requirements to be met. Another bloody hoop to jump through, I thought. So be it; we would have to see. He gave me an enormous form to fill in, said he would forward it to them, and a date would then be set for the interview. At the appointed time, I found myself sitting with half a dozen of them in their Toronto office. The chairman opened the proceedings by saying that they had reviewed my application, which seemed to meet their standards. There was just the requirement for me to write their exam in Industrial Administration, and the process would be complete. I digested this for a while, thinking back to all those hours at Nottingham listening to that ghastly woman in her horrible business suit; surely that had not been for nothing, after all? Finally, still determined to be on my best behaviour, I said in my most conciliatory tone, ―Excuse me, gentlemen, I don‘t think you can have studied my application in sufficient detail. Industrial Administration was a major subject in my degree programme at Nottingham University.‖ ―Nottingham?‖ said someone at the far end of the table. I turned to him. ―Nottingham,‖ I said slowly and clearly, ―is a city in the middle of England, and Nottingham University was, to my knowledge, the first English university to introduce Industrial Administration as a major in its degree programme.‖ The chairman clearly sensed that something unpleasant might happen, and said that the matter would be looked into. I went on to say that, if necessary, I would obtain written confirmation, but was interrupted by the end-of-table chap, who insisted that the regulation stated that English degree people must pass their exam in this subject. Readers who have followed me thus far will be aware that sitting on your behind throwing rule books at me is not the way to my heart. Regretfully, I thanked them for their time, hoped that we might meet again under more favourable circumstances, and left. What now? I thought on the way home. Have I blown the whole wad? Will de Havilland send me back to England? The one essential item of information I lacked was how many before me had told them to get stuffed. Maybe they were used to it; on the other hand I may have committed a mortal sin.

224 “LET’S GO TO CANADA”

Dismissing these unworthy thoughts from my mind, I went to see the chief designer in a fairly belligerent mood. I told him exactly what had happened, and said I was sorry, but I was not accustomed to being treated in this manner. He looked thoughtful, then said, ―Well, we‘ll see what we can do about that. Leave it with me.‖ It turned out that he was the chairman of the selection board of the Professional Engineers Association of Ontario, and two weeks later my registration certificate arrived, together with a bill for the 75 dollar registration fee. Now, I have not drawn this silly business out to such length because I am pleased with it, or anything like that. Had they presented a case for requiring me to prove to them my competence in some area which was not adequately covered in my resume, I would of course have hastened to comply. It was just their hard luck that they had picked this particular subject, for which I was perfectly willing to supply written confirmation. Nevertheless, they had not seen fit to grant me this opportunity, so screw them. The next thing was that the division manager invited me into his office. John Lockyer, another of nature‘s gentlemen, apologised for not having made my acquaintance earlier. He had just returned from a tour of their suppliers, and wanted to find out what had been going on while he was away. I told him what I had been doing (in slightly different terms from those previously described). He said he would be talking to me later, when he had the complete picture. I left feeling good, and that things were going to be all right; he was one of the people who can do that. Inge was due to arrive the next day. At the appointed hour I was on the public observation balcony, watching the Air Canada DC-8 taxi in. Down came the ladder, and there they were, walking towards me. Inge spotted me straight away, and waved (see photograph). This, I have no hesitation in saying, was one of the happiest moments of my life. A short time later we were on our way. (I am not trying to strain the reader‘s credulity—it really used to be like this, but bear in mind this was forty years ago). Everyone was thrilled with the house, and the kids immediately took off to explore the neighbourhood. By the time we convened for our first meal in Canada, they had made friends with the two young boys who lived next door, which in turn led to our meeting their parents. It transpired that he was the sales manager of Stelco,

225 NUTS AND BOLTS one of the largest steel companies in Canada, and they invited us round for a barbecue. They wanted to know all about England, and we were fascinated to hear them talk about their two main recreations—a weekend gambling in Las Vegas, and a weekend in New York to take in the latest Broadway show. I seem to recall that it was Hello Dolly at the time. I paid particular attention to the barbecue technique, since my only previous experience of this art form had been in England, where I had watched someone reduce a reasonable-looking piece of meat to a small, charred cinder. I resolved to become an expert, because the end result was certainly one of the most delicious meals I had ever tasted. I could go on like this for hours, but some might accuse me of digressing, so— back to work. I had completed a drawing of what I thought the expansion turbine should look like, and handed it to Ed. He did not ask for any written authorization, and I didn‘t offer any, mainly because I did not know how to. The Indian chap had done a convincing- looking cooling estimate, Graham had returned from his gas bearing course, so we were at full strength again. It was decreed that Graham would enlighten the group as to the contents of his course, presumably so that we would all be able to design air bearings. Ha! Some hope! The conference room was equipped with a full-length blackboard, and, as Graham started at one end with a third order differential equation, I had this powerful sense of déjà vu. I was right back in the Nottingham classroom, watching the ash on Prof Bulleid‘s cigarette as his meaningless symbols crawled across the board. As previously mentioned, one of the hazards of having a really brilliant chap as a teacher is that they cannot comprehend how dim the rest of us are. Having been through the business before, I tuned out early on, and watched the others. I think John L had mastered the art of going to sleep in meetings without anyone noticing. The others sat there with glazed eyes, expressions of despair and the like. The Indian was scribbling furiously; good, I could copy off him if the necessity ever arose. I reflected that, to me, the best way of doing this stuff seemed to be what we had been doing up to now—you drill a number of small holes round the periphery of the bearing journal, then, according to circumstances, you either open them out or bung a

226 “LET’S GO TO CANADA” few up until it does what you want it to. No wonder I never made chief designer. However, I was not to be stretched upon this particular rack for long. John L said he would like me to visit the Canadian Navy in Halifax, Nova Scotia, taking with me an I/R detector with cooling system, and sort out with them the installation on a destroyer. Oh boy! Talk about in at the deep end. I asked if I could take a technician with me. Of course. Who did I have in mind? I asked for Ed, which presented no problem, except, of course, that I had no idea whether he would want to go. He jumped at the idea, and so a few days later I found myself sitting in an Air Canada Constellation alongside Ed. This was the first time I had flown in an airliner with four piston engines, and I was looking forward to the experience. The first starter motor groaned, and the huge propeller turned slowly. Bang! as the first cylinder fired, accompanied by a huge cloud of black smoke, followed by tongues of flame shooting from the exhaust as the other cylinders joined in. Oil seeped from a slight gap in an inspection cover. I was interested to observe the reaction of some of the passengers, who had obviously never seen anything like it before. Lovely! There was a three-hour stopover in Montreal, and Ed took me to a place just outside the airport. In there we sat at a table, and were joined by a hostess, who suggested that if we would buy her a drink, she would keep us company. Along came this glass of yellowish fluid, which we all knew was lemonade tarted up to look like absinthe, and for which we were, of course, charged an absinthe price. On the stage behind us a naked woman danced, separated from us by a flimsy gauze drape. After a few minutes of this I was totally fed up, and told Ed apologetically that I didn‘t want to spoil his fun; I would see him in the airport bar later. He, however, did not seem all that interested either; maybe he thought he ought to show me the possibilities. So, we had another beer at normal prices in the airport bar, and the flight continued to Halifax. When we arrived over the airport the pilot, descending through the murk, had to go round again three times, finally making it on the fourth attempt. The naval chap who met us said he had seen our wheels hanging below the cloud base on all three missed approaches. We theorized that maybe the tower had waived the 50- foor rule and authorized him to come down another ten feet, when

227 NUTS AND BOLTS he would have the runway in sight. Anyway, as you see, it worked. Our guide took us to the car hire counter, where I took possession of a Ford Galaxie, an enormous vehicle. I was very glad to have had some time driving my Parisienne, and getting used to the large size and the automatic transmission. We made our way to HMCS Shearwater; as with the British Navy, the Canadian Navy gave each of its shore establishments a ship‘s name. When we arrived, the whole place had a festive air. It was explained that this was Grey Cup day. We were welcomed by the C/O, who led us to the officers‘ mess, where at least fifteen TV sets were scattered around. The place was full of immaculately clad naval officers of both sexes, and was awash with beer, wine and any other drink you could think of. White-clad waiters scurried around. Ed told me it was the most important football game in the Canadian calendar. Another first for me. I was still getting used to the idea that Canadian football was played with an oval ball which was carried by hand. I was to find out years later that this was a vintage year for the Toronto Argonauts, being the last year they had won the game. I told Ed I wanted to stick around to find out what it was all about, and if this didn‘t suit him we should meet in the morning to make arrangements to visit the warship concerned. With that, he disappeared into the crowd, and I settled down to enjoy the game. Not for long, however. Up came a senior officer, who wanted to brief me on tomorrow‘s arrangements for our visit to his ship. This took half an hour, after which someone scored a touchdown, he went bananas and took off to rejoin his friends, probably having won a bet or something. Clutching the beer he had brought me, I settled down once again, but a short time later sensed someone in close proximity. I turned, and there was a gorgeous-looking woman naval officer with her face about an inch away from mine. I managed to croak, ―Do you come here often?‖ or some such asininity. She said she would like to show me around upstairs, and then later we could come down and stir up some mayhem in the mess— maybe a game of high cockalorum. Oh, Ed, where are you now that I need you? He could have sorted this one out in double-quick time. I had not previously played that game with women present, and have to admit it would certainly have added interest. As things

228 “LET’S GO TO CANADA” were, I muttered some excuse about needing a pee, and went into hiding until it seemed safe to return. The rest of the day passed without further incident, and the following morning found us on the deck of a Royal Canadian Navy Tribal Class destroyer. The petty officer showing us around indicated the short mast abaft the aft stack, and told us that was where our box of tricks was going. Well no, actually, was my immediate thought. Once the vessel was under way, our box of tricks would be surrounded by hot black smoke issuing from the stack, and goodness knows what that would do to it. I remembered reading, some time ago, a report on the effects of radiation inside a hot gas cloud, and obviously it would be necessary to know the temperature of the ship‘s smoke before any kind of discussion could take place. I certainly had no intention of opening that particular can of worms. I asked the petty officer whether there any alternative possibilities, but all he said was, ―You‘ll have to see the Old Man about that.‖ Later in the wardroom I opened the meeting by saying that unfortunately the chosen location was quite unacceptable in my opinion, and the matter would have to be referred back to my chief. This of course had the usual effect. Why do I continue to do it? you may well ask. That‘s how I am. If DH didn‘t like it, they could send someone else. No way was I going to become any further involved in such a daft proposal on my own. Serves them right for throwing me into this lion‘s den without some scientific backup. They would naturally reply that if I wanted a physicist I should have asked for one, not some cotton-picking technician. I recognized a no-win situation; it was by now familiar territory. One of the admirals asked me, frostily, if I had any constructive suggestions. I said that a stub mast on the bridge would seem to be an excellent location. This caused further consternation, rather as if a technician had asked God for permission to put a TV antenna on the Pearly Gates. One last attempt. Could they tell me what was the exhaust temperature of the destroyer‘s engines? No idea. I would arrange with my superiors for further discussion, no doubt at a higher level. Ed was enjoying all this, but of course it wasn‘t his head on the chopping block. When we got back to DH, I told John L exactly what had happened, and to my relief he seemed quite amused by

229 NUTS AND BOLTS the whole thing. I received the distinct impression that he had half expected it to be something like that, but wanted to make sure before taking the next step, which was to refer the matter to the technical director of the whole organization, Dr. Phil Lapp, one of the noted physicists of his day, whom I was to meet up with many years later in a totally different setting. Apparently he had friends high up in the Navy, so it was most definitely on a higher level now. In any event, John had something else for me, which was to occupy most of my time in the months to come. My new assignment was to handle the engineering side of the development of a diving computer for the Navy. Can‘t seem to get away from them, can I? I was introduced to the Marketing Manager in charge of this project, John Ruse, another of those pleasant occasions when we hit it off straight away, and became good friends. He was formerly a Lt-Cdr Diving Officer in the Navy, and was pleased to find that he had been teamed with an engineer who knew something about it. Not, I hastened to add, with any great practical skills, just some hands-on stuff during the Normalair period, but at one stage I had memorized the diving tables, since that had seemed to me the whole crux of the matter, so we got along very well right from the start. With the usual apologies to readers who know this stuff, a word or two of explanation is necessary at this point. When a diver goes down using SCUBA (self-contained underwater breathing apparatus), he is breathing air from high-pressure tanks strapped to his back, through a demand valve (invented by Jacques Cousteau) which balances the air pressure in his lungs with the external water pressure, and which really made the whole thing possible. However, as the diver goes deeper, the nitrogen in the air is absorbed into the bloodstream, and as he ascends to the surface, this absorbed nitrogen bubbles out from the blood, and if he comes up too quickly the rate of release of the gas causes extreme muscle cramps, known as ―the bends‖, which can completely incapacitate the diver. In due course the diving tables were compiled. These informed the diver where his ―decompression stops‖ should be, according to how deep he had gone and for how long, so as to give the nitrogen time to leave the bloodstream without ill effects. This was all right for civilian use, but Navy divers engaged in warlike operations were looking for something

230 “LET’S GO TO CANADA” that would give them more freedom of action. Hence the search for an instrument which would show them at any time whether they were in a safe operating situation. No doubt this will amuse today‘s divers, who strap on an electronic gizmo slightly bigger than a wristwatch, but I hope it may be an interesting historical note as to where we were in the sixties. If you will look at the picture, our instrument was seven inches long, three and five eighths inches diameter. Its official name was pneumatic analogue diving computer, which we were building under the name ―Pacer‖. It was designed by someone in the Defence Research Establishment, and consisted basically of four chambers into which air from the diver‘s supply was admitted via porous membranes having flow characteristics analogous to the rates of absorption and release of nitrogen in the bloodstream. The pressures in these chambers were sensed by bourdon tubes, which were geared to drive a pointer. A second pointer showed the actual depth. In operation, provided that the diver ensured that the first pointer never overtook the second, he could operate in any way required, and to heck with the diving tables. DH was already producing them; the only problem was that none of them worked. This appeared to be because of the unpredictable characteristics of the membranes being used. This in turn meant that each instrument had to be calibrated individually. This process was carried out using a hypothetical case called an Impulse Dive. An inlet pressure corresponding to a depth of 200 feet was applied within twenty seconds, held for two hours, then released. The ascent pointer reading versus time had been specified by a computer programme run by the Institute of Aviation Medicine, and used by our boffin for an acceptance test specification for production instruments. Ours were all dancing around this requirement quite closely, but even when we hit it smack on the nose, another test run the following day would show that it had drifted. Each run took four hours, and if any adjustments were required, another run was necessary. It could take up to a week to calibrate one instrument—not exactly a production proposition! I sought out every scrap of information available to find out what had been done so far. At one point I discovered that the membrane material used by the boffin in his initial tests was no

231 NUTS AND BOLTS longer available. I had hoped this would not turn into another Fred Karno‘s circus act, but it seemed to be heading that way. The material we were using came from British Drug Houses (BDH), who had been very helpful in supplying information—e.g., that the pore size was 0.05 micron. Well—good for it. That will for sure enable us to get into full production by next week. I had to work with what I had. For a couple of days I immersed myself in the drawings and a study of a stripped-down instrument. It soon became apparent that one major cause of the problem was the method of holding the membrane. It was in the form of a small disc which was stuffed into a brass holder, and held there by means of a screw. I tried to imagine the effect on the membrane of having it twisted by a screw being tightened on top of it. Knowing nothing about membranes, it seemed highly likely to me that not all the pores would be 0.05 micron after an ordeal like that. It seemed like a good idea to make a properly-designed membrane holder and give it a few test runs. I therefore drew up a holder in which the membrane was held in place by an O-ring, on top of which was a washer, so that the retaining screw could be tightened down without twisting the membrane. Then I made my big mistake. I drew it up on an official DH engineering drawing sheet, reasoning that, since we were dealing with an important government department any documents ought to look official. Retribution was not long in overtaking me. Up came a gentleman who asked whether I was aware that all drawings should pass through his office. Oh sod it, I thought, another ruddy chief draughtsman. At this point I would like to say to him, should he ever read this, that I hope he will forgive me, having read the book, for any hostility in my response. I like to believe that we ended our careers on friendly terms. At any rate, he came to my retirement party. When I went to see Don, the draughtsman who had been assigned the awe-inspiring task of drawing my scientific breakthrough, he was working on a marvellous model of a Mini Cooper. ―Hey,‖ I said, ―is that a Scalextric?‖ At this point it is necessary to explain that I have been a slot car racing nut all my life; Peter and I used to do little else, when we weren‘t designing ice trays or camping in the far north of Scotland. ―Nah,‖ said Don. ―Scalextric don‘t do braking.‖

232 “LET’S GO TO CANADA”

―Braking?‖ I queried. He seemed surprised that I didn‘t know it, and explained that a blip switch on the control handle reversed the input to the motor field winding, and you could stop on a dime. Would I like to see some—they were having a race at lunchtime. You just bet! At noon the whole drawing office, plus one fellow traveller from the engineering department, set off for a pub just down the road, whose name unfortunately escapes me. I often wonder if it is still there. My group ignored the downstairs, which seemed a nicely appointed restaurant, and went straight upstairs. The entire upper floor was devoted to largest slot car track I have ever seen. There was a straight about thirty feet long. No wonder they needed brakes. A small bar at the corner dispensed drinks and sandwiches. The chaps lost no time in getting their cars going on practice laps, and then the race started. The braking capability certainly added to the cut-and-thrust of cornering. One fellow‘s braking system failed when he was doing a scale speed of about 200 mph along the straight. His car went straight through the window, which fortunately was open. Altogether, it was of the nicest lunch hours I have ever enjoyed. When we returned, about twenty minutes late, there was AI Reed standing at the door with a clipboard in his hand, making notes. I asked Don with some consternation if he was taking their names, and were they going to get into trouble, and if there was anything I could do... ―Oh piss on him,‖ said Don scornfully. ―I can get a job around here any time I want. He can‘t.‖ Another lunchtime occasion was a farewell to someone whose U.S. visa had come through, and they were off to sunny San Diego. We would all head to Diamond Lil‘s bar, just down the Airport Road. There would be a chef, resplendent in his white uniform and tall hat, carving an enormous beef roast. Unfortunately this very pleasant custom fell into disfavour when it became so common as to be an embarrassment. Back at work, John Ruse said he wanted me to go with him to the Defence Research Establishment in Toronto, to meet the people we were working for, and was there anything I would like to take? Fortunately, I had just obtained some results from the first tests of my redesigned membrane mounting, which seemed to indicate that more stable results were occurring. Also, I had done a

233 NUTS AND BOLTS proposal for a programme to develop a means of testing production instruments. The establishment looked innocuous enough from the outside, but inside it was pure Navy. Smartly dressed naval personnel moved around with an efficient air, and we were rapidly shown into the office of Surgeon-Commander Kidd, which he shared with his colleague Dr. Stubbs, whom I later found to be a noted physicist. The situation was immediately familiar to me. Here were no bloody-minded destroyer captains resenting anyone encroaching on their territory; here were serious, dedicated people whose sole aim was to enable the forces under their command to operate with the best equipment their country could give them. The feeling was the same as when W/Cdr Beamont had asked me about the TSR-2 air conditioning system. Be upfront with these people, or don‘t come back. After the introductions, Kidd asked me to let him know how things were going from my perspective. I told him I was working to develop a satisfactory method of calibrating production computers to the point where they could be guaranteed to comply with the acceptance test specified. His eyebrows raised, he said with a friendly grin that took away any sting, ―You are aware, I take it, that this is a production contract, yet you are working on development?‖ I didn‘t even bother to answer his implied question. He had asked for my opinion, and he was damn well going to get it, and if he didn‘t like it, too bad. Hoping I had sized this man up correctly, otherwise I would probably be looking for a new job shortly, I made my presentation. It took us the best part of a week to calibrate a computer to the point where it stood a chance of passing the acceptance test. This did not strike me as a suitable procedure for what was supposed to be a production item. In my opinion the problem arose because of membrane instability, which I thought was most likely due to the method of clamping the membrane. I had therefore designed a membrane holder which eliminated this problem, and initial test results appeared promising. At this point I showed him my drawing, which he scanned with interest. Of course, I went on, the problem might have its origin in the fact that the membrane material used by the designer of the

234 “LET’S GO TO CANADA” computer was no longer available to us, but my preference was always to find a solution, rather than cast around trying to allocate blame. He seemed to like this, and moved the meeting to a close by asking when they might hear from me regarding the results of my development programme. ―Not before the weekend, sir, I‘m afraid. This stuff does take a bit of time, you know.‖ By this time his eyebrows had nearly gone through the ceiling. I think he had become so used to having people like us telling him they would have an answer by next muckspreading or whenever, that his time scale was having to undergo a bit of adjustment. In the end he arranged with John for a meeting in two weeks time, and from then it was Navy hospitality. We had a tour of the establishment, where we saw their 50- foot deep diving tank; this was followed by a slap-up lunch, and we departed in what I can only describe as a state of goodwill. On the way back I asked John anxiously if I had done all right. ―Well,‖ he said, ―I was nearly sick when you started on him, but he seemed to take it in good part. By the way, will you have something by the weekend?‖ I told him that Commander Kidd was the last person on the face of the earth that I would try to bluff. Of course there would be something by the weekend. If things turned out right, and the time constants for all four chambers were within specified limits, they would be installed in a test computer, and if this failed to meet the acceptance specification, then there was something else wrong with the instrument, which I would try to track down if still welcome on the project. On that note we left it to await the test results. Meanwhile, a memo had come round, saying that we were now required to fill in time sheets. This had the same effect on me as they say a toreador waving a red rag has on a bull. I took it straight in to John L and said it could not possibly apply to me. Why not? he wanted to know. I asked him what it was for, and he said it was so that our customers could be billed for the time our people spent on their projects. I pointed out that the engineering department came in under ―overheads‖, so that charging them for my time on top of that was in fact double-billing them for my work, which struck me as sharp practice with which I would rather not be associated.

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He was very good about it; he took me out for lunch at the same pub where I had observed the slot car racing, only this time we stayed downstairs. He was a very pleasant host, although he was obviously putting forward the management‘s point of view at every opportunity. Being fairly certain that he appreciated my, shall we say, direct approach to things, I gave him my end of the deal, namely that the bean counters could never be made to understand that I knew as much about organizational structures as they did; I could do their job, but they could not do mine, therefore, who should actually be running the company? He said he appreciated my honesty, and hoped that our working relationship would always be on the same footing; in this case, he had regretfully to pull rank on me, since the edict had come down from on high, and there was nothing he could do about it. For my part, I hoped nobody would expect too much of a helpful or informative nature, since my heart wasn‘t in it. This was how it was left, just another burr under the saddle. Well, at least I got a free lunch out of it. Six months after arriving in Canada, I had paid off everything I owed the bank in England, and now Inge had got herself a job, on the night shift at a local nursing home. We did not have much time together at this point, which was a gut-wrenching experience, but at least our finances were beginning to look fairly reasonable, so we kept at it. One of her patients was a steelworker who had fallen off the Lions Gate bridge in Vancouver when it was being built, and was now a paraplegic. Lucky to be alive, I suppose, although if it had been me I think I would have preferred fate to do the job properly. Anyway, she was one of the few people who could, not cheer him up exactly, but at least elevate him slightly from the depths of depression. For this alone she was very well thought of, and we soon became great friends of the lady who ran the place. A boating adventure is worth relating. John Ruse invited me for a weekend on his boat, with a view to visiting one of the small harbours that dot the coast to the east of Toronto. When he picked me up, our first stop was the liquor store, where he demonstrated his dislike and contempt for the way liquor was retailed in Canada at the time. This was entertaining for me, as I had always felt that it was a bit much, but didn‘t want to say anything. The atmosphere was like that of a hospital waiting room. Sullen attendants stood on duty behind counters taking your order. Each ―beverage‖ was

236 “LET’S GO TO CANADA” assigned a code number, which you had to read from a huge chart. These numbers were written on a form, which you then had to sign. John told me this was a contract you made with the government not to sell your purchases to the Indians. His three favourite signatures were A. Hitler, N. Bonaparte and G. Khan. When he finally had his form made out, full of alterations, and some unfortunate had delivered his order, he would inspect it, saying something like, ―Nah—that‘s not what I wanted—I meant this,‖ and he would alter his form yet again. He had that air of quiet command which I associate with naval officers, and nobody cared to mix it with him. Having made our point with the liquor store, we made our way to the boat, a trim cabin cruiser, stashed the precious fluids safely inside, and set off in an easterly direction. The idea was to keep going through the night, arriving at Kingston early the following morning. It was very pleasant, chugging along through the afternoon and watching the sunset. John was making great inroads into the Scotch, while I enjoyed the odd beer from time to time. In the wee small hours of the morning the night became pitch black. Absolutely nothing could be seen, no stars, no shore lights, nothing—just the reassuring glow of our navigation lights, which then went out. With a curse, John started down the companionway to investigate, missed his footing and crashed to the bottom, twisting his ankle. Oh dear, or words to that effect. Between us we managed to wrap a bandage round it to make him as comfortable as possible. Still very much in command, he informed me that we were abeam of Belleville, and we should go there for the night, so that he could get his damned ankle fixed. He gave me a course to steer and told me what buoys to look out for. I climbed back up on deck, and was busy setting the compass lubber line to the new course when I heard a sound that haunts me to this day. It was the steady throb of the diesel engines of a very large ship, no doubt one of the bulk carriers I had read about. The night was still as black as the Earl of Hell‘s waistcoat—probably advection fog, hanging around for a few feet above the surface. I could not tell from which direction the sound was coming; I couldn‘t see any lights. I cannot recall ever being more scared. Then came the realization that whatever happened would be as nothing compared with the consequences of

237 NUTS AND BOLTS my putting up a poor show in front of Cdr Ruse, so I concentrated on the compass, and after five minutes on the new course the lights on the buoy described by him loomed out of the murk, followed almost immediately by the lights on the coast. I managed to dock the boat without even scratching the paint, and the rest of the weekend passed pleasantly enough. One of life‘s little experiences which helped prepare me for what was to come in a few years. The year 1967 saw Canada‘s hundredth birthday bash, the centenary of Confederation, which was celebrated by Expo ‘67, an enormous exhibition held in Montreal. We all went along, and thoroughly enjoyed it. Every country in the world seemed to have a pavilion there. Everyone was having a good time. The mood was buoyant, people were cheerful, Canada was a great place to live. Politics was on about the same level as a Mickey Mouse show. For years the Conservatives under John Diefenbaker had been alternating with Lester B. Pearson‘s Liberals in running the second biggest country in the world, and when we arrived they had been locked in mortal combat over the conduct of the Minister of Defence, a dashing French-Canadian ex-general, who had been caught ―in flagrante‖ with a German call-girl, Gerda Munsinger, at the huge Canadian base at Lahr, in central Germany. The Toronto Star had sent an investigative reporter over, who had managed to track her to an apartment in Munich. He wined her and dined her and I don‘t know what else, finishing up with her complete story, of which she was not in the least ashamed. In fact, to me she seemed a classy lady, and I admired the minister‘s choice. The standing joke of the time was: ―Diefenbaker and Pearson were in a boat when it sank. Who was saved?‖ And the snappy catch answer was ―Canada‖. Now I REALLY must get back to work. The diving computer seemed to be coming along satisfactorily. Using membrane material from a different supplier, and the revised method of clamping, our test runs were getting better, and being accomplished faster. Also, I had at last persuaded them to do something about the bourdon tubes, which had been all over the place in terms of deflection versus pressure. We were now making, say, twenty, picking the best ten and throwing the others away—a trick I picked up at General Motors. The extra cost was chickenfeed compared with the performance and delivery penalties

238 “LET’S GO TO CANADA” we would have to pay if we didn‘t get it right. I must have been making some sort of impression, because John L asked me to give a presentation to the rest of the staff on the progress that was being made. I have just unearthed, among my souvenirs, my first handwritten copy of this, and am quite impressed! Did I REALLY write that? Halfway through was a page of mathematics which I find totally incomprehensible. Where had THAT come from? Probably some obscure research report. Anyway, it seemed to go down well, although now I would definitely place it the BBB (Bullshit baffles brains) category. Various other assignments came my way. Once I was invited to attend a meeting at which a new American contractual document was being discussed. One of the new requirements was for what was termed a ―pushover test‖ to be included in the acceptance test schedule for equipment. This, it struck me, had been dreamed up by some half-witted deskbound bean counter, and I made a determined bid for the unpopularity stakes by pronouncing it totally unacceptable. There was the usual strangled silence, broken by someone saying, ―Would you mind enlarging on that?‖ I pointed out that, during the transit from upright to on its side, a certain tangential velocity would be built up. On impact, this velocity would be reduced to zero in zero time, and by invoking Newton‘s Laws of Motion it could be shown that the deceleration force would be infinite. Personally, I would not wish to be given the task of designing any equipment to withstand an infinite force. The chairman thanked me for my contribution, and said they need not detain me any longer. As alert readers will have noted, this was the second time I had been thrown out of a meeting; it was getting to be a habit. A couple of small jobs provided some light relief. The first was to engrave 360 degrees on a large brass turntable which was to be the base of an infrared detector. This thing was about three feet in diameter, much too large for the in-house engraving equipment that was used for diving computer dials and such. I wondered why they didn‘t send it out, but since it was none of my business I went to see Ed and we did it together. The turntable was also too large for his gear indexing equipment, so we went to plan B, which was to set dividers as close as possible to the length of a degree at the periphery, which I worked out to the nearest thou, do a complete

239 NUTS AND BOLTS traverse, and hope it would finish exactly where it started. If it didn‘t, the dividers would be adjusted and another traverse made, and so on until the setting was exact, at which point index marks would be made and used as the basis for engraving the final divisions. It took Ed about six goes to get it right, and shortly after that the job was finished. We just left it there for them to find—I thought it would be a nice surprise for them. When I went back next day it had disappeared, and nobody ever mentioned it again. Funny old world. The second bit of casual labour was entirely my own. It concerned a sideways-looking radar they were working on. This thing oscillated from side to side, and was supposed to sweep out a preordained pattern on the earth‘s surface at a certain speed and height. The problem was to design a mechanism which would control the pattern of the oscillations to produce the required result on the ground. A fearsome-looking formula was provided, which did not seem much of a base for a mechanical design. The first thing I did was to plug some numbers into this, from which I was able to plot a graph of angular velocity against time. Then, out came the family Spirograph set, which I had given to one of the kids, who had become fed up with it. Does anyone remember the Spirograph? I consider it one of the finest toys ever made. It consists basically of a perforated backboard and dozens of gears moulded from a transparent plastic, of different diameters, and with holes provided at strategic points. It was only ever supposed to be a pastime for kids, who could produce pretty floral patterns and so forth, but I had found that with it I could produce profiles of involute and cycloidal gear teeth, velocity and acceleration diagrams, and all sorts of things which I had sweated hours over at Nottingham. So, I did not see why it shouldn‘t work in this case. Not wishing to be seen in the design office working with a kid‘s toy, I worked on it at home. It took me three evenings to come up with a gear arrangement which reproduced my calculated graph almost exactly. I made a sketch of it, and handed it in to the chief designer the next day. Once again, there was no response, and I was getting a bit fed up. ―Need to know‖, security, official secrets act and so forth are all very well, but the occasional pat on the back goes down very well with me, probably because it happens so

240 “LET’S GO TO CANADA” rarely. I was brooding on this when John L stopped by my desk and said, ―By the way, how did you work that SLR thing out?‖ I looked him in the eye and said, ―I don‘t think you would want to know.‖ He grinned and moved on. Another time I was asked to look into a method of carrying out tensile testing of material specimens under high temperature and high vacuum conditions. I knew this was for AECL (Atomic Energy of Canada Limited), since the zirconium alloy tubing they were using in their reactors was beginning to crack, and they were embarking on a programme of material testing which, of course, they should have done before starting on their first nuclear power station. However, having since observed for the last 40 years how these clowns operate, this does not now surprise me. It took me the best part of a week to come up with a drawing, which I fed into the system and forgot, since there was, as usual, no response. I‘m still looking for my copy. A significant event then occurred, although I did not realize its significance at the time. Graham left, to go teaching at Ryerson. I had a vague idea that this was some sort of polytech in Toronto, and, apart from thinking that it was a rather bizarre move, thought no more about it. Even so, I was beginning to think that it might soon be time to move on. To this end, I decided to attend an interview session which was being held by the Rohr Corporation (of sunny San Diego), in the Royal York Hotel, which at that time was the tallest hotel building in the British Commonwealth. There were quite a few people there, and when my turn came I was greeted by a chap who struck me as, shall we say, somewhat disconnected. Painstakingly, he wrote down the usual particulars, then said, ―Hey—that‘s great—when can you start?‖ With a sense of foreboding, I asked him if he could tell me what I would be doing. Oh, you know, working on the stuff they make. I resolved to find out what that was, made my excuses, and left. It turned out that they were subcontractors for a large part of the American aircraft industry. At present, their main contract was for Boeing 707 power pods, the structures which carry the engines under the wings. It did not sound very interesting, and in any case I was not prepared to have my engineering career determined purely by climatic considerations.

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Then came a real blockbuster. Boeing was advertising for engineers to work on their recently announced programme to develop a supersonic airliner. Bingo, I thought. I should be able to get a piece of this one. I wrote in, and within a week was face-to- face with a really sharp individual. Very friendly, while he was finding out everything I knew. Couldn‘t have done better myself. We parted on friendly terms, and within a week I had a letter of engagement offering me the appointment of project engineer on the air conditioning system for their SST. So far so good. All I had to do was wait until President Johnson signed the SST development programme into law. Meanwhile things seemed to be gradually slowing down. Ugly rumours were circulating that the company was going to be sold. I discussed the whole thing with Inge, and we were both aware that it would soon be time to move on. I was being bombarded with mail from Seattle, all about the advantages of working for Boeing. They would move me at their expense, arrange temporary accommodation while I looked for a suitable house, the sailing on Puget sound was marvellous (brochure enclosed), please let them know when I would be starting, and so on. Then one day they telephoned me, trying to make me commit myself to a starting date. Isn‘t it nice to be wanted? However, I had to tell them that I would start as soon as President Johnson signed the project into law. ―But he already...‖ ―Oh no he hasn‘t,‖ I said (thank you, Aviation Week). I would contact him as soon as this happened. At that precise moment, Graham rang up to say there was a vacancy at Ryerson for someone to teach Thermodynamics. Right up my street, he said, whys didn‘t I go there and meet the chairman? He had recommended me, and it would be a piece of cake. Timing, as they say, is everything. Inge said, ―Why don‘t you try it—just for a giggle.‖ Are you mad? I wanted to know. I could not imagine anything more ridiculous, but with a growing sense of doom I realized that it looked inevitable. The following day President Johnson announced the cancellation of the American supersonic airliner programme, so I didn‘t have a leg to stand on. Behold me, then talking to B. T. Jones, chairman of the Mechanical, Aero and Industrial Engineering department of the

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Ryerson Polytechnical Institute, and three of his staff, who constituted a selection committee. All except one were, like me, refugees from the British aircraft industry, and seemed pleased to see me. Jones himself was from Bristol Aircraft, then there was Graham, and Al, from the RAE Farnborough. I couldn‘t make the other fellow out, but we‘ll get to that in time. They promised a letter of engagement within the week, in return I undertook to serve a two-year probationary period, to attend an ―orientation week‖ in August, and to start full time at the beginning of the fall term in September. There was just one more thing I wanted to know—what was I to teach? Well—Thermodynamics, of course. Yes, but could someone lend me a copy of the curriculum? What curriculum? Why do you think we hired you? YOU do it. Back at DH, I had to hand in my resignation quickly, in order to fulfil the one month‘s notice requirement. Having written the letter, I took it to John L‘s office, only to find that he had just left for his annual holiday. That was not so good. He would probably think that I had waited for him to be gone before deserting, and I had too much respect for him to want that to happen. However, in this case the dates were obviously totally inflexible, so there was nothing I could do about it. What did surprise me was the commotion when the news got around. I could not understand why this should occur in my case, when people were leaving all the time to head south. Then, whilst skimming through my in mail, I found a copy of a letter from the Department of Defence, and trust I may be forgiven for quoting the last paragraph: ―In the four months in which Mr. Tysoe has been involved in the project we have been most impressed by his competence and understanding of the complex problem, and feel confident that the project will be successfully concluded.‖ This letter probably accounted for all the fuss. The chief engineer called me in and, while wishing me well, was of the opinion that I would be totally fed up with it before the year was out, and if I felt like returning my desk would be waiting—all I had to do was give him a call. Then John L returned from holiday, so I hastened to his office to apologize for my timing and everything. Not at all, he said, it was honourably done, and he wished me success. Then he asked if I would consider being available as a consultant when the occasion arose. I agreed to this whereupon he

243 NUTS AND BOLTS sent me on a two-week tour of American suppliers of cryogenic equipment, something he had been meaning to do, but could never find the time. I shall only mention a few recollections of this tour, because it‘s worth a book to itself. It started with a flight to Los Angeles, a place I‘d heard a lot about, and was interested in finding out whether any of it was true. Well, it all was. As the airliner plunged into the smog, evil-looking strips of black cloud floated past the windows, like oil slicks on the water after a tanker disaster. Taxiing in to the terminal, you couldn‘t see the edge of the airfield. Awaiting me was yet another Galaxie, which I drove along Sepulveda Boulevard to the turnoff leading to the Pen and Quill hotel. The traffic, while dense, was subtly different from what I had become used to in Canada. Then it struck me—there were no pig- ignorant kamikaze psychopaths weaving in and out of the lanes. Everyone just chugged along contentedly. Motorbikes rode in between the car lanes and nobody seemed to care. They seemed to have adapted to the motor car in a way that I have seen in no other country. After I had booked into the hotel (what a delightful name), I decided to take my first look at the Pacific Ocean, which was just steps away. On the golden sandy beach the air was clear, and the blue Pacific stretched out before me, ten thousand miles all the way to New Zealand. (Now where did THAT come from? I do wish my mind would stop jumping around like this). The temptation was irresistible. Off came the shoes and socks, up rolled the pants, and I strolled into the Pacific. Wait ‘til I tell them about this at home. Just then an enormous wave came from nowhere and spat me out on to the beach. ―Pacific‖—ha! Furtively I slunk back to the hotel, hoping that nobody would notice my bedraggled state. Having dried out, I enjoyed a very nice meal—they do some really great cooking down there. In the evening the TV provided reruns of I Love Lucy. Next day I drove to General Dynamics at Pomona, where I was cordially received (as, indeed, I was everywhere), and collected a large amount of information, most of which seemed to be about what they were going to do, rather than what was available. It was now the weekend and, having completed the business, I resolved to visit another place that has always interested me. On Saturday morning I headed north up the freeway, which soon took

244 “LET’S GO TO CANADA” me into desert country. Now, the traffic was quite different, and appeared to consist mainly of pickup trucks with camper backs on which were hung motorbikes, shovels and all kinds of miscellaneous junk. It seems that the California government had a scheme going to reclaim the desert. You could have an acre of land out there for nothing, if you undertook to make grass grow there, and ultimately build some kind of residence. I saw some of these, quite well advanced, before taking a turnoff on to a steep twisty road which led up the San Gabriel mountains to the Mount Wilson observatory. Sadly the place was closed and there was nobody around, but the view was magnificent. The brilliant sunshine was reflected off the top of the smog, which looked like soup in a half basin. From this aspect the whole problem was apparent. Los Angeles was surrounded by mountains, and the onshore wind held the smog against them. Oh well, so much for that. By far the most interesting visit was to Arthur D. Little & Associates, in Concord, Massachusetts. I had been primed to be wary when dealing with this company. They were said to be known as ―Arthur Dolittle‖, because they made a lot of money shuffling other people‘s stuff around without actually producing anything themselves. For my part, I had learned to disregard other people‘s perceptions until I had made up my own mind, which was just as well, because I was most highly impressed with what I saw. The chief engineer took me round their development lab, where they had laid out the parts of a Stirling Cycle liquefier. Once again I have to thank my friend Neil, who had demonstrated this arrangement with the aid of two bicycle pumps and a roll of steel wool, in his briefing session before we left for Canada. Thanks again, mate, that‘s another one I owe you. By this time I was reasonably fluent in Stirling Cycle lore, and thus able to make some fairly intelligent observations, but what happened next just blew my doors clean off their hinges. Along came a white-coated lab technician, who screwed the parts together and plugged it in. Before long, liquid nitrogen was dribbling from the end. You have to realize that, up to now, I had been accustomed to this stuff being assembled under surgically sterile conditions in pressurized clean rooms, because of the catastrophic effect of the slightest speck of unidentified foreign material (read ‗crud‘). At that precise moment, a telephone was brought to me,

245 NUTS AND BOLTS bearing a call from Mr. Lockyer, of de Havilland Canada. He knew my itinerary, of course, having written it, and I wondered if he was checking on my movements. They offered me a private room, which I declined, because I wanted to let him know about this straight away. I told him that I was very impressed by what I was witnessing, and that in my opinion Stirling Cycle Liquefiers were the way to go, and that this company was well able to supply them. He sounded a bit surprised at first, then pleased, as he rang off, and of course the conversation did no harm at all to my relations with the people standing around. My escort then showed me round the area. He took me to the bridge where the first shot of the War of Independence was fired (―The shot that was heard around the world‖). Then he took me to Thoreau‘s cabin on Walden Pond. Finally he drove me to his home for supper. As we entered the town he was explaining the layout to me. We passed some row houses where, he said, the workers lived. Then we came to an area of semidetached houses, where the junior executives lived. Finally, we got to the detached houses, where the senior executives lived. I listened to this stuff in a kind of trance, having no idea that they had this sort of thing in America. Well, I can tell you they do in Concord, Massachusetts, or at least they did in 1967. I was treated to a wonderful supper with his wife and daughter, which started off with their saying grace. This consisted of a prayer for the safety of their son, who was flying an F-4 Phantom in Vietnam. I gained one more insight from my host, before reluctantly leaving these fascinating people. He told me that a lot of Americans, including many of his friends, owned lakeside properties in Canada. I already knew this, because it was a rankling quarrel that many Canadians had with Americans, but nobody knew what to do about it. He went on to say that most of these people had pickups with camper backs in their garages, fully fuelled and stocked with food, guns, ammunition and other necessities, ready to head north at the drop of a hat. They were quite convinced that, sooner or later, the blacks were going to revolt, and they didn‘t want to be caught out. And now look—they have a black president. My, how times change.

246 “LET’S GO TO CANADA”

There were many other interesting visits, but now I really must get on track. Upon my return to Canada, I submitted a full report to John L, who appeared very grateful. Inge met him for the first time, and asked him very sweetly if she could now have me back, to which he made a very gentlemanly reply, which I think impressed her—and that takes some doing. And so I suppose it could be said that my ―legit‖ engineering career ended on a high note.

247

CHAPTER 13: RYERSON FULL TIME

ow begins the final phase of my working life, when I forsook the design office and went teaching. On the N appointed day I turned up at Ryerson, feeling like my first day at school. Which, of course, it was—the first for nigh on forty years anyway. There were around twenty of us new starters, all gathered in a classroom, and here the first curve was thrown at me. I was aware that I had to deliver a ten-minute lecture on a subject of my choice, which was going to be the air conditioning of motor cars. But—instead of a blackboard, a box of coloured chalk and an eraser, there was a strange-looking apparatus and a large screen. Now what? I don‘t suppose they got too many people applying for positions in post-secondary education who had never seen an overhead projector. I focussed my whole attention on that thing, hoping I would not be the first to be called. The first chap strode up confidently to the front and switched the thing on. So, at least I could do that. He then picked up a transparent plastic sheet from a pile, laid it on the glass screen, selected a pen from a box and started to draw an electric circuit, which duly appeared on the screen. After fiddling with a focus knob, he went into his act, picking up a pointer which I hadn‘t spotted, and from then it was as though he‘d drawn it on the blackboard. Well, that seemed straightforward enough. When my turn came, I started on my refrigeration circuit diagram, about a third of the way down the sheet, thinking to get it all nicely in the middle. After I‘d been going for a while, I suddenly noticed that my diagram was going upwards, not downwards, and I had to cram the last bit of the circuit into the small space remaining at the top. How was I supposed to know the bloody thing projected back to front? The MC made a crack that has stayed with me ever since. ―I see,‖ he said, ―that Mr. Tysoe is a conservative artist.‖ This raised a bit of a chuckle, so I thought it best to brazen it out. ―Sorry,‖ I said, ―it must be the pen.‖ Which raised a slightly

248 RYERSON FULL TIME bigger chuckle. In the end it was all right, because they were all interested in what I had to say; I even managed to get some dialogue going when one or two of the ―audience‖ asked very sensible questions. When it was all over, one of the staff observers came up to me and said, ―You haven‘t done much of this stuff before, have you?‖ Only to small groups, explaining what I wanted them to do, I told him. ―I think you will do well here,‖ he said. ―Obviously you don‘t give a damn, which is a good starting point, and equally obviously you know your stuff. If I may make a suggestion, if you look directly at each member of the class in turn, three seconds each, every person in the room will have the impression that you are addressing them personally.‖ I thanked him profusely, because this struck me as one of the best pieces of advice I had ever been given. At the end of the day, I was feeling quite good. Then came the first day of my last fulltime employment. We were instructors, a throwback to the time when the place had been started during the war as a training unit for the armed forces. It seemed that the Powers That Be had decided that there was a place in the Ontario education system for an institute of higher learning which would not be a university (ha!) but would teach practical subjects. I think they were called technical colleges in England. It had further been decided that the best teachers would be those who had actually worked in the appropriate areas, as opposed to graduates of the Ontario Teachers‘ Training College, who knew diddlysquat about anything. (See how I‘m picking up the local patois.) To this end, they had bumped up the salary scale, hoping to attract people like me, I suppose, which worked very well. I was taking a salary cut of only (!) 2,000 dollars a year, but in return was getting the whole summer off, which suited me fine. We instructors assembled on the first day, which was one day before the teaching started, so that we could collect our timetables, find out where the classrooms were and so on. I was also told how to obtain course outlines, which I did with some trepidation. It seems I was taking over from Ross Robins, who had elevated himself to the peerage by obtaining the post of deputy registrar. Fortunately, they were so vaguely worded as to be capable of almost any interpretation, so that was all right. I didn‘t have to get past someone else‘s prejudices, opinions and such. Part of my

249 NUTS AND BOLTS briefing emphasized that the students were supposed to wear jackets and ties, and were not allowed to use the elevators. Well, screw that. I had no intention of making a fool of myself by having anything to do with that kind of nonsense. I well remembered the reaction of the class, in my second go-around at Nottingham, many of whom were wearing tatty battledress tops with the insignia cut off, when the dean started talking about wearing academic gowns. The elevator bit was easy enough—I just wouldn‘t go near the damned things myself. Finally came the day when I found myself standing in front of a class. There would have been about thirty of them, I suppose, and they looked at me curiously as I came in. Stage fright? Butterflies in the stomach? You name it, I had it. Well, let‘s get on with it. The room was laid out like an amphitheatre. At the front was a stage with a bench and a huge blackboard. The students were seated on those silly chair-and-desk combos that you used to see in little red schoolhouses, and they looked none too comfortable. They were arranged in stepped-up circular arcs. Hell‘s teeth! How was I supposed to teach engineering in a place like this? I resolved to do something about it as an urgent priority. I strolled up to a chap on the front row, said good morning, and asked him if this was class 3B. This was because of various horror stories I had heard, such as the instructor who had launched immediately into a lecture on nuclear reactor theory, only to find after a minute or two that he was addressing a divinity class. So far so good—3B was the first term of the second year, and they had not done any thermodynamics previously, so we were both starting at the bottom of the ladder. I had been advised that, in general, the subject had a bad reputation among the students, who regarded it as difficult, obscure and useless, so that was obviously the first obstacle to overcome. I sympathized with them, remembering my utter boredom and lack of interest at Nottingham. At least I knew how NOT to do it! Climbing on to the stage, I printed my name in large letters on the board, said good morning to the class at large, and then, ―Can you hear me at the oxygen level?‖ (I got that from a friend who was a hockey and baseball nut—he told me that was how they referred to the extreme back rows in the stadium, which were almost up to the roof). This elicited a couple of grins and nods from the back row,

250 RYERSON FULL TIME whereupon I came down from the stage and chatted to them. Jerking my thumb at the board, I said, ―That‘s me. Now, if you will let me know who you are by printing your name on this paper (I laid a sheet of paper in front of the nearest student), when I finally receive the official class list, I will be able to see if they got it right.‖ While the paper was circulating, I apologized for the seating arrangements, said I thought it was not a suitable place for engineers to work in, and promised to do something about it. Then came the distribution of the course outlines. I used this to introduce the textbook, mentioning my acquaintance with one of the authors, Eastop, and noting that he did tend to go on a bit in some places, therefore I would guide them to the juicy parts. Furthermore, there were several second-hand copies in the campus bookstore, and it would retain its resale value, since I had no intention of changing it. I went on to emphasize the importance of obtaining the Steam Tables—a pocket diary-sized collection of tables of the thermodynamic properties of steam, some useful information, and a large foldout chart. I pointed out that it cost a mere buck-and-a-half, which even I could afford, that it would be used frequently in class, forming the basis of my showing them how to use published data to solve engineering problems, that it would be necessary when dealing with certain exam questions, and, most importantly, it was just the right thickness to put under a wobbly table in a pub. I then handed over my copies of both for circulation, so that they could all see what they were getting, with the admonition that I had counted them, and wanted them back. Having got their attention, I made another excursion to the blackboard and put up a list of six items. In case anyone‘s interested, these were: Temperature, Pressure, Volume, Internal Energy, Enthalpy and Entropy. It was unfortunately necessary to go through these first, to become familiar with the concepts, after which we could get on with the interesting stuff. I then, in effect, started the course, by asking for a show of hands by those who knew the relationship between degrees Fahrenheit and Celsius. After some anxious looking around, one student put up his hand. ―Yes, Mr.?‖ He told me his name. Good, that‘s the first. ―Why do we have to know both?‖ he wanted to know. Because, I told him, half the

251 NUTS AND BOLTS world uses one, and half the other, and we engineers would not want to be restricted in our work by a simple thing like that, now would we? Up spoke another: ―But why are they so...?‖ ―Weird?‖ I suggested. He nodded dumbly. This allowed me to launch into one of my favourite anecdotes which, true or not, did me well on this occasion. I told them about Gabriel Fahrenheit, who was struggling to devise a rational temperature scale at a time when there was no such thing. He wanted his zero to be the coldest temperature available, and his hundred to be the temperature of the human body. The coldest he did by mixing a saltwater solution and leaving it out in the coldest ambient he could find, and the highest by using a thermometer of his own design, based on the recent discovery of the very high coefficient of expansion of mercury. So, the distance between two scratch marks on his mercury tube, divided into a hundred graduations, became the Fahrenheit scale. Meanwhile, Anders Celsius had done it the easy way. Ice was zero, and boiling water was one hundred. Unfortunately, by this time half the world‘s thermometers had been graduated with the Fahrenheit scale, and when the two came to be compared, it was found that ice was, in fact, 32 degrees F, boiling water was 212 degrees F, and the human body was 98.4 degrees F. He must, I concluded, have stuffed his thermometer into the wrong hole. This brought my first laugh, and I suddenly realized that this was going to be all right. I knew more than these guys, they wanted to find out about stuff, and I was going to be one who could help them get started on an interesting, useful career. Thus passed the first hour of a quarter of a century of what I like to think of as a fairly successful teaching career. Meanwhile, Inge had been busy in another direction. She said it was high time we bought a house, rather than continue renting, which was money down the drain. She pointed out how house prices had increased from the 15,000 dollars we were looking at in the Admiral Jellicoe, to 25,000 when we got here, and if we didn‘t do something quickly we wouldn‘t be able to do anything. She took me out one evening to show me a place she had been looking at, which would do us nicely. I should say! For a mere 37,000 dollars we could get a modern-looking bungalow on two acres of land in the middle of farming country, a few miles north of Cooksville. As

252 RYERSON FULL TIME on many previous occasions, I said it was quite out of the question, but she had been into the thing pretty deeply, saying that we could get an eight percent mortgage for a down payment of ten percent. And where were we going to get that, I wondered. With a second mortgage, naturally. But we still had to give them a down payment of 1,000 dollars. My last defence crumbled when Inge told me she was borrowing that from the lady who ran the nursing home, and who wanted to make sure that she stayed there. I have to admit that, when we moved in, I felt that we had finally arrived. This would be our home for the rest of our lives. We had it made. Ha! It was tough going for the first year, which was the time it took to pay off the third mortgage. All that time I had the uneasy feeling that if any two of my creditors had met in a pub, I would be in the slammer so fast my feet wouldn‘t touch the ground, because I was sure that what we were doing was illegal. I mean, you are supposed to have at least some of your own money in it when buying a house. I had started teaching evening classes to raise a bit more cash, and one particular evening stands out in my memory. I was in the middle of explaining a system when, due to sheer fatigue, I passed out momentarily. I felt myself starting to fall towards the board, but managed to put out my hand to stop, hoping it would look as if I was emphasizing a point. If anyone noticed, they were too polite to say so. On another occasion, this time during the day, I was in the middle of a fairly complex problem when I noticed the chairman, B. T. Jones, sidle in on an inspection visit. As he unobtrusively took a seat on the back row, my mind went blank. Has this ever happened to you? It was the first time for me, and it was not a pleasant experience. Fortunately, I was prepared, largely by accident. My strategy in learning a complex problem by heart the night before was simply to guard against the possibility that I might have forgotten how to do it the next day. I was thus able to motor along on autopilot for a few seconds until my mind clicked in, and again I don‘t think anyone noticed. At this point I would like to digress for a while to mention some family matters. Our house was near Streetsville, a pleasant small town founded by Timothy Street in eighteen something, and the kids went to the Streetsville Secondary School. The oldest was in her final year, and all set to finish as an Ontario Scholar, the

253 NUTS AND BOLTS highest award which could be gained by a graduating student. One month before graduation, she attained her eighteenth birthday, announced ―you can‘t tell me what to do anymore‖, and left. What a bummer. It took me quite a long time to get over that. Then my son passed the entrance exam for the University of Toronto Schools (UTS), the most prestigious school in the Toronto area. By this time he was pretty good at ice hockey, and played for the school team. I watched him play at the Varsity stadium, a noted local venue for college hockey, and was there when he scored his first goal. I shall never forget the expression on his face. Whilst at the UTS, he became friendly with two boys whose names I well remember. One was the son of a man named Faquier, whom I knew to have been an Air Commodore in 617 Squadron (The Dam Busters), the other the son of the general sales manager of the Nielsen ice cream company. I never got the chance to meet the former, but the latter gave me much food for thought. At the time, Air Canada had several Concordes on order, and this chap told me he couldn‘t wait for it to come into service, for then, he said, he would be able to attend five meetings in one day, all across Canada. I pondered this. If his meetings were anything like mine, he would be totally useless after the second or third. If this sort of idiocy was what the Concorde was leading up to, then maybe it wasn‘t such a good idea after all. As an aside, I have noticed that, the better the world‘s communication systems become, the worse the world gets, in terms of the number of wars, human suffering and so forth. Anyway, the son took a degree in Kinesiology at Waterloo University, then he, too, took off to follow his own path. That left Margaret, who was mad keen on horseback riding. We went to various riding schools, gymkhanas and such. Her skills developed rapidly, one of her favourites being jumping, and she was soon collecting rosettes at meetings. At school, at the end of every year, she won all the awards and prizes that were on offer, but was denied some of them, because ―it wouldn‘t do to have one person take them all, on principle‖. Some goddam principle! As an elitist myself (in case you hadn‘t noticed), this kind of thinking drives me up the wall. So, when the inevitable question of a horse of her own arose, the answer was a foregone conclusion. Since she

254 RYERSON FULL TIME could always twist me round her little finger, the equally inevitable question of fencing in some of our two acres for a paddock merely sent me to the drawing board, and then to Teperman, a local demolition company where I could buy a twelve-foot length of two by four for a dollar, and fence posts made from sawn-off lengths of old telegraph poles at similar economic rates. Having marked out where the posts would be, I bought a post-hole digger (which I still have—anyone want it?) and started on the first hole. After half an hour, having got down about six inches, I said, ―Screw this!‖ and engaged the services of a man who earned his living digging post holes. Round he came, in his tractor with a vicious-looking auger connected to the power takeoff, and went to work. On the second hole, the shear pin broke. With a muttered curse, he shut down and replaced it. The same thing happened with another six or seven holes, and I hoped he had plenty of shear pins. It took him a lot longer than he had estimated, so I told him to bill me for his total time. He wouldn‘t; he had given me an estimate and them‘s the breaks. In the end, we split the difference. Hey, I want to keep on good terms with these guys; I was going to need all the help I could get, looking after our two acres. As he left, he observed, ―Pretty rocky ground you have here, mister.‖ Well, at least the holes were all dug—and then it began to rain. For two days it poured down. The holes, each about five inches diameter and eighteen inches deep, all filled with water. I began to think that someone didn‘t want me to finish this project, which of course made me all the more determined to succeed. I wasn‘t going to be beaten by a lousy fence! Then the sun came out, in went the posts, and Margaret announced that her horse, a stallion named ―Red‖, would be arriving in a couple of days. I spent the whole day nailing two by fours on to the posts, thereby learning another of life‘s lessons. At the end of the day, my left hand was useless! I couldn‘t pick up a fork to eat with, or a pen to write with—it was completely numb. It passed off overnight, but ever since I have been reluctant to nail things together; I use screws wherever possible. One more recollection of this period, then I really must get back to what this book is supposed to be about. Red was grazing peacefully in his paddock when across the field came galloping a black stallion from the farm next door. It jumped clean over the

255 NUTS AND BOLTS fence and went straight for Red, who turned to meet it head-on. If you‘ve never seen a fight between two stallions, you haven‘t lived. It makes a Spanish bullfight look like a Sunday School picnic. They rolled over and over, kicking, biting, shrieking—I was scared, I didn‘t know what to do. Fortunately, in hot pursuit came the chap from next door with two assistants, and between them they managed to lasso their animal and calm it down. As they were leading it away, I went up to them, having recovered my composure, and said, in a voice which I hope sounded menacing, ―I have a suggestion to make...‖ ―Yeah, yeah, sorry—it won‘t happen again.‖ Back at Ryerson, I was still sweating out my probationary period. This included inspections by two so-called ―Senior Instructors‖, Paul and Len, who presumably had been there longer than any of us; they didn‘t seem to have any other qualifications to judge my performance. The first, by Paul, was probably the least helpful criticism of my work ever. His report was mainly concerned with the number of students who were not wearing jackets and ties, and the fact that I had done nothing about it. Len was more fortunate, because he was there when I committed a cardinal blooper. The previous day I had run my first term test, and was halfway through marking the papers. In this class I started to go through the problems, but was stopped by a student holding up his hand and saying, ―Sir, could we please have our papers back before you go through the questions?‖ I was a bit nonplussed; at Nottingham we were bloody lucky to have exam questions gone through at all. But, ―Certainly. By all means. Thank you for raising the point.‖ Thus Len was able to write a constructive report, which of course I didn‘t need. I never made THAT mistake again! Then there were the lab sessions. The lab had obviously been laid out by an Englishman. All the old favourites were there. The two which concern me at this point were the Ruston diesel engine and the Ford four-cylinder side-valve engine. The Ruston ran on diesel fuel, which was kept in a 40-gallon drum and dispensed by means of a hand pump on top. The Ford used regular gasoline, kept in a five-gallon jerrycan. The diesel fuel drum had to be refilled by taking it to the local Shell station, which was arranged by means of a requisition to the Purchasing department. On several

256 RYERSON FULL TIME occasions I sucked the standpipe dry because the drum had not in fact been refilled. Upon phoning the Purchasing department to find out what had happened, a sneering voice at the other end— belonging to someone I shall call W—informed me that, since there was still some fuel in the drum, it had not been necessary to refill it. Since I was still on probation, it did not seem wise to start World War Three with this bastard, so I had to get the chairman to intercede for me. Finally he undertook to put in the requisitions himself, which naturally made me feel inadequate—not a pleasant sensation. With regard to the gasoline, there was an unspoken agreement that whoever used the last in the jerrycan would nip round to the local gas station and get it topped up, then put in an expense sheet. Being the junior instructor, I was usually given the ―graveyard shift‖ for lab sessions, and quite often I would turn up at 8 A.M. on a Monday morning for an engine-running session, only to find that the colleague with whom I shared the lab had used the last drop of fuel during his Friday stint, and had not bothered to refill it. One big happy family, we were. Despite all the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, I approached chairman BT with my thoughts on the future of the lab. I told him that, in my opinion, with a reasonably modest budget, it could be made into the finest thermo lab in North America. I would personally arrange to replace the ancient, boring Ford side-valve engine, which I had worked on at Nottingham in the forties, with an up-to-date sports car engine and hydraulic dynamometer as used in speed shops. I had unearthed an oscilloscope which could be worked on to produce indicator diagrams for engines and air compressors. There was a half- finished air conditioning rig, and the components of a steam turbine power plant lay in a corner. Neither had been touched by my predecessors or my current colleague. This would require the services of a competent engineering technologist, which presumably was why nothing had been done. BT listened to all this attentively, then said that it sounded good, and he would back me to the full extent of his budget capability, PROVIDED that I kept him FULLY in the picture BEFORE I did anything. I sensed that he had been bitten before. He went on to say that we had a technician, Frank, an older guy whom everyone liked, but who was unfortunately a bit senile, and not really capable of handling such

257 NUTS AND BOLTS work. However, as long as he was employed in our department, we could not get anyone else. He was due to retire at the end of the year, and then we could take the matter further. That would do to be going on with. I went to see Bill Brack, a local league racer, who had a dealership called Sports Cars Unlimited, in Oakville, and had already agreed to talk to me about supplying an engine for use in the Ryerson lab. I asked him to give me a price on a Lotus Elan twin overhead cam engine, which he did, pointing out that he could give me a special rate, since it was for educational purposes. Also, for a modest extra amount, he could fit it with twin Weber carburettors, which would make it the envy of the heat engines labs of the world. On top of all that, he had a sectioned cylinder head showing the twin cam drive, for a few extra bucks. Finally, he directed me to a nearby speed shop, where I obtained a quote for a Go-Power engine test stand, and some nice-looking decals which I thought would turn the students on—‖Castrol GTX‖ (their racing oil), ―STP—The Racer‘s Edge‖; ―In God We Trust—Everything Else We Check‖, and so forth. At the end of a fairly busy day, I put in a call to a local hardware store and obtained a quote for a bundle of Dexion (see the Handley Page chapter). Next day I took this lot in to BT, who appeared to be quite impressed. I don‘t know what strings he pulled, or what favours he called in, but the start of the summer holiday saw me in the lab surveying a Lotus Elan engine, a Go-Power test stand with its hydraulic dynamometer in a separate box, and a great pile of Dexion. When your boss places that kind of trust in you, what do you do? That summer I went in most days of the week. The first thing I did was to unscrew the exhaust manifold and take it to another colleague, Norm, who ran the welding lab. I asked him if he would be interested in making me a bunch of bananas exhaust system to replace the one shown. He looked a bit vague, then I remembered where I was, and said, ―Sorry—I meant a pretzel manifold.‖ If I designed it, he would make it. The point is that, for best performance, the exhaust system should be tuned, which means among other things that the pressure drop in the pipes from each cylinder to the point where they meet must be equal. This does not mean that they must be the same length, because it depends upon

258 RYERSON FULL TIME the curvature, so some slide-rule pushing was involved. I spent a couple of days on that, then left Norm to it, while I tackled the Dexion. I had quite forgotten what a sweaty job it was, hacksawing Dexion! Gradually the engine test stand took shape, until one day I borrowed a mobile crane from somewhere and hoisted the engine into the stand. Tired, and ready to go home, I wandered into the staff lounge for a coffee, and there was BT. He asked how I was getting on, and I told him. He then made one of those remarks which has stuck in my memory. ―You know, John, nobody is going to thank you for this.‖ I forget my response, probably just a shrug, but I was doing what I thought was the thing to do, and was putting my best into it. This being the case, I could live with myself, and everyone else could make their own arrangements. Sounds a bit trite, probably, but that doesn‘t make it bad, in my opinion. Meanwhile, Norm had made a first-class job of the exhaust manifold; we fitted it to the engine with very few problems, and the very sight of it made my heart beat a little faster. The next major design problem was to fit the hydraulic dynamometer in place of the gearbox, and to couple the two together. Here my memory gets a bit fuzzy. I think it was left until the following year, when professional help became available. In any case, I had shot my bolt for the summer, and had to start preparing my classes for the next term. While I had been doing my thing at Ryerson, Inge had secured a position as a nurse with the Ministry of Community and Social Services (COMSOC). This was the start of a long and successful career for her, and it is necessary to backtrack a little to put this into perspective. Shortly after arriving in Canada, I had joined the Brampton Flying Club, mainly because it possessed a Champion Citabria (Airbatic spelt backwards), which, being a taildragger, was the only plane I wanted to fly. They flew from a grass airstrip near the town of Brampton, and it was fun, because there were tall stands of trees surrounding it, and you had to be pretty snappy with sideslips and such, depending on the wind direction. The main problem was that, when the spring rains came, the ground became a sea of mud. The club had an arrangement with the Toronto Airport (as it then was), that they could fly their aircraft from there during this period.

259 NUTS AND BOLTS

And so it came to pass that I flew a Cessna 150 from Toronto International Airport, if you can believe that. Our friends Lionel and Cicely West (see the West Special chapter) were visiting from England, and Lionel suggested going for a flight so that he could take some pictures of our house from the air. The rainy season was still on, and all the club aircraft were at Toronto airport. It all went well until I had taxied as far as the holding point for the runway in use. Just then a Boeing 707 went thundering past about 50 feet in front of me and lifted into the wide blue yonder in a cloud of black smoke. This was followed immediately by the air control tower: ―Cessna Uniform Tango cleared to take off.‖ Not ruddy likely, I thought. ―Uniform Tango requests two minutes‘ wake turbulence separation.‖ They didn‘t like that one bit, so screw them. Do those clowns in the tower ever read their own literature? I wondered. Only a few days ago a Notice to Airmen had been circulated, recommending a two minute separation between light aircraft and heavy transports, following a series of incidents in which aircraft like mine had been tossed around like autumn leaves by the wake from large airliners. I had heard that they were reintroducing aerobatics into the flying training syllabus because of this, so that, if you did find yourself upside down at 100 feet, you would stand a sporting chance of getting away with it. Anyway, off we went, and Lionel took some nice pictures of our house, which are still among my prize possessions. Then I took him along the lakefront for a way. He was fascinated by the lakeside properties, most of which had swimming pools. Then we went back, and I had another reason for not wishing to repeat this experience. They turned me over some point which seemed a long way away from the runway; it was taking an awful long time to get any closer, and meanwhile Beech Barons, Piper Twin Comanches and such were zipping past me as if I was in reverse. Finally I crossed the threshold, and as I sank lower all points of reference seemed to disappear. I couldn‘t tell how high I was—it was a vast sea of concrete; I couldn‘t even see the sides of the runway. So I did what seaplane pilots do over glassy water—let it sink until it hit and then wham the throttle shut. It bounced once and settled, so I tore along the runway praying to find a turnoff before another Boeing came to finish me off. They must be crazy to allow people like me to fly from their airport! Fortunately Lionel

260 RYERSON FULL TIME noticed nothing of all this; he was having a good time, so that was all right. As things turned out, this state of affairs did not last much longer. The Ontario government requisitioned the land on which the Brampton Flying Club was situated, an event which they had clearly been anticipating, for they moved with little fuss to a field a few miles further north, where they had already laid down a paved runway and built a clubhouse. On the newly acquired land, the government built the Vanier Centre For Women. Not what you‘re thinking—Georges Vanier was, I think, an ex-Lieutenant Governor of somewhere or other, who had founded within COMSOC a department to cater for the needs of women in distress. Inge applied for, and got, a job as a nurse there, which was an important step up for her. I‘ll leave it there for now, because another important event was shaping up. Frank finally retired, and BT laid on me the task of finding a replacement who would enable us to get things moving in the lab area. Well, if I couldn‘t do something worthwhile with an opportunity like that it would be a poor show. I pondered long and hard over the job description, which was to be the basis for the hiring. What I was hoping for was someone who could stand up to my more objectionable colleagues and keep them under control, whilst at the same time help me to get this mass of useless machinery into operation. I wanted to make it fuzzy enough so that the right chap could place his own interpretation on it, and take it wherever he wanted. Having done that, I once more invoked Parkinson, and once again he came up trumps. I cannot remember what I put in the advert, and to this day I don‘t know if he even read it, or was going by the jungle telegraph, but along came Bob. If you are reading this, old friend, (and I hope you will, because I‘m sending you a copy), these are the recollections of my ageing brain cells, and if I have made mistakes in fact, or interpretation, I‘m sure you will jump on them, like you always did when we worked together. I seem to recall chatting in the lab, standing around the steam turbine, and he saying he had worked on one of those recently. He was employed by a firm who sent him all over the place fixing this kind of stuff, he was getting fed up with all the travelling, and wanted a job where he could have more time at home. At this

261 NUTS AND BOLTS point, in my previous incarnation, I would have suggested going for a pint, but as things were, I was still pretty junior, and it wouldn‘t have done for me to show up in class breathing beer fumes, so I don‘t think it happened. Sorry, Bob, but we made up for it later, didn‘t we? One thing I had no control over was the matter of salary. I just hoped BT would be able to persuade those buggers in the tower to offer him enough to entice him here. Well, they did, and thus began a working relationship that lasted over a quarter of a century, and the friendship is still going strong. It was not too long before a difference became apparent. I would turn up at 8 A.M. on a Monday morning to find the engine refuelled, with the oil and coolant levels topped up, and Bob chatting to students who had turned up early. Although it was not one of his jobs, he helped me to run the lab. The Ruston diesel engine was one of our favourites. It was started by someone holding down a lever which held the inlet valve open. Someone else would insert a handle into the four-foot diameter flywheel and start to turn it. As the flywheel picked up speed I would stand over the chap pretending to whip him and shouting ―Faster! faster!‖ and when the right moment arrived Bob would make a dramatic gesture to the valve man and shout, ―Now!‖ As the valve closed the engine fired, and picked up speed until it reached the governed 400 rpm. It was then loaded by hanging weights on to the ends of a friction belt draped over the flywheel. Inside the rim was a channel into which water was dribbled to absorb the heat of friction. Indicator diagrams were then taken. This involved opening a valve to admit cylinder head pressure to a piston which drove a pencil up and down against a spring. The pencil registered on a paper wrapped round a drum which was made to oscillate back and forth by a string driven by the engine crosshead. The result was a pressure-volume diagram of events during the four-stroke cycle. The whole thing reminded me of what Prof Bulleid used to tell us about when the railway built him a small shack at the front end of a locomotive, where he would sit during a journey, taking indicator diagrams as the train laboured up a steep hill, or was going flat out on the level, or what-have-you. Those were the days!

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The grand climax of our run was when the engine was unloaded and the fuel shut off. As it ran down, I made sure that no students were standing in line with the flywheel. On the last revolution or two it would usually kick back, whereupon a great arc of hot water would curve out of the flywheel and make a splash on the floor nearly to the opposite wall, while a great cloud of steam billowed out after it. A perfect demonstration of the First Law of Thermodynamics (Heat is work and work is heat—I‘ll get to that later). Over the years, various pseudo-intellectual Johnny-Come- Lately types would make noises about this engine being obsolete, what was it doing in a present-day engineering school, and so on. I could never understand this mindset—in my view it was the ideal way to introduce students to the fundamentals of heat engines. Everything out in the open, nothing up my sleeve...and besides, it would still be running in a hundred years‘ time, when all the rest had long since degenerated into oil-soaked wrecks. Last time I checked, they were still being made in India, and used for pumping water in rice paddies or whatever it is they have over there. Also, we did have a racing engine on a speed shop test stand, so why didn‘t they just shut up and mind their own business. While on the subject of diesels, I had better tell you about the day I was granted tenure. When the eagerly anticipated letter arrived, I don‘t know who was more pleased, me or Inge. We had a modest celebration. It was going to be all right. I was fireproof. The cement had set. I was enjoying the work, it was great to be among the students, really pleasant people, who seemed to appreciate what I was telling them. Another aspect that I hadn‘t really thought about was that, once I had my course thoroughly organized, I was able to spend time catching up on the latest developments in engineering, unlike being totally immersed in one small project, as I had been for many years. Next day, I got in early and made my way to the Purchasing department, where I marched into W‘s office without knocking and sat on his desk. Introducing myself, I told him that for two years I had put up with his sarcasm, his sneering condescension and his general unpleasantness. I came to inform him that I now had tenure, and if he crossed my path one more time, I intended to set up a meeting for the two of us with the president, where the situation could be sorted out at the

263 NUTS AND BOLTS highest level. I then left, intending to slam the door hard enough to make the glass fall out, but the damned thing had a hydraulic damper, so that bit didn‘t work. I never had any more trouble from him, and heard that, some months later, he had died of a heart attack. Is this another piece of baggage I have to carry through life? Blowed if I know. You be the judge, only don‘t tell me. I think it was Harry Truman who said, ―If you can‘t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen.‖ Meanwhile, great things were afoot in the Mechanical Engineering department since Bob‘s arrival. Things seemed to be going better than I had dared hope. Bob had obviously picked up the job description and was running with it. During morning coffee sessions in the staff lounge I heard several of my colleagues complaining about him. They were upset with him, and, by extension, with me, since they seemed to regard me as the overt instrument of his ―interference‖. All nonsense, of course. He was sorting them out in his own way, and I was just so glad that at last there was going to be some professionalism in the operation of the mechanical labs. Some of them called a department meeting to air their views. I let them ramble on for a bit, then made my one contribution. ―Why don‘t you invite Bob to these meetings, then the matter could be discussed face-to-face. I think it‘s a poor show that all you can do is criticize him behind his back.‖ I then got up and walked out. I expect a lot of you were wondering when the first time would be. There came a day when the powers that be decided that we mechanical instructors should get to know about computers. My heart sank. I thought back to Vickers, and had fervently hoped that the whole thing was a passing phase. Oh well. We were required to attend one class a day for a week. A senior instructor from the Maths and Physics department, a gorgeous brunette named Anne, spent a week showing us how to list the prime numbers between zero and ten, using something called Fortran. Since I could have written the damned things down on the back of an envelope in two seconds, I swear I would have gone mad, had it not been for the pleasure of watching her moving around. When we finally trudged round to the machine—just like the one at Vickers—to feed in our punched cards, I enlisted the help of the chap next to me to find

264 RYERSON FULL TIME out how to do it. A mood of deep depression descended on me. If this was what the future held, it was not for me. You present-day nerds can snort in disbelief, but I cannot describe my sense of utter alienation from the whole business. And yet, here I am, well into the third millennium, writing this book on a computer. How come? Well, if you‘ll just let me get on with the story, all will be revealed in due course. Another portent of the forthcoming takeover by computers of the human race came when Ryerson spent two million dollars on a computer programme they called ―Daisy‖, no doubt after the film 2001, for doing the grades. Up to then we had taken our mark sheets up to the student affairs office, where they would be fed into a machine which, after about an hour, would produce for each of us a student list showing all their marks in each subject, together with their final grade, which at the time was either F (less than 50 percent); D (50-55); C (56-60) and so on. While this was going on, we would have coffee and biscuits and gossip. With the advent of Daisy, this pleasant custom was discontinued, and we were told to pick up our grading lists at the main computer office, since Daisy required the mainframe which was used to run the business side, collecting fees, paying salaries and so forth. When I first went there, they were knee deep in paper covered with garbage. Just like Vickers, I thought, two million green ones for another monumental cock-up. As P. T. Barnum remarked, ―There‘s one born every minute.‖ Another pleasant custom that finally fell by the wayside was the promotion meeting, for which we needed the grading lists, so this time we had to do it all by hand. In order to advance to the next semester, a student had to obtain an overall passing grade in this one. There was a department meeting, when any student who had failed to meet this requirement was discussed. For example, if I had failed a student who otherwise had good grades in every subject, I would usually shrug and say, ―Let him through—I‘ll sort him out next time.‖ Which I did, and, following what became known as a ―strange interview‖ in my office, he would get back on track. This did not happen all the time. The next phase in the computer takeover came from a most unexpected direction. Bob was hiring his own staff by now; I think he headhunted some of them from other labs in the Institute.

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Anyway, along came Jerry, a brash, cheerful computer expert whom you couldn‘t help liking, and it was then that I discovered that one of Bob‘s hobbies was building computers. Between them they approached me with a view to computerizing the thermo lab rigs, starting with the air conditioning system, which had already been running for some time. It was an ideal candidate: picture a closed loop of two-foot-square ducting shaped like an oval racetrack, thirty feet long and eight feet high, stood on its side, with twenty-four mercury thermometers sticking out of the sides—wet and dry bulb temperatures at twelve measuring points. Some unfortunate student was always bumping into one and snapping it off; thermocouples would be much better—their signals could be fed straight into the computer and printed out. But this was just the beginning. The rig reproduced all the standard air conditioning processes, heating, cooling, humidifying by water spray, dehumidifying by chilling, measuring airflow using a pitot tube...the lot. Part of the student‘s lab report was to plot the processes on a psychrometric chart. I‘m not going to go into this, otherwise I‘ll never get to the next chapter, but the amazing Jerry said that he could get the machine to do it, if I would teach him the theory. This was too good to be true! I had become increasingly worried about what would happen to me when my abysmal ignorance of computers was discovered; it would probably be the end of my career. But now, I would be in the lead, because, as Bob pointed out, this would be the first piece of equipment in the engineering faculty to be computerized. I sat with Jerry for hours going through air conditioning theory with him, while he explained what he was doing to convert my equations into a form suitable for the machine to handle, and Bob was always there as a moderator, so to speak. Finally came the great day when we fired up the rig, and the machine issued a printout of all the readings, upon which Jerry fed a chart into a slot somewhere, and out it came with the processes printed on it. Arthur C. Clarke once remarked that, to a primitive people, any sufficiently advanced technology appears to be magic, and so it was with me. However, Carpe Diem, as my old school motto had it. Seize the day! I circulated a memo to everyone in the department, inviting them to a short lunchtime meeting in the thermo lab, where I would bring them up-to-date on recent developments in lab technology.

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Most of them turned up. The rig was already running, and the Honeywell chart recorder was printing the temperatures. Jerry was at his machine, and Bob was standing in the background. I climbed on to the platform thoughtfully supplied by Bob, so that I was talking down to them, and described what we had done, based on a speech Bob had prepared for me. The computer then disgorged a list of all the readings, followed by a chart with all the processes plotted on it. They were all gobsmacked. Nobody knew what to say, so I finished, ―Thank you all for coming. What Tysoe does today, Ryerson does tomorrow.‖ At this point I could see Bob‘s face turning a puce colour, and he had his legs crossed as though trying to avoid ―having an accident‖. Looking back, I think this little episode was one of the high points of my career. Thanks, Bob and Jerry, I owe you one. I had made a note of who didn‘t turn up, and sent them a nice little memo regretting that they had been unable to attend, and offering to brief them at a more convenient time. Funnily enough, there was no response. While I had been protecting my posterior, Inge had made a great step forward. She had secured the job of Head Nurse at the newly formed Oakville Reception and Assessment Centre (ORAC), a facility conceived by COMSOC for the handling of young offenders. Juvenile delinquents, we used to call them in England, but let that pass. This was where her career really took off, and our lifestyle started heading for yet another radical change. The idea of ORAC was that it would be the first place naughty kids would be sent to, and an attempt would be made to get them interested in learning a trade or something, to get their minds off stuff like breaking and entering, mugging old ladies and so on. Two things come to mind when thinking about the first years One particular kid took a shine to Inge, who in turn made every effort to find his interests and encourage them. She asked if I would agree to having him home for the weekend; I didn‘t know what he was in for, but he seemed a decent enough kid. When he saw my collection of model planes he nearly flipped, and begged me to fly some of them. I did more than that; I showed him how to fuel, prime and start a glowplug engine, how to launch the plane, how to adjust the trim if required, and lots of other stuff. No radio control in those days—you had to know what you were doing. He was fascinated, and spent most of the weekend out on the field, trying out other

267 NUTS AND BOLTS planes, gliders and rubber jobs included, constantly bombarding me with questions. We all enjoyed the weekend, and I thought no more about it until a few years later when I was strolling along a street near Ryerson in search of lunch, and a large truck pulled up beside me. Out stepped a smart young man, who approached me and said, ―Mr. Tysoe—remember me? Tom.‖ He was none other than our weekend guest of years ago, who had started his own trucking company. He said he was doing well, and was Inge anywhere near—he wanted to thank her for starting him off. I explained that she was still at Oakville, and I would certainly tell her of his achievement—she would be very proud. One up for the system! The other memory concerns the woodworking shop which was part of the attempt to interest the ―students‖, as they were called, in crafts. One of them had grabbed a chisel, overpowered the guard, and was holding the chisel at his throat, threatening to do all sorts of nasty things if they didn‘t let him out. Inge went in there and engaged him in conversation. It took her two hours to talk him out of it, but that‘s what she did, when everyone else was standing around dithering and wondering what to do. In the early days of Inge‘s new career, the government of Ontario had a first-class thing going called Open College, a kind of cross between evening classes and a correspondence course. Instructors would broadcast lectures on various subjects from the radio studio atop the Ryerson premises on Victoria Street, next door to the main building. One of the courses was Sociology, which was recommended to Inge by the brass at ORAC, because it would count as a credit towards her promotion prospects. Clearly they had higher things in mind for her. Now, I have never had much time for Sociology, which, in the nature versus nurture debate, holds that man is the product of his environment, whereas I see him as the end product of a million years as a hunter-killer. However, we worked on it together; with my cynicism and her skill with people we produced weekly assignments which pleased the instructor, so much so that they were almost invariably used in the following week‘s broadcast, and she rapidly became a favourite pupil. The course included a two-week get-together at some nice place, and amazingly enough some assistant instructor managed to fiddle it to take place in Jamaica. When Inge returned, she had that

268 RYERSON FULL TIME faraway look that I recognized from previous occasions, and I guess it was then that the final phase of my career started. Meanwhile, Les Keast had joined the teaching staff. He was from the performance department of Orenda Engines, where his brother Harry had been the chief engineer at the time of the Avro Arrow cancellation, which is why I have the inside track on this infamous blot on Canada‘s history, as previously mentioned. We hit it off straight away, and I shared an office with him for most of my time at Ryerson. We became famous (notorious?) as a double act at students‘ graduation parties. He knew all the songs I did, and a few more besides. Having been in the Army in the Middle East, he taught me the English version of the Egyptian national anthem, among other things. Since it would no doubt be considered politically incorrect to quote this in full, I‘ll just quote the first line, which is: ―Up your pipe, King Farouk.‖ If you want the rest, ask any British soldier who was in the Middle East between 1939 and 1945. I have fond memories of two student parties in particular. One took place in the sergeant‘s mess at Fort York, the local Territorial Army Headquarters, by courtesy of a student whose father was the commanding officer. There we put on one of our best performances of ―Round and round went the bloody great wheel‖. I still remember the way some of the student‘s jaws dropped as we started in close harmony: ―An engineer told me before he died...‖ On another occasion, we were presented jointly with a model steam engine, mounted on a base bearing the legend ―The Rang Kin award, presented to L. Keast and J. Tysoe by the graduating class of April 1978.‖ They had been heating it up in a back room, they brought it out with steam hissing from various places, and placed it in front of us. I got to it first, spun the flywheel, and away it went, to the accompaniment of cheers from the crowd, while I did my celebrated imitation of a train whistle. Afterwards we tossed for it, and I won. It sits on my desk as I write. As time went by, a subtle change was becoming apparent on the academic scene. Our graduates were finding, when they started work, that they would be under a University of Toronto graduate, because he was registered as a P.Eng. by virtue of his degree, even if he scarcely knew how to find the toilets. Our people, graduates of a three-year diploma course, even though they knew how to

269 NUTS AND BOLTS tackle a whole range of engineering problems, had to jump through several hoops in order to become registered. These included exams set by disconnected ivory-tower pseudo-intellectuals, the kind I used to hate at Nottingham. My eyes were really opened to this problem when I was visited by a recent graduate who told me he had been taking a course at the university evening class, supposedly covering the same ground as mine, with a view to passing the P.Eng. exam. It was completely different, he said. We couldn‘t BOTH be right! He showed me the course outline for the first term, and I began to form an insight into the fundamental differences in approach to the business of educating people who wished to take up a career in the engineering profession, as between what I was doing here, and what they were doing at the U of T. After a few moments‘ thought, I told him that we were approaching the business from different directions. I reminded him that, on the first day, I had put up Boyle‘s Law and Charles‘s Law on the board, (which, believe it or not, in those days they had all heard of at school), and, after shuffling them around for a bit, had come up with the Universal Gas Law PV=mRT. I had then spent the rest of the term teaching them how to use it to get the right answer. At the U of T they had subjected him to a whole term of airy-fairy ivory-tower nonsense about the kinetic molecular theory of gases, and had, on the last day, triumphantly come up with the same formula. I said I thought my way was best, but at this point they had the upper hand, because they determined who would be registered. I finished by saying to him that, since there was nothing either of us could do about it at present, the thing was to get down to it and get the piece of paper, after which he could do what he liked with the system, with my blessing. Meanwhile, if I could be of any assistance, he knew where to find me. He left, looking thoughtful, and I too had plenty to think about. I was grateful for the encounter, because it shaped my thought processes during the critical months that lay ahead. For some time now there had been an increased groundswell of opinion that it was about time Ryerson organized some way of making our courses acceptable to the P.Eng. for registration purposes, and this was hardening into the idea of grafting a fourth year on to the existing three-year diploma, which would consist of courses specifically approved by the Professional Engineers

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Association as providing exemption from their own exams. I thought it would be a prime wheeze to try my hand at this, so, entirely off my own bat, I spent a month or two in the evenings and on weekends compiling a course which I christened ―Environmental Control Engineering‖. By this time I was a Fellow of ASHRAE, the American Society of Heating, Refrigeration and Air conditioning Engineers. I had started a Ryerson chapter, membership of which gave our graduates a considerable leg-up when entering the profession, and for which I had received their certificate of appreciation; I was becoming a force to be reckoned with in this area. Also, members received their handbook annually, which contained the latest information on developments in the area. Without shame, I plagiarized a lot of stuff from the handbook, together with a top-dressing of mathematical mumbo- jumbo from various obscure textbooks, to appease the ―scientist‖ freaks on the accreditation committee. After that, the bulk of the course was based on my personal experiences, and thoughts on how it should be taught. Having added some drawings, and a few typical exam questions, I handed it to the chap who was our liaison with the P.Eng., who submitted it to them, and it became the first engineering course to be approved by them. I felt entitled to put a coup feather in my cap, particularly when the liaison chap sent a memo round the department congratulating me, which was very civil of him. As usual, the response was a deafening silence, but that was all right—I didn‘t like them very much, either. Since there were no other courses available, I was authorized to teach it in the evenings for the first year, to get things started. ―At the standard evening class rate?‖ I asked innocently. I wasn‘t going to let them screw me on that one. No overtime pay, no overtime, right? ―Oh, er, of course.‖ We were all entering uncharted territory, and I was going to get my claim staked early. At one time I found myself on a committee set up to accredit courses run by OACETT (The Ontario Association of Chartered Engineering Technicians and Technologists), through the George Brown Community College. This was one of fifteen such colleges set up by the then minister of education, Bill Davis, when money was plentiful, energy was cheap and abundant, and there was no tomorrow. It seemed to me one of the best, being staffed by extremely competent, helpful people. Although sometimes I

271 NUTS AND BOLTS couldn‘t help wondering how I came to be in such exalted company (everyone else was chairman of a department), nevertheless I was finding it an interesting and rewarding experience, until one day... We had been going at it half the morning, when in walked one of the members, whom we had assumed was off sick or something. I think he was the chairman of the Electrical department. Anyway, he just sat down and said, ―Fill me in.‖ Something snapped inside me. I got to my feet and said, ―Just a cotton-picking minute. If you can‘t be bothered to get here on time, I‘m not going to waste my time going over it all for you. If you want to know what we were doing, read the bloody minutes.‖ I was halfway to the door, when another first occurred in my life. For the first time, I was asked not to walk out of a meeting. The chairman said he would undertake to brief Mr. Whatshisname after the meeting. I did not feel good about that. It had not been my intention to embarrass him. I just wanted to make the latecomer feel like a piece of shit, which he was. Uncomfortably, I served out my first stint on the committee and, when asked to stay on, declined. I had always had an interest in the question of the students‘ evaluation of their instructors. It seemed to me that, unless one received some feedback, one could never tell how well one was doing. I had already been subjected to some amateurish student union questionnaires, which had turned out reasonably favourably. Now, the pressure was increasing for an official evaluation process which would be made public and entered into the instructor‘s record. Reluctantly, the Faculty Association (my union, if you like) had agreed to strike a committee to produce such a process and put it into operation. I immediately volunteered, provided that I could be the chairman, to which they agreed. I think we were given a month to do it. I gathered four or five people who seemed to be keen on the idea, and we set to work. I started by laying out the ground rules. First, the job had to be finished by (whatever the date was). Second, this meeting started at ten. It would finish by eleven at the latest; same with all the others. Third, nobody is to speak for more than three minutes at any one time; I shall be timing. Fourth, I shall write the minutes and circulate them the same day. If anyone has any comments, these should be sent to me in writing well before

272 RYERSON FULL TIME the next meeting. Finally, if anyone doesn‘t like any of this, please feel free to leave now; these are the only circumstances under which I am prepared to run this committee. I must have picked the right people, because they seemed to like the idea. Probably never seen anything like it before. We kept at it for a month, and on the appointed day it was finished, to the satisfaction of all concerned. I thanked them all profusely, said it had been a privilege to make their acquaintance, and invited them to a celebratory drink at the local pub after classes. The following day I had it printed and distributed to the classes which were due for an evaluation session. THE VERY NEXT DAY I was summoned to an emergency meeting of the Faculty Association committee, and given the biggest dressing-down of my career. How dare I etcetera... I stood this for about a minute, mainly because I couldn‘t believe what was happening, then said ―Oh bollocks‖ and left. Later I went to see the head of the association, Ray, to whom I had been introduced by Al, one of the committee who had originally hired me. Al told me that he had flown fighters in the Far East in the final phases of the war, and had agreed to teach me how to fly floatplanes, an event to which I was still looking forward. Unfortunately, he was in even bigger trouble than me. They were going to impeach him for ―unprofessional conduct‖, so he was resigning that afternoon, just to spit in their eye. I went to his resignation speech, when he compared the Faculty Association to a garbage scow he had machine-gunned on the Yangtze River. While on the unpleasant subject of the Faculty Association, another occurrence should be mentioned at this point. Every year, their negotiating committee met with the administration to thrash out the details of our contract for the forthcoming year. This year they were gunning for an across-the-board salary increase of 2,000 dollars a year. The administration responded with a counter-offer to elevate us to the rank of ―professor‖, which the stupid sods accepted with great glee. And that, dear reader, is how I became a prof. I think the general feeling among us engineering types was best summed up by George Nowikov, a White Russian with a deliciously dry wit, who said, ―For two thousand a year they can call me a bastard.‖

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My own reaction was to say, ―For a quarter of a century I have professed to be an engineer. Now I seem to have engineered a professorship.‖ I also composed a new verse for a well-known drinking song of the period: Now old Tysoe is a prof in Mobile Yes old Tysoe is a prof in Mobile Well if Tysoe‘s a professor, then I‘m Edward the Confessor ‘Cos he‘s nothing but a guesser in Mobile.

Before I get to the event which changed my life, a few words about Al, a colleague who was one of the interviewing committee which hired me, and was now in charge of the Aerospace section of what had now become the Mechanical, Industrial and Aerospace Engineering department. He told me about his work at the RAE Farnborough, and in particular about the time when he was in charge of the investigation into the disaster which befell Donald Campbell, who was attempting to increase the world water speed record in his jet-propelled ―Bluebird‖. It will be recalled that the boat became airborne at just under 300 mph, flipped, and carried Campbell straight down to the bottom of Coniston Water, burying him under the ooze. It was fascinating to see Al‘s frame-by-frame analysis of the final moments, his aerodynamic study based on the manufacturer‘s drawings of the boat, and all the rest of it. Coming back to the present, he asked whether I would be interested in taking one of the Aerospace courses, on Flight Propulsion, as he was short of an instructor for this. I jumped at the chance. I put a lot of effort into preparing it, and one of the things that really turned the students on was that I ordered a whole lot of copies of a superb book put out by Rolls-Royce, called simply The Jet Engine. This was, to me, the finest instruction manual available. Not a textbook—that bit was left to the teacher—but the diagrams, all in full colour, were magnificent. Every aspect was covered, up to and including bypass and turbofan engines which were just coming into vogue. I handed these out at the beginning of the term, saying I wanted them back at the end, but not counting too closely. Looking back, I think my most impressive achievement was a

274 RYERSON FULL TIME complete thermodynamic analysis of an Apollo moon landing operation. Bits of this have survived the ravages of the years, including some fancy calculus which is quite beyond me, so I must have had help from somewhere, probably an obscure NASA report. One day in the middle of winter I was on top of a ladder doing something on the roof. Many times since I have pondered on what happened in the next few seconds. Suddenly, for no apparent reason, the ladder slid sideways. I made a frantic grab for the eaves, but everything was covered with ice and it was impossible to get a grip. Down I went, fifteen feet onto the ground, with a thump that knocked the breath out of me. Inge and Margaret came dashing out. Inge gave me a thorough going-over before deciding that it would be safe to move me gently onto a screen door that happened to be lying around. With this as a stretcher they moved me indoors. Inge took my pulse, and when she released my wrist, my forearm fell uselessly to my side. I couldn‘t believe it. I picket it up with my other hand, and again it fell. Inge cut away the clothing surrounding the elbow, and there was a bit of bone sticking out. Obviously the elbow was well and truly bust. She was on the phone in an instant, and a short time later I found myself lying on a hospital operating table. (You can tell how long ago this was.) Here, I was fortunate to experience one of the biggest strokes of good luck in my life. The doctor on duty that Sunday afternoon was ex-Surgeon Commander George Watkin, who, I found out later, had done two tours of operations in Vietnam, and to whom I am forever indebted for still having two fully functioning arms. I didn‘t see much of him that time, being zonked out, thank goodness, but Inge watched the whole thing (well—she was used to it) and told me that he had thrown away a lot of bone bits and wired together what was left of my elbow pivot point (don‘t ask me what the thing was called—I‘m an engineer, not a ruddy surgeon). It was in plaster for a few weeks, and then I went to see him again. Funnily enough, he had an assistant called Fred, who swiftly cut away the plaster. Watkin administered a local anaesthetic, then started in on the stitches, which he pitched with unerring accuracy into a bowl held by Fred. Finally, he pulled out the wire which had

275 NUTS AND BOLTS been holding my elbow together, and laid it before me. He said to Fred, ―How long?‖ ―Three minutes twenty,‖ replied his faithful assistant. ―Fastest yet,‖ said Watkin. I asked if I could have the wire. By all means. He wouldn‘t be using it again. I have it still. Finally, ―All right, then. Show this to your doctor, then see a physiotherapist, and don‘t go climbing any more ladders.‖ I never saw him again. I heard that he had made a mistake during a knee operation on a youth, and had accidentally severed a nerve, which lost the chap the use of his leg. Obviously a terrible tragedy. How does anyone suppose he felt about it? Let he who has never made a mistake throw the first stone. No such considerations entered what passes for the minds of the po-faced crap-artists who run the Ontario Medical Association, a local mutual-protection society. They struck him from the register, and the last thing I heard was that he was pulling in two million a year in the States. Worth every nickel, in my opinion. George, wherever you are, I salute you. I went to see the doctor, and he said, ―I‘m afraid you will never regain full use of that arm.‖ We‘ll see about that, I thought. How nice it will be to prove the silly bugger wrong. Which, in retrospect, is probably why he said it. The physiotherapist recommended moving the arm under flowing warm water. Some time later, I was sitting with Inge in front of the fire, watching the progress of a blizzard outside. Through the picture window in our living room we could see the whole of the field across the road. Across it marched a line of electrical poles. No steel towers in those days for us in the boondocks; these were just wooden sticks stuck into the ground, and between them was strung a single cable carrying power into the village. From our grandstand seats, I was able to witness a phenomenon known as the ―galloping cable‖. What happened was roughly as follows: Freezing rain had been falling all afternoon, and a thick layer of ice had built up on top of the cable. Then the wind speed started to build up until it hit gale force. At some point the system comprising the cable length, its weight and the wind speed reached a resonant condition. Think of a violinist drawing his bow across a string to make it resonate. As this condition approached I could see the ripples appearing in

276 RYERSON FULL TIME the cable, like the ripples in a pool of water when you chuck a stone in. The amplitude of the ripples increased rapidly until the cable was jumping up and down about three feet I should guess, although I wasn‘t about to go out and measure it. Inevitably the cable broke with a brilliant flash, and all the lights went out. We had plenty of firewood, emergency lanterns and so forth, so there was no serious problem, but it was pretty damned miserable. Suddenly Inge said, ―Tysoe! Get us down to the Caribbean, or I‘m leaving you!‖ I was quite receptive to this idea, since the physiotherapist‘s admonition to ―exercise my arm under moving warm water‖ sounded to me suspiciously like swimming in the Caribbean. In an astonishingly short period of time we found ourselves on the beautiful island of Barbados, after the one and only flight in an airliner that I have ever enjoyed. We were taken there, non-stop, by Wardair, in a Boeing 747, and I can say without hesitation it was one of the most pleasurable travel experiences of my life. Founded by Max Ward, a noted Canadian bush pilot, Wardair was everything that an airline should be. The seating was comfortable, WITH PLENTY OF LEG ROOM. The upper deck, accessible via a spiral staircase, had a bar along its entire length. You could wander up there for a drink and a snack at any time. The captain came round chatting to us. I asked him how the 747 compared with other aircraft he had flown. When he found out that I was a pilot, he spent a happy quarter of an hour extolling its virtues. He had flown P-51 Mustangs, F-86 Sabres, B-29 Superfortresses and all sorts of other stuff, and in his opinion the 747 was the finest flying machine ever built. He told me he could control it with his fingertips. I was fascinated. I have never forgotten that little chat. It was, of course, too good to last. By the time I was seriously into the business of commuting to the Caribbean, it had disappeared, no doubt due to the machinations of the cartel of inferior airlines, ICAO or IATA or whichever. Our stay in Barbados was definitely the beginning of the next phase of my life. Our hotel room was built of cement blocks, every alternate one of which was missing. We made love with the trade winds sighing softly through the room...sorry, this is supposed to be about my rehabilitation. I spent most of the first couple of days

277 NUTS AND BOLTS in the hotel swimming pool, gradually bringing the arm into action. In the evenings I would do a gentle backstroke so that I could gaze at the Southern Cross, a constellation I had never seen before. By the third day I went into the Caribbean, and stayed in there for most of the time, except for the odd excursion to the Mount Gay rum distillery. On one special occasion, we went for a day sail on a catamaran operated by a handsome West Indian couple, who took us to a remote inlet, where we climbed over the side, wearing borrowed face mask and snorkel, and I came face to face with a Caribbean reef, on which fan coral waved, and all the tropical fish you have ever seen swam around. I was well and truly hooked. As winter made way for spring, my academic life resumed its more or less normal course, and Inge continued to become more involved in administration affairs. We had started tossing around ideas as to what we would do upon retirement. Admittedly it was still at least ten years away, but ten years has a habit of passing, and we thought it would be a good idea to have some kind of plan in mind. One thing we were sure of—we were not going to be shunted into some nursing home. Well, now we knew what we were NOT going to do, but what WERE we going to do? One evening Inge got home rather later than usual, saying that there had been an impromptu get-together to celebrate someone‘s promotion or something, and she had been talking to the chap who was in charge of the woodwork shop. ―John,‖ she said, ―I have an idea that will blow your mind.‖ With a kind of premonition, I searched back in my mind for the times I had heard this sort of introduction before. Oh yes— ―Let‘s go to Canada...‖ ―Why don‘t you try teaching?...‖ So, what could this be? ―We are going to build a yacht, get it down to the British Virgin Islands, charter it out until we are ready to retire, then move down there and live on it.‖ After I had recovered consciousness, all the standard responses sprang to mind. ―Are you nuts?.... Totally out of the question.... Absolutely impossible....‖ But—I had tried them all before, and none of them worked, so I saved my breath and heard her out. It seemed that the woodwork shop chap had told her of his retirement plan, which was to purchase a kit of parts for a 38-foot

278 RYERSON FULL TIME yacht, assemble it, get it down to the BVI, move down there and live on it. He had most of it worked out. There was a lot of woodwork, which he could do quite easily with the resources at his disposal. There was also a fair bit of engineering, which he wasn‘t sure about, but once he had that arranged, he was ready to start. At this point Inge had suggested that we could obtain a similar kit, we could build them both together, he could do the woodwork for both, and I could do the engineering for both. He agreed enthusiastically, wisely adding that he would get started as soon as my agreement could be confirmed. Totally outgunned, I asked if I could have five minutes to think about it. Inge knew I meant at least a fortnight, and she had to be content with that. She was probably quite relieved that I hadn‘t had a heart attack. There were several things to be considered. First, how were we going to pay for it? At the time, the minimum going rate for a 38- foot yacht was fifty to sixty thousand, and, even though Inge had been promoted to administration, and we were both earning top dollar in our respective professions, we still didn‘t have that kind of money to chuck around. The kit cost around twenty thousand, so, with maybe another ten for sails, rigging and such, the money problem was halved. Also, thanks to the insane upward spiral of real estate prices, an appraisal of our house showed that the market value had increased to five times what we paid for it. It was a simple matter to re-mortgage, such that the whole cost of the boat project could be covered. Next, where would it be built? It would obviously have to be launched at Port Credit, the nearest harbour, so why not build it there? I went to have a look round and, sure enough, there was a huge shed the size of an airship hangar, in which were several boats with people working on them. Yes, I could rent a space to build my kit. Yes, they would launch it. No, I couldn‘t rent a dock for it. To the best of their knowledge there were none available along the entire Golden Horseshoe, and waiting lists averaging eighteen months. This was a time of ―boom‖, and everyone seemed to own a boat. The Golden Horseshoe runs round Lake Ontario from Niagara Falls to Kingston—in other words, everywhere within reasonable driving distance. Oh well, I‘ll cross that bridge when I come to it. Inge certainly wouldn‘t accept it as an excuse for backing out!

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One more thing while I was down there. Having heard many horror stories about mishaps which had occurred during boat building projects, it seemed advisable to consult a marine insurer to see whether any coverage could be obtained during the building process. Here again I was in luck. In the local office was a very pleasant and competent New Zealander. He listened to everything I had to say with great attention. Then he gave his response. Yes, it was a good idea to insure while building. Yes, a good choice of project—he had four of them on his books already. And yes, with my experience and associations, he could give me a good rate, BUT only if I would abandon the idea of building it in that shed over there. He asked me if I had been in there and seen the idiots mixing and spraying their volatile materials while smoking, and with their kids running around all over the place. One day, he said, that place is going to blow up. I wouldn‘t touch it with a ten-foot barge pole. So, I gave him plan B, saying that my house was on two acres, with an outbuilding which could house equipment and supplies. That satisfied him, but he warned me to be sure to set the hull down on firm ground, since most of the stupid accidents occurred because the hull was sitting on ground which softened when it rained. The support struts on one side would then start sinking, and once the hull was a few degrees off the vertical, nothing could stop it from crashing on to its side. He finished by giving me possibly the best advice I have ever received. If, he said, I would take the Canadian Power Squadron Basic Boating Course, he could give me a healthy discount on a policy covering the actual operation of the vessel. I write so enthusiastically about this advice because it was through the course that I met Vic, who was the instructor, and with whom I struck up a friendship which has lasted to this day. He has played an important part in my life, as will be seen. On the way home I formulated a plan of action. To hell with standing it on the ground supported by poles. I approached a friend at Ryerson, Peter E, who was a prof in the Civil Engineering department, and asked if he would advise me on the construction of a concrete pad which would be truly level, and capable of supporting a load of seven tons. He agreed immediately, and then asked what it was for. When I told him, he was keen to become

280 RYERSON FULL TIME involved, and thus began another friendship which lasted until he retired and moved back to his native Dorset, to, as he put it, start a sweet shop. Then I firmed up the order for the kit. For an extra 600 bucks I purchased the cradle the hull was sitting on at the boat works, and asked them to lash it firmly to the hull, because I wanted the hull to stay in it from the time it left the works to the time it was launched. I‘m sure it was this arrangement which made it possible for the build to be completed in under eighteen months, whereas everyone else seemed to take anywhere between four and eight years, or abandon it halfway through. It was now summer, and delivery was arranged for late September. Peter came round on his bike, selected the site, in front of the outbuilding, pointed out a tree branch that would have to go, and told me what lumber to obtain. He also told me to obtain several rolls of heavy gauge wire mesh, which would be used to reinforce the base concrete. Now it was my turn to be curious. He told me over a beer that every year he ran a competition among his students as to which group could build the best concrete canoe. He had himself built one with a wall thickness of an one eighth inch, using very thin chicken wire and juggling the cement ratio in the concrete mix, which was not much heavier that one built in the normal way, with plywood and fibreglass. Next weekend he came around and set up the frame for the pad. He had brought along some of his surveying instruments so that, by the time he‘d finished, the top edges of the frame were in a truly horizontal plane. He then spread all the wire mesh uniformly over the area, told me how much concrete to order from the Ready-Mix people, and gave me the specification for it. The following weekend six of us were standing around drinking my beer and munching on Inge‘s snacks, then Peter turned up on his bike, and dead on time the truck arrived. The driver had clearly done this a couple of times before. He swivelled the delivery chute until it was over the middle of the frame, twiddled some knobs on a control panel while referring to Peter‘s specification, started the machinery at the back, got back in his cab and activated a spinning drum, whereupon measured quantities of cement, sand, ballast and water were delivered to the drum, and the mixture poured down the chute into the frame. The driver inched his truck forward under Peter‘s direction, while my volunteers

281 NUTS AND BOLTS whacked at the concrete with their shovels, making sure that it was forced right through the reinforcing mesh. Finally, with the concrete standing about half an inch above the frame, I signed off the truck driver, who left, and then Peter and I got on with the final act. Grabbing the fifteen-foot plank which he had told me must have one dead straight edge, we thumped this along the length of the frame, then drew it back slowly, while the concrete was lightly sprayed with water, thus smearing off any excess concrete to bring it exactly level with the frame, and at the same time giving it a really professional finish. Well, I thought, it certainly pays to know someone in the trade—I wouldn‘t have liked to try that alone. We were off to a good start. Two weeks before the date of delivery it started to rain. The rain came down in a steady downpour for a week, by which time the path leading to the pad was a sea of mud. It was obvious that a truck carrying a seven-ton boat would get hopelessly bogged down. At the time the Toronto Harbourfront Boat Show was on, with new boats tied up at the various docks, and anxious salesmen trying to spot prospective customers. Eventually I spotted a Hughes-38, boarded it and climbed down the companionway. There, sitting in the navigator‘s seat, was none other that Howard Hughes himself. Not THE Howard Hughes, you understand, but a chap by the same name who had built up a business selling Winnebago mobile homes, and was now diversifying into boats, making them available in kit form to boost his sales. I couldn‘t help wondering how long that would last, when more people found out what was involved. Sternly repressing that train of thought, I explained my problem, and asked him to delay delivery for a week, which would give me time to get some ballast put down to stabilize the path. He phoned the factory as I stood there and arranged it. I asked him how things were going, and he told me that four H-38s were on their way to the BVI at the moment, whose owners were chartering them out through a company called North-South Yacht Charters, and why didn‘t I have a word with them. I thanked him and left. The rain stopped, the sun came out, the path had firmed up, delivery day arrived, and went off without a hitch. I will never forget the sight of that white hull making its way down the road towards me. ―Majestic‖ springs to mind. I have always been fascinated and inspired when witnessing complete professionalism

282 RYERSON FULL TIME in action, and the next few minutes stand out. The driver, who again had done this a couple of times before, drove his cab towards the opposite side of the country road until one of his wheels was hanging over the ditch, put on full lock, and backed right into the driveway and up to the pad in one go. Never seen anything like it. The crane, which had been summoned by the firm and had been standing by for a few minutes, picked up the hull and deposited it, sitting in its cradle, gently upon the pad. A ragged cheer went up, I whisked a cloth off a nearby table to reveal a cooler full of beer and some nibbles, and we had an impromptu celebration. I became quite friendly with the salesman who had sold me the boat kit in the first place. It turned out that he worked for North-South, who had been granted a dealer‘s licence by the Hughes Boat works. We arranged to meet for further discussions on the question of chartering the boat when it was completed. When they had all gone, I stood there looking at the boat on the pad, thinking that I had never seen such a beautiful product of man‘s creative genius. I rigged a ladder up the side of the hull, tying it very firmly (!), and climbed up. Lowering myself gingerly into the dark interior, I looked around at the raw fibreglass surroundings. There was the engine, thank goodness, sitting on its mounting frame. All ready to go now, chaps, I said to myself. At this point, the woodwork shop fellow died. I had never felt so alone. NOW what was I going to do? The rules of the game had changed drastically. How on earth was I going to carry this through on my own? This time I had REALLY taken on more than I could handle... This mood of abject defeatism lasted all of ten seconds. Then I began to realize that I had the most wonderful woman in the world standing by me, my friends were taking an interest in helping me, everything had gone well up to now...who was I to even think about quitting? With apologies to those who get fed up when I keep bringing Frankie into this; although I don‘t always go along with his moral standards, some of his songs do seem to resonate with parts of my life:

I PICKED MYSELF UP AND GOT BACK IN THE RACE...

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The Pacer – a diving computer of the sixties

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More of the Pacer: My drawing of my redesigned membrane housing, which so upset the chief draughtsman.

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Relevant parts of THE letter regarding the Pacer, referred to in Chapter 12.

286

Someone pinned this article from a student newspaper on the thermo lab notice board; a few students added their comments.

Two of my more spectacular labs:

Below: Indicator diagram of the Lotus Elan engine going flat out.

Above: Schlieren photograph of supersonic shock waves in an under- expanding nozzle. Flow is from right to left. The Mach number can be calculated from the angle of the shock waves.

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Above, showing a student around my Lotus Elan engine test stand at a Ryerson open house. In the foreground is a sectioned Elan engine showing the twin-cam drive.

Below, former student Ludwig Heimrath shows his Indy 500 car at Square One Shopping Centre.

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Centre, Peter Williams, who was mainly responsible for my starting Nuts and Bolts.

Left to right: Bob Pope, his wife, Dianne, and Judy, the Romanian heat-transfer expert with whom I shared an office for a time.

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Above, with George Nicholson at Ryerson, mid 1970s: shades of Nottingham!

Below, in full academic regalia, on my way to Ryerson Theatre for a convocation ceremony.

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“Round and Round Went the Bloody Great Wheel”: the first performance at my first student graduation party, 1968...

...and tuning up for the last, with Les at my retirement party, 1992.

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The Inge II Project

In the beginning: At the Hughes Boat Works, September 1978. The three-ton lead keel is bonded to the hull. Preparation: Pouring the concrete pad.

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The arrival: What a beauty!

Halfway there: Inge‟s cousin Horst stands in front of the winter shelter he helped build.

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The departure: Leaving for the launch.

The grand finale: Launching at Port Credit Yacht Harbour.

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The launch and christening, April 30, 1980:

“Look, all you have to do is say, „I name this ship Inge II, and may good fortune attend all who sail in her.‟ Then pour a bit of the bubbly on the bow plate, and we‟ll drink the rest. Okay?”

Below: stepping the mast at Bronte Harbour.

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Off we go! Setting sail from Bronte for the Caribbean, May 31, 1980.

Playing tag with the Staten Island ferry

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Rough seas two days out from New York: When it gets like this, you stop taking photos and concentrate on survival.

The arrival in Virgin Gorda, June 25, 1980.

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At home in the BVI

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CHAPTER 14: RYERSON HALF TIME

s the fall term started, things were happening fast. The so- called ―fourth year‖ was now an official part of the day A programme, thank goodness. We attended the Basic Boating course at the Oakville Power Squadron, where we met Vic, the instructor. When he heard that we were building a boat to take to the Virgin Islands he asked if he could help, and that was the best thing that ever happened to the project, as will be seen. When I told Peter E at Ryerson about our misfortune, he offered to help with the woodwork and anything else. Passers-by, seeing the hull sitting there in all its beauty, would knock on the door offering assistance. One such visitor offered to lend me his bandsaw, and I don‘t know what we would have done without it. Another spry type started off, ―What does your wife think about all this, then?‖ ―THINK of it?‖ I replied. ―She THOUGHT of it!‖ He then offered to do the woodwork. I thanked him, but said that I was well equipped in that area. Finally, he asked if we would like to come for a sail in his yacht, which was berthed at the National Yacht Club in Toronto, an offer which I accepted with enthusiasm. This was a very helpful encounter. His name was John Hoyt, and not only was he the finest seaman I have ever met, he gave me many valuable tips on fitting out a cruising yacht. He owned a lovely Alberg yacht, about 30 feet long with a full- length keel. He showed me his gimballed kerosene cooking stove (kerosene was the only fuel he allowed on board). He introduced me to the Tilley lantern, which gives off the most pleasant light to read by. Then the Reed sewing machine, essential equipment for the cruising yachtsman. This was a truly fascinating piece of engineering. Capable of handling several thicknesses of sailcloth, it was powered by a double-wound motor, which would take twelve volts DC at one end, or 120 volts AC at the other, or it could be hand cranked, or there was a pulley for the motor of your choice. Now, I fear, extinct—I think I snared the last one in captivity after an extensive search, and it was a godsend on many occasions.

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For our Christmas holiday that year we went down to the British Virgin Islands, specifically to Virgin Gorda, the second largest island, this being where the North-South charter office was situated. On this first trip, the big jet took us to Puerto Rico, where we boarded, of all things, a Dakota. This gave me quite a thrill. The last time I had flown in one of those was as an air cadet in 1944, when the Americans were working up for D-Day. This one was very smartly turned out—silver with a blue trim, the legend ―Air BVI‖ along the fuselage, and the BVI ensign—the Blue Ensign with the BVI crest on the fly—painted on the tail fin. The Dakota took us to Tortola, the main island, where we transferred to a Britten-Norman Islander. If ever an aeroplane fitted perfectly into the surroundings for which it had been designed, this was it. I remembered watching its debut at the Farnborough air show, and thinking something like ―Quite nice, but so what?‖ Now I know. The pilot, a charming West Indian, caused a few raised eyebrows when he asked the nine passengers for their weights. One woman started to object. ―Well, lady, least I ain‘t askin‘ for your age. Got to get de balance right, okay?‖ He then produced a slide rule, compiled a weight and balance sheet, and allocated everyone a seat number. The flight to Virgin Gorda took four and a half minutes, culminating in a steep turn over a garbage dump, and the best crosswind landing I had ever seen. It was apparent that every landing would have to be crosswind, since the runway was parallel to the coastline, so the wind was always either onshore or offshore. I guess if you do it seven times a day for a few years you‘re bound to get pretty good at it. We were welcomed in a friendly manner by the authorities, and a short time later were sitting on the veranda of the Fischers Cove hotel, right on the beach, sipping pina coladas and watching the sun go down, while a small steel band played a dreamy tune. One day, one of the yachts in the nearby marina would be ours. So ended the first day of our dream. Next day we strolled down to the harbour, and there spied a sign announcing day sails, flying from the rigging of a handsome- looking catamaran named Beruthiel. On deck were a great bearded giant of a man, naked except for a tiny bikini and a funny hat, doing something to a winch, and a nice-looking girl who was making sandwiches. We enquired about the day sail, which pleased

300 RYERSON HALF TIME them. ―Right then,‖ he said, ―full complement—now we can go.‖ He told us they would be sailing in half an hour. With another six passengers, he took us to Prickly Pear island, where he dropped anchor and asked if anyone would like to have a look at the reef. With myself and two of the others decked out in masks, flippers and snorkels, we made our way to a rocky part of the coastline, where he pointed downwards, upended himself and disappeared, so we did likewise, to enter the magic world of a Caribbean coral reef. During the course of my underwater exploration, I grazed myself on a sharp-edged rock, but thought nothing of it. When we were all back in the boat, he asked me with a grin if I had seen the barracuda following me. I said no. ―That‘s what I thought,‖ he said. ―You were leaving a trail of blood, and if you‘d seen it I figured you would have gone a bit faster.‖ They were Malcolm and Niki, and this was the start of another friendship which lasted for many years. He was a retired Royal Navy diving officer, and later a navigator on Sea Vixen aircraft. She was a nurse from The Netherlands. I told them of our plans, and he was very interested. He suggested that I should drop by in the morning; they had as yet no bookings, and he wanted to show me round. I did as he suggested, and was very glad that I had. He took me to another part of the marina, and there, tied up side by side, were four Hughes-38s, flying the North-South burgee. Nobody was around, and with a complete disregard for such niceties as asking permission he climbed aboard the first and motioned for me to follow. He led me to the head, where the mast, entering through an opening in the cabin top, rested on the floor. He told me that the floor consisted of a layer of fibreglass with a plywood overlay, and with no support underneath. The boats, he said had a rough time getting here. The mast, thumping up; and down, developed two or three inches of play, and the standing rigging sagged like overcooked spaghetti. They were very lucky not to be dismasted. He strongly recommended that I inspect my hull, and build in a rigid support from the keel right up to where the mast sits. Needless to say, I made this my first priority upon return. Inge got on famously with Niki, both being nurses. At the time, Niki was running the medical clinic, and told of continual shortages of things like dressings, drugs and such. From that time,

301 NUTS AND BOLTS whenever we went down, Inge made a point of taking with her all the time-expired stuff, rather than destroying it, which is easy for some bureaucrat to lay down, who is spending other people‘s money. Just two more encounters before I bid a reluctant goodbye to Virgin Gorda, knowing that there would be many more such visits. We had decided to see whether we could walk as far as ―The Baths‖, a noted beauty spot. It was hot and dusty, and after half an hour I was beginning to have second thoughts about the whole idea. Just then we came to Blackbeard‘s Tavern, and that clinched matters. In we went, and sat at a table in the lovely cool patio. Up came an Englishman called Graham, and before long Inge was sipping her usual pina colada, while I was enjoying a pint of Double Diamond, served in a frozen glass. Chatting with Graham, it didn‘t take long to establish that we both came from the British aircraft industry. He had been a flight test instrumentation engineer on the Concorde, when it was under development, and he was very keen to have news on its progress. Meanwhile his wife, a real estate agent, was telling Inge about properties on the island. On another occasion, we visited the Olde Yard Inn, a hotel-cum-restaurant, and met the hostess, Jane, an American lady who lived on a boat with her husband, a chap with the good old English name of Raymond Mucklestone, whose niece Connie was the managing editor of my Professional Engineering bi-monthly magazine. Sometimes I cannot help pondering on what a small world it seems! Enough of this lotus eating in paradise; now back to work. As the Basic Boating course proceeded, I got to know Vic quite well. He was in charge of waste management for the Region of Halton, and had two Mayor‘s Commendations for his part in leading emergency response teams into hazardous situations, as when a gasoline tanker overturned and spilled fuel into a storm sewer. He owned a trimaran which he had built himself. He in turn was interested in what I was doing, particularly when I told him about my attempts to devise a method of producing cylinder head pressure-volume diagrams for a high-speed engine. He told me of a friend, a retired physicist, who lived on a boat in Chesapeake Bay, and had devised a system for measuring pressure in a high-speed engine, which he thought might do half of what I was after. From

302 RYERSON HALF TIME his description, I gathered that it was a piezo-electric crystal built into a spark plug. Won‘t keep you a moment, but I should say something about it. This is a crystal which, when subjected to pressure, produces an output signal which can be amplified and fed into an oscilloscope. Since this happens instantaneously, speed is no problem. It seemed to me that anyone skilled in the art could combine this with an rpm signal converted electronically into stroke, which of course represents volume, and presto! We have an indicator diagram. And so it turned out. The only problem was getting the chap paid. As usual, the bloody Purchasing department wanted to know three different suppliers so that they could select the lowest quote. I took this to the Chairman, and asked if he had any suggestions, pointing out that there was only one of these things in the world, and it had been made for me by a chap living on a boat. He grinned and told me to leave it with him. I don‘t know what he did, but obviously it worked, because Vic and I are still friends. When up and running, the system did my reputation no harm at all. Not to overstate the case, it blew their doors off. Work on the boat proceeded all through that first winter. I had erected a temporary shelter over the hull, consisting of a two by one framework covered with builder‘s plastic sheet, which served its purpose. The bandsaw was set up in the barn, where I had put in a makeshift workbench. Bob brought up a router set from Ryerson, and an electric plane, on the understanding that I would rush them back if required. Peter E was a great companion and support. He came up nearly every weekend on his bike, worked on the teak all morning, and anything he didn‘t finish he would take home and bring it back finished the following weekend. Inge enjoyed working on the bandsaw, and was out there often, cutting out bulkheads, pieces of trim, and anything else for which I supplied drawings and templates. Meanwhile I was having my own problems. I had found that the Hughes-38 was descended from the original design of Sparkman and Stevens, the world-renowned yacht designers. They had done it for a French millionaire who wanted an ocean-going yacht which could hold its own in races, but would at the same time provide a reasonable amount of comfort. The design had been adopted by the American North Star yacht company, from whom Howard Hughes had purchased the manufacturing rights. So, I wrote to Sparkman and Stevens, asking

303 NUTS AND BOLTS them if they would quote me for supplying assembly drawings for the North Star 38. Such was the way things were done in those days, that by return of post came a bulky package of drawings, together with a bill for 25 dollars, which of course I stuffed into the mail before I even opened the package. I have the drawings to this day. In fact, I used them to build a radio-controlled replica which I still sail on the local pond. The problem of the moment was that the drawings showed tiller steering, whereas the North- South people had told me that for charter purposes, wheel steering was essential, since hardly anyone knew which way to move a tiller to go where they wanted to go. I found this difficult to believe; although mathematics and electrical technology were far beyond my grasp, I never had the slightest trouble with tillers, or, going back a bit further, aircraft rudder pedals. It probably depends which side of your brain is in control or something. If there are any psychologists around who can explain it, will you just shut up and let me get on with the book. I wrote again to Sparkman and Stevens, thanking them for their prompt response, and asking if they would kindly advise me on how to install a wheel steering system in place of the tiller. I received a rather stiff letter back, asking me why I would want to do a thing like that. Their design was perfectly balanced, and could be steered very easily with a tiller. Oh dear. That used to be known in the Air Force as ―putting up a black‖. I asked the Hughes Boat Works, and they referred me to a firm called Cinkel Steering Systems, may turtles sleep on the graves of their ancestors. I duly purchased the firm‘s H-38 system, thinking that this would be my first major mechanical system installation. The steering pedestal was bolted to the cockpit floor, and the steering quadrant fitted to the top of the rudder post, under the cockpit floor (a most uncomfortable place to work, this!). So far so good. A chain and sprocket drive transmitted the rotary motion of the wheel shaft to a shaft under the floor, and thence via a system of pulleys and cables to the rudder quadrant. But nothing would fit! None of the mounting brackets would go where they were supposed to, and every other item was either too long or too short. I called the firm, who said that was the system Hughes ordered from them for the 38, and why didn‘t I take it up with them. This I did, and finally got someone to admit that they had recently

304 RYERSON HALF TIME changed the design of the rear end to allow more space for passengers sitting in the cockpit, but they didn‘t see why this should affect the steering system. Readers will by now be well aware that I can instantly recognize when I‘m in a no-win situation, so I just got down to redesigning the transmission system, and produced a set of drawings of mounting brackets and other parts, which I took to Bob, asking what were the prospects. He got on to it right away, and while waiting I thought it would be a good idea to slide the fuel tank into position behind the engine, and check whether any special supports would be required. It would not go into the space available. It was much too big. Once again I called the Hughes Boat Works, who asked me to let them know the serial number of the tank I had. It turned out that they had sent me the 36-gallon tank for their 40 footer, rather than the 30-gallon tank, which was two inches less in height. Sorry about that. Next time their truck was going to Port Credit they would drop the right one off and collect the other one. It was rapidly becoming apparent that my main problems were not going to be the engineering or the woodwork or the fibreglass work, but having to deal with a cottage industry manned largely by know-nothing crap artists. Oh well, as someone once said, the main thing is to recognize that there IS a problem. While all this was going on, I was having a close look at the space between the keel and the floor of the head. How on earth was I going to fill that gap with something strong enough to withstand the pounding of a 60-foot mast in an Atlantic gale? Once again, a friend came to the rescue. Brian Smith, a friend in my model flying club, was taking a great interest in my project. He had a firm which specialized in avant-garde stuff like machining titanium and making tricky one-off items in fibreglass. I showed him the problem, and he said he had just the thing, left over from a previous job. He produced an enormous slab of solid fibreglass, so heavy I had a problem lifting it. Having some experience in sawing fibreglass, which, take it from me, is a bitch of a job, I blanched at the thought of sawing this thing to the right length, but he wouldn‘t hear of it. Just let him have a template, and he would do it, but he wasn‘t going to tell me how. I spent a happy couple of

305 NUTS AND BOLTS days fibreglassing this thing in, and lived happily ever after. I was to be extremely grateful to Brian again, before we set sail, but I‘ll get to that. The winter term was one of the best I remember. My daytime fourth-year class was well attended, several of the students being on day release from their firms, like Carrier and Trane, where they already had promising jobs, thanks to what I had told them in the last term of the diploma course. Jerry was also in the class, one of the best and brightest, and the whole thing was a pleasurable experience. The future looked promising. Throughout the whole institute a mood of confidence prevailed. Anything was possible. The diploma students were getting a real kick out of the Lotus engine rig. I always asked for a volunteer to drive it, and there were always plenty. I found out on the way that some of them were members of the John Player Team Lotus pit crew whenever the team was racing at Mosport, our local track. While on the subject, I had a student called Ludwig Heimrath, who was a bit of a puzzle. He was obviously very bright, and yet he always handed his lab reports late, attended only half the classes, and managed just to scrape through term tests. I surmised that he had something else going, and resolved to dump on him, in the hope that I could persuade him to get his act together, so that I could at least pass him and not get in the way of whatever it was he was aiming for. I then found out that he was driving a car in the next Indianapolis 500, for the Mackenzie Financial Corporation, so it seemed best to delay a confrontation until that was over. I think it may have been during that race when he lost a wheel while doing about 200 mph, because some slack-fannied mechanic hadn‘t tightened it up enough. I caught up with him again a year or two later, when his car was on show at the Square One Shopping Centre in Mississauga, with him standing by it. Spring came, and the boat was beginning to look pretty good. A great moment came when I put some diesel fuel in the tank, connected a garden hose to the cooling water inlet, and swung the starter handle, with the valve lifter held open by Inge (just like starting the one in the Ryerson lab). It started first time, to great jubilation among those present. So that was all right. The next thing was, how to control it? Here again, I had a bit of luck. At the time, the usual method was to have a gear lever, which would select

306 RYERSON HALF TIME forward, neutral or reverse, and a separate throttle This did not strike me as a very good idea, since it meant you had to take both hands off the wheel, at what may be a crucial point in the docking procedure. Then someone showed me a single-lever control, which he said came from a Russian hydroplane. I didn‘t care where it came from; as soon as he demonstrated it to me I knew it was the answer. The linkage must have taken a fair bit of figuring out, but it worked perfectly for me, and is still working perfectly today, to the best of my knowledge. Vic was coming round fairly regularly, working on the mast, which was laid out on trestles. Eventually he came up looking worried. ―John,‖ he said, ―I think we‘ve got the wrong mast.‖ He had been measuring and marking out for the attachment of various components, and nothing was matching up. For example, the boom gooseneck was not the correct height above the deck. I got the drawings out. The H-38 mast was 60 feet long. Ours was 56 feet. I consulted the Hughes catalogue, and started scaling the drawings of the boats in their range. Sure enough, the H-35 had a 56 foot mast. Oh my goodness gracious me, I said (or something). I rang them up and told them they had given me a H-35 mast for a H-38, and would they please send the correct one immediately, as we were hoping to finish the project before next winter. Sorry, they said, they couldn‘t order any more right now because the firm that made the extrusions was on strike. I told them I wasn‘t interested in their ordering problems, just send me a bloody mast—get one from someone else‘s boat, or find the unfortunate H-35 owner who has a H-38 mast... I went on like this for some time, until they hung up on me. The Spring Boat Show was on at the Toronto exhibition hall, so I paid it a visit, carrying a full head of steam. There was Howard Hughes, up on a platform next to the H-38. I went for him, shouting, ―I want my mast—if I don‘t get it this week I‘m starting legal action—why don‘t you get someone intelligent at your works...‖ All this time he had been backing off the platform towards his sales booth, with me following, still shouting. I jerked a thumb towards the H-38 on the stand. ―That one will do!‖ By this time the security people were making their way towards the stand, so I left. Next day I rang the firm again, and asked if their boss had said

307 NUTS AND BOLTS anything to them. A surly voice at the other end said it would be delivered tomorrow. Well, I never got anywhere by being polite. At Ryerson, I had another modest success. I had acquired a set of Shell instructional films, which were well thought of by the students. Things like how a two-stroke engine works (which is EXTREMELY difficult without animation), how a jet engine works, how an oil refinery works, and so forth. But the one which fascinated me was called, simply, Schlieren, and described how supersonic shock waves could be made visible and photographed. In my Mechanical graduating classes, and the Aerospace Flight Propulsion course, I was having to work hard to maintain the interest level when discussing gas flow through nozzles. I think the problem was that the students had the same outlook as Bob Hope, who, when questioned about how he liked the pure climate of Vale, Colorado, when taking part in the Bing Crosby golf tournament, replied, ―I‘m from Los Angeles. I don‘t trust air I can‘t see.‖ I thought it would be a good idea to see if we could get hold of the necessary equipment, which seemed simple enough. There was a wind tunnel in the hydraulics lab. I thought that, if we had a model of a converging-diverging nozzle in the test section, we could achieve supersonic flow for a short time using the blow- down method—that is, you pump up the inlet pressure high enough to exceed the critical pressure ratio, then let it all out at once. We could probably generate the sonic shock wave at the throat and the supersonic shock wave at the exit for a few seconds—long enough to take a photo. I showed the film to Bob, asking what were the prospects. In reply he produced a cardboard box with all the stuff in it. ―Been wondering what it was for,‖ he said. ―Some dizzy bugger ordered it a long time ago and then left, and nobody knew what to do with it, so it just got put away.‖ The only test pieces were some aerofoil sections, so we had to provide our own nozzle, which I drew up and Bob made. He then set to work with Jerry to fix up the rest of the stuff, according to what we had seen in the film. There was a monochromatic light source with an adjustable slot. There were two lenses, one on either side of the tunnel, then a knife-edge slit, with the light finally falling on a screen. And, of course, our faithful Polaroid camera. I still don‘t altogether twig the physics of the thing, but it has to do with the change of the refractive index of air

308 RYERSON HALF TIME due to the sudden pressure change across a shock wave, which appears as diffraction patterns, or Schliere (German word for smears) on the screen. By fiddling with the filters, you can do the whole thing in colour. Oh, go and watch the movie, when it comes to a theatre near you. I still remember the thrill I experienced when we first fired it up. The tunnel went off with a roar, the light flashed, shock waves appeared on the screen, just where they ought to be, the camera did its stuff, and we had a picture. Who needs physicists anyway? Another nice treat I obtained for the Aerospace students was grandiosely termed a ―Rocket Test Rig‖. It was basically a November fifth squib, the kind you usually see tied to a stick and fired out of a beer bottle, except that it didn‘t explode at the end into a great shower of coloured lights—at least, I hope it didn‘t. It was held on a thrust platform, to which was connected an arm with a pen on the end, which drew a thrust/time curve on a piece of graph paper attached to a revolving drum. The whole thing lasted about one and a half seconds; it went off with a loud whoosh! and filled the lab with smoke and flames and bits of black stuff, and the students loved it. To add a bit of academic respectability to it, I scraped an acquaintance with a chap in the Photo Arts department, whom I had been told specialized in high-speed photography—you know, bullets fired through plate glass windows, a hummingbird flapping its wings, all the fancy stuff used to overawe the masses— and he was only too keen to come along and show off his craft. I did a test firing for him, he spent a few minutes fiddling with his equipment, and announced he was ready. I did another firing, by which time the smoke was starting to billow out into the corridor, and curious passers-by were peering in to see what was going on. He thanked me, packed up and left, saying he would be back next day. True to his word, he turned up with a six-inch canister of sixteen millimetre film, which I immediately threaded into a waiting projector. He explained that it had been taken at 600 frames a second, or some such unbelievable number. Anyway, it lasted five minutes, so work it out for yourself—I‘ve retired. I can tell you it was like one of those Apollo moon-shot launchings from Cape Canaveral that we used to watch on TV. I have it still. As spring turned into summer, it became apparent that we would not be finished in time to do any sailing that year, so we

309 NUTS AND BOLTS were facing another winter of work. The latest hold-up was to do with the ice boxes. There was one in the galley, and another in the cockpit. Both were combined into one large fibreglass moulding, which was not supplied with the kit. All attempts to obtain one from the Hughes Boat Works were unsuccessful. I was definitely persona non grata there. They had my money, and they didn‘t give a damn. So, I made my own. I was no stranger to fibreglass work, having already made a dinghy with the help of another friend, but that is another story. I resolved to make the two separately, for simplicity. It was not a particularly difficult job, it just took a long time. I recall a remark made by several people: ―Ice boxes??? And you a refrigeration engineer!‖ I simply replied, ―That‘s why,‖ and left them to puzzle it out. Eventually they were installed, and the next task was to insulate them. The average distance from a box to the hull was around four inches, and I decided to fill this space with two-part expanding foam, an exercise which still gives me the heebie-jeebies when I look back on it. Peter helped me a lot, for which I was very glad. At the time, this stuff was extremely temperature-sensitive. You had to mix parts A and B in a tub, and pour the mixture into the appropriate space. After a few seconds it would start to expand, and you‘d better have left plenty of space for it to expand into, otherwise it would just make its own space. The makers provided a chart showing the ratio of part A to part B versus temperature. The first box was treated successfully. The foam rose a few inches above the counter level, having obviously completely filled the space below. I sliced it off flush, fitted the trim, and it looked really good. Flushed with success, we started early the next day, hoping to have the whole thing done by lunch time. I would mix the stuff in a tub and hand it to Peter, who would pour it in, prod it with a stick to make sure it penetrated everywhere, and signal for the next tub. It went well to the halfway point, by which time the day was warming up quickly, it being midsummer, but I was still using the same mixture ratio. When I started to mix the next tub, it boiled up into a column out of the tub, where it expanded into a great fuzzy head which reminded me of pictures I‘d seen of the mushroom cloud over Hiroshima. Fortunately, the reflexes of my earlier years had not deserted me, and equally fortunately I was wearing gloves,

310 RYERSON HALF TIME because the damned tub was red hot. I picked it up and threw it over the side as far as I could. After that, we decided to have a beer, two sadder and wiser engineers. When all else fails, read the instructions, eh? See, I beat you to it. As soon as the job was finished, I put a bag of ice into each box, and sure enough they lasted for a long time. We started keeping cans of beer in the boxes, so that we didn‘t have to keep going back to the house. Meanwhile, Inge bought an Albacore dinghy from a colleague who was giving up sailing, and presented it to me for my birthday. She gave 300 dollars for it, which was not bad, considering that the going rate at the time was around five thousand, although it could hardly have been described as being in showroom condition. It had been left out in the open for a year or two, and was liberally smeared with a green scum. Also there was a sizeable gash in the bottom, where it had obviously hit a rock. Nothing that a bit of elbow grease and fibreglass wouldn‘t handle, and we soon had her in a seaworthy condition. Peter E was very keen, telling me he had a Mirror dinghy, and why didn‘t we go sailing together. One summer weekend we drove down to the launching ramp Peter had told us about, towing the Albacore on the trailer that had come with it, and he was there unloading a beautifully finished Mirror dinghy from the roof of his car. Since I had not done this before, he showed me the procedure. I removed the restraining bands, and reversed down the ramp until the Albacore floated free, held by a cable attached to a bow fitting with a snap shackle, and wound round a drum on the trailer. Inge held the boat and disconnected the shackle, while I drove the car clear of the ramp and parked it. Then I held the boat while Inge climbed in, I pushed off and jumped aboard, and we were off on the maiden voyage. I had built a hinged rudder, of which I was very proud. It was pulled into the down position by a separate line, and held there by inserting the tiller into a bracket atop the rudder post. Down went the centreboard, Inge took control of the jib sheets from the front seat, while I handled the main sheet and tiller. As we drifted off the shore and caught the light breeze, we hauled in the sheets, the sails filled, and off she went. What a ride! It was wonderful to sit there, feeling her respond to the wind, the water and our gentle nudgings of the sails and tiller. Peter came up in front and pointed ahead, so we followed him round a small headland. He ran up on to the

311 NUTS AND BOLTS sandy beach, so we followed suit, and were able to step out without getting our feet wet. Having been concentrating fiercely on handling the boat, at last I was able to take stock of my surroundings. It was fantastic! We couldn‘t have been more than a mile west of Port Credit, one of the busiest harbours on the north coast of Lake Ontario, but we might as well have been on an uninhabited tropic island. There was not a soul in sight. There was no sign that man had ever been here. Before us was the sandy beach, the headland, and the unblemished surface of the lake. Behind us rose a sandy dune covered with grass, which blotted out any view of the houses and such that must surely be there. Peter‘s lovely wife Lari had brought a hamper with sandwiches, beer and wine, and we enjoyed one of the nicest lunches of my life. Afterwards we set sail again, and spent the afternoon chasing each other around the bay, taking pictures of each other‘s boats, and generally having a good time. Reluctantly heading for home at the end of the day, we vowed to keep this up, and for the rest of that summer we managed to do a repeat nearly every weekend. I often wonder if that little beach is still there, but I‘m afraid to go and find out, because I‘m pretty sure it will have a high-rise condominium on it by now. As work on the boat continued into winter, Vic came round regularly, accompanied by his lady friend Alison, who immediately became friends with Inge, and the two of them got to work on the upholstery, while I went out into the night with Vic to work on systems and whatnot. At an appropriate time, Inge would give us a blast on our hunting horn, which was our invitation to come in and have a hot toddy and a bit of socializing. One evening, feeling more than usually chilled, I was very glad when the call came, and was first into the kitchen where the ladies had set up their work table. As I entered, my feet shot from under me, and I landed on my butt with a crash that made all the crockery rattle. Base over apex, we called it in England, or ass-over-teakettle as I believe they say around here. I set up an immediate court of enquiry, like: ―What the **** is going on???‖ It turned out that they had been having a problem with sewing the fabric they had chosen for the boat cushions and so on, because it was so abrasive that the sewing thread became frayed right through after two or three feet of seam. So, they decided to

312 RYERSON HALF TIME spray the thread with silicon, which worked a treat, but the silicon spray had covered everything else, including the kitchen floor, making it like a well-lubricated skating rink. I think they finally solved the problem by pulling the thread through a hole in a piece of wax, but I‘m not sure about that. By the way, if anyone is wondering how we came to have a hunting horn in the house, I haven‘t the slightest idea, but I can tell you it came in very handy later on. One day in the middle of winter I ran out of steam. I arrived home after an unusually hectic day at Ryerson, had a bite to eat and a drink, and then just sat there gazing moodily at the fire. I could not bring myself to go out into the night to work on the boat. I was finished. Done for. It was all over. I had taken on more than I could handle. I don‘t know whether you‘ve ever had the feeling, but it‘s a very powerful one. Let those who would pour scorn on me try building a boat through two Canadian winters. At this stage Vic turned up. I think he must have sized up the situation at once, or maybe Inge gave him a quick briefing when she let him in. No doubt visualizing his prospects of an interesting summer holiday evaporating, he poured a couple of tumblers of Scotch and said, ―Okay, John—let‘s go and solder up those electric wires we left last time.‖ Those were his exact words—after thirty years I still remember them—some of the most important words ever said to me. I took a belt at the Scotch and followed him out. He kept up a continuous banter about what a bunch of idiots he‘d been dealing with all day in a waste management meeting, then on the boat he kept me busy baring wire ends and applying flux, while he wielded his soldering gun, and after an hour or so we had all the cabin lights on one side going. At that point he said, ―Is it okay with you if we pack it in for the night—I‘m getting a bit chilly?‖ So, we took our Scotches back into the house and replenished them, and that was that. Inge and Alison were sewing away as if nothing had happened. The feeling never came back. I guess that‘s what friends are for. As the work progressed, it became clear that we had a sporting chance of being able to launch in the spring; if we could find a place to complete the fitting-out; that would mean the boat could be in the Virgin Islands before the start of the hurricane season in August, so the next question was, how was this to be

313 NUTS AND BOLTS accomplished? Several options were open to us. We could hire a delivery crew to sail it down, as had been done with the other four H-38s. Bit of an anti-climax really, but we kept it on the back burner as a last resort. We could have it trucked down to Fort Lauderdale, Florida, and then island-hop all the way to the BVI. This did not strike me as a very good idea. Having read a few cruising guides, I knew that this involved eleven hundred miles of beating into the trade winds, which did not sound like much fun. Another frequently used route to Florida was via the Intracoastal Waterway, which was entered somewhere south of New York, and you could chug down the canal system without the risk of sailing close to ―the world‘s biggest lee shore‖. However, this was mostly used by people whose final destination was The Bahamas, just an 80-mile dash across the Straits of Florida. The route that really gripped my imagination was New York— Bermuda—BVI. I had read articles in yachting magazines by people who had done this, and envied them. ―Nothing to it, old boy. Five days of great sailing. Just sitting there watching the flying fish and the dolphins, eating and drinking our way to Bermuda, wonderful spot....‖ Ha! It was clearly beyond my capabilities; Vic would no doubt have been good at it, but I was not going to make any stupid remarks that might have ended in people‘s lives being forfeit. I tentatively suggested that we might hire an experienced skipper to take us down via this route. This got the discussion into high gear. Looking back, I cannot help thinking that they were all hoping I would go for it. Vic announced that he had already approached a friend who was at present teaching the Navigation course at the Power Squadron, who had been a navigator in the Royal Canadian Air Force, and who had already done the trip twice as part of a delivery crew of a Hughes-38. He had expressed a willingness to come with us, provided that he was satisfied with the condition of the boat. And so I met Keith, who was to be the fifth member of the crew. On his first visit, he crawled all over the boat, and I could see he was pleased at the great fibreglass column under the mast step. Back in the cockpit, he took one look at the ship‘s bell, and said, ―That‘ll have to go.‖ I was rather disappointed, but off it came. I had mounted it on the forward cockpit bulkhead—a nice-looking brass bell with a

314 RYERSON HALF TIME classic bell-pull made by Inge, and I thought you were supposed to have one, to signal your presence when everyone was crawling along in thick fog. After I had taken it off, I asked him to let me know what his main objection had been. He told me that, if I ever had the misfortune to be pooped (nautical slang for having a gigantic wave coming in over the stern when you‘re running before the wind), I would be picked up and smashed against the bulkhead, and that thing would go straight through me, and out the other side. In the same vein, he vetoed my intention to fit a traditional helm—you know, with the fancy carved spokes and handles projecting above the wheel rim. He said if I found myself sliding down the side of a wave in a confused sea, and I was hit by a cross- wave, the rudder would start the helm spinning, and it would most likely break my arm. If it had been anyone else, I would have thought he was bullshitting me, but he had this air of quiet command which I have always envied, and which is based, not upon threats to have you flogged round the fleet, but on respect, because you know that he has superior ability in all the things that are important at the time. In case readers are beginning to worry that I may have ―lost it‖, as the saying goes, this relationship did not endure for very long; just long enough to get us going. I still have the bell, with the boat name engraved on it, hanging outside on the deck. It was used to summon me from my model hangar. For lunch, or a visitor, or whatever. Sadly, there is no one in the house now, but there it is anyway. As launch day approached, the question of where we were going to complete the fitting-out became urgent. Once again Vic worked his magic. He spoke to friends at the Bronte Harbour Yacht Club, where he was a member, called in a few favours, and arranged a slip for our boat until the end of May. That would give us just over a month, which should be plenty, and the sailing date was set for May 31, 1980. Now, another mini-farce was starting, concerning the registration of the boat. I wanted to call it Inge, with Toronto as the port of registry. Accordingly, I made my way to the Registrar of Shipping, halfway up a skyscraper in downtown Toronto, and met Mr. Humphries, a charming gentleman who reminded me of Leo

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McKern playing Rumpole of the Bailey. He took down all the particulars, said he would arrange for a surveyor to visit me to take his measurements, and then threw me a curve I wasn‘t expecting. They would, of course, require a builder‘s certificate. How do I do that, I wondered. I‘m not a boat builder. It was built by the Hughes Boat Works; I just put it together. Just call them, he said, and ask them to send us one at this address, and he gave me his card. There was one more thing. I told him I wanted to name the boat Inge, and he tackled that right away. Delving into his database or whatever they call it, he surfaced after a couple of minutes and told me there already was an Inge registered in Canada, actually in Alberta. I was terribly disappointed, and asked him what it was. He said it was a Dutch-built 37-foot yawl. This really threw me; last time I checked, Alberta didn‘t have a coastline, so how on earth did a Dutch-built sailboat get there? He could see my distress, and revealed to me something he would obviously rather not have mentioned. There was, he said, a provision whereby a vessel could use a name already in use on another, provided that the name was followed by a Roman numeral by which to distinguish it. ―You mean like Inge II?” I said. He nodded, and Inge II it was. I went home, thankful that another hurdle had been surmounted, and got on to the boat works, explaining the situation and asking them to send the certificate. I suppose I should have anticipated their response. ―You built it. You send them one.‖ Back I went to Mr. Humphries. By this time the Fred Karno‘s Three- Ring Circus act was beginning to get on my wick. Trying to keep the edge out of my voice, I asked him if this was the first time in Canadian maritime history that this situation had ever arisen, and was I to understand that it impossible to register my boat in Canada, and... He took it in good part, and told me to leave it with him. I don‘t know what he did, but I never heard anything more about it. In due course the surveyor turned up, and I received my registration certificate. All‘s well that ends well. Mr. Humphries, wherever you are, I salute you. Launch day came. The crane was in position. The truck backed in, and Inge II, still with cradle attached, was lifted from the pad on which she had been resting for the past eighteen months, and

316 RYERSON HALF TIME deposited on the truck. The mast was lifted on to the two trestles I had made, and everything was ready to go, except that the truck driver, who had been going around with his tape measure, announced that I would have to take the bow pulpit off, because it was two inches too high to pass under the Port Credit GO station railway bridge. This was a nerve-racking experience, perched fourteen feet above the road on the sharp end, trying to undo bolts I had thought were there for life. Let me remind the reader that we are dealing with a welded stainless steel tube structure, and the whole business reminded me of the Lincoln bomber nose glazing frame, mentioned previously. The last bolt came out, and the thing went SPROING!!!, and I wondered if I would ever get it back again. Well—cross that bridge when we come to it. Better than getting jammed under one, I suppose. When the boat was sitting by the side of the launching dock, the crane people were kind enough to fit their lifting straps fore and aft, lifted her off the cradle on which she had been resting ever since the two halves of the hull were bonded at the boat works, and gave me two hours to do what was necessary. This consisted of slapping anti-fouling paint on those parts of the hull that had been covered by the cradle, and running a bead of caulking along the underside of the keel, on which she had been resting for eighteen months. Then came the great moment when she was lowered into her natural element. I leapt aboard, heart in mouth, frantically searching for the slightest drop of water. Dry as a bone! Well, I got that right, anyway. The others all climbed aboard, I produced the obligatory bottle of champagne, and instructed Inge thus: ―Look, all you have to do is say ‗I christen this ship Inge II, and may good fortune attend all who sail in her.‘ Then you pour some of the champagne on to the bow plate, we drink the rest, and that‘s that. Okay?‖ It went well, the boat was towed round to a nearby slip, where I would be allowed to stay for up to a week, the mooring lines were snugged up, the boat was locked, and home we went, having had quite enough for one day. Much as I wanted to chug along the coast for fifteen miles to Bronte, I intended to make absolutely sure that the engine would get us there, because quite frankly I had no idea of what to do if it were to cut out halfway there. In retrospect, quite obviously I would have jumped into the dinghy, towed the boat

317 NUTS AND BOLTS ashore, and telephoned for help. Be that as it may, I would far rather not have to indulge in such antics. Next day Peter and I went down to check out the engine. It started first pull (I was still using the starting handle, knowing what a large load a diesel start imposed on a battery), and chugged away quite contentedly at idling. I resolved to do a run up to the harbour mouth, so I could take it up to full power, check out the controls and whatnot. Peter, remaining on dock, cast off the last line, I gave it a burst of throttle to get it moving, and the engine stopped! Frantically, I grabbed the mooring line and threw it back to Peter, who managed to catch it and wrap it round a bollard, stopping me just before I hit the wall of the waterfront pub which backed on to the harbour near my slip. Slowly he managed to haul me back in, we made fast the mooring lines, and then began one of the most miserable days of my boating career. We reasoned that the most likely causes were a clogged fuel filter, or an air lock. We inspected the filter first, which involved spilling some fuel into the engine compartment. Sure, there were some bits in there, but that‘s what filters are for. There was certainly not enough to cause a dead cut. To track down an air lock, every joint in the fuel system had to be cracked in turn. The injector jerk pump had a manual test lever which, when operated, delivered a pulse of high fuel pressure to the system. This would cause a fine spray of fuel to be emitted from the cracked joint, which would then be re-tightened. We did find a joint which emitted a whoosh of air before the fuel spray started, but we had to check them all, to be sure. At the end of the day we stank of diesel fuel, and it was all over the engine compartment, which was to have consequences later on, but we‘ll get to that. With the last of our energy we fired up the engine, which ran sweetly from idling to full throttle, in and out of drive gear, much to the annoyance of everyone within 50 feet. It was decided to do the run to Bronte next day. Everything went well. I ―slipp‘d the surly bonds‖ of Port Credit, and was very glad to see Inge, who had driven there, standing on the edge of the Bronte public dock, waiting to receive our lines. Vic turned up shortly after, and escorted me to the slip he had reserved. We had a celebratory drink—what else? At last we could get on with the serious business of fitting out.

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The next few weeks, up to the last day in May, were a turmoil of activity. I spent the weekends with Inge aboard the boat, with the twin objectives of reducing the time wasted in travelling, and getting used to the motion of the boat as it heaved and swayed in response to the water surging in and out of the narrow harbour entrance. We both found that we quite liked the motion; I heard tell of some retired professional seamen whose houses had to be mounted on hydraulic jacks so that a rolling motion could be imparted, although I suspect that this tale might be apocryphal. One of the worst engineering decisions I ever made was to fit a roller reefing system for sail handling. It was sold to me for an exorbitant sum by an amiable crap artist who had a yacht outfitting company in nearby Oakville, and I can say that it was the rottenest, stupidest, daftest sail handling system ever devised. A few years were to pass before I had the immense satisfaction of throwing it over the side and fitting a proper reefing system. However, to continue. Once this thing had been fitted, I called the sailmaker to whom I had given the order last autumn, and asked when it would be convenient to pick up my sails. Give him a couple of days, he said. He hadn‘t even started them! O Lord, I thought, please not another last minute cock-up. But it does not do to underestimate these people. When I got there the sails were spread out on his loft floor and he was applying the finishing touches. While I enjoyed a cup of coffee, he fitted the pre-cut self-adhesive insignia to the mainsail. There was the Hughes logo, (rather like the Speedbird of British Airways (or whatever it calls itself this week), then the legend H-38, followed by the hull number, 209. The whole thing took about ten minutes, and I guessed he had done this a few times before. Expertly he folded them and slipped them into sailbags, and I returned to Bronte full of keen anticipation for the stepping of the mast, an event to which I had been looking forward ever since starting the build. Afterwards, Vic told me the crane operator had said to him, ―For God‘s sake give him something to do. He makes me nervous, pacing up and down like that.‖ As the mast entered the opening in the cabin roof I shot down the companionway and into the head, and placed a dime under it just before it touched down gently on the floor. This, I was told, would bring good luck. With the standing rigging and boom in

319 NUTS AND BOLTS place, the sails were attached and furled. This was accomplished by pulling on lines wound round drums attached to the lower ends of the rollers. The jib roller also acted as the forestay, while the mainsail roller was carried behind the mast, arrangements that I would come to regret. But—at last we had a sailboat. All else was details. As the Ryerson term drew to a close, with the exam papers marked and the promotion meeting attended, I spent all my time at Bronte. Traditionally, we were supposed to keep going in until June, to clear up our paperwork, prepare our course outlines for next term, make sure our labs were adequately maintained—stuff like that. Finally, the chairman could stand it no longer. One day he rang me up, and suggested in the nicest possible way that he would appreciate it if I were to drop in from time to time, for the sake of form. I managed to achieve a working compromise by going in every other day, which at least enabled me to avoid being fired. Towards the end of May we managed one ―shakedown‖ cruise, out into the lake and back. I still recall the thrill as the sails filled, and Inge II heeled over and picked up speed, at which point I stopped the engine. We were sailing! Margaret was sitting on the cabin top, and I remember vividly the broad smile as she turned to me and said, ―I could get used to this.‖ I turned on to a broad reach, supposedly the best point of sail. With the wind coming from the side, the more closely hauled you are, the faster you go. The angle of heel increased—I was probably trying to ―get the toerail under‖—and the knotmeter was edging up towards the hull speed of seven knots, when there was a great crashing noise from the cabin. I stopped playing silly beggars, luffed up into wind until she was dead in the water, and went to investigate. All the crockery was lying all over the cabin sole (floor). Obviously its combined weight had overpowered the stupid little elbow catches I had been advised to buy, for the overhead storage compartment doors. Fortunately, it was made of some high impact plastic, so none of it broke. Better to find out now, rather than in the middle of the Atlantic, I reasoned. Truly a real shakedown cruise. My friend Neil was visiting from England, and he spent a lot of time carving and fitting teak latches to the doors.

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The roller reefing system had worked perfectly first time. Ha! Shortly before departure, Inge persuaded Hinson McLeod, the chaplain of the ORAC institute, to bless the boat. I knew Hinson well. He was also the chaplain of the RCAF. He was flying a Lockheed Hudson on anti-submarine patrol over the Bay of Biscay when attacked by a Ju-88, one of whose cannon shells blew away the middle fingers of one hand. Despite this, he managed to evade further attacks, and got the aircraft back to base. He made a truly splendid sight in his chaplain‘s gown, Air Force sash, decorations and everything. I felt very privileged that such a man would honour us with his presence. It was amusing to note that Keith did not seem to share my view. He looked uncomfortable, standing first on one leg, then the other. I could tell what he was thinking: Why are they hiring this outside help, when they have ME aboard? With two days to go, I was working on the boom gooseneck which, due to the constant action of the water, had developed a looseness which, to me, looked as if it could lead to an accelerated rate of wear. I resolved to remove the main pivot bolt, a one inch diameter stainless steel effort, insert some spacing washers to take up the slack, and re-tighten it. I had got the nut undone a couple of turns, when the whole thing seized up solid. I had heard this about stainless steel; if the fit was not exact, or the surface finish was not quite up to scratch, a nut could weld itself to a bolt, and that was that. NOW what was I going to do? No way could I cut through a one-inch stainless bolt with what I had available. And now, the assembly was even slacker. I suddenly thought of Brian Smith, remembering that he handled stainless steel as well as fibreglass. I phoned him and explained the problem. He was up next day, with a portable grinding machine; when plugged into the dockside power point this thing made a harsh screeching noise, and went through that one- inch bolt as if it were made of Danish Blue cheese. He then produced a similar nut and bolt, and said ―that should do you.‖ It was made of titanium! I had no idea how much it was worth, and didn‘t really want to think about it. He said it was ―left over from a previous contract‖. To this day, I cannot make up my mind whether he was telling me the whole truth. Anyway, thanks Brian; that‘s two I owe you. There cannot be too many yachts in the Caribbean with a gooseneck bolt made of titanium.

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And so the day of departure dawned. The arrangement was that I would take the boat down to New York, with a crew consisting of Peter E, Keith and his wife, and a French Canadian couple who had offered to help. Inge, Vic and Alison, all of whom had full-time jobs making it necessary to fit the trip into a three- week time frame, would give us seven or eight days to get to New York and join us there, at which point Peter, Keith‘s wife and the French couple would return home. I was disappointed that Peter was not coming with us. I would miss his calmness, sense of humour, and of course his sailing skills. I think his wife must have given him the old ―them or me‖ ultimatum, but one can never be sure. One thing is certain—our paths never crossed again. We left around 5 P.M. The wind was howling, somewhere between ―strong breeze‖ and ―gale‖ on the Beaufort Scale, I should think, and waves were crashing on the breakwater as I steered the Inge II out of Bronte harbour for the last time. Vic followed us out, the deck of his trimaran crowded with well-wishers, and Inge standing right on the bow. Fortunately the wind was right behind us. I steered in what I hoped was the right direction, and signalled for the jib to be unfurled. Out it came, flailing around like a mad thing. I looked around to see if anyone was going to do anything about it. Keith just stood there, and I heard him say, ―He‘ll have to get used to it sometime.‖ At last I got it right, the jib filled, and off we went at a cracking pace, with Keith‘s huge Air Force ensign flying magnificently halfway up the mast, and our Canadian flag streaming out behind the backstay. Vic wisely decided not to follow us any further—it was going to take him all his time to get back into the harbour against this wind. Once on our way, there occurred the first portent of things to come. Keith asked me for my Lake Ontario chart so that he could plot the best course to get to Oswego, our first landfall on the American side. MY chart??? He was supposed to be the navigator, why didn‘t he have one? He had left his behind because I had told him I was bringing mine. Although I had no recollection of such an arrangement, which sounded daft anyway—I mean, what professional navigator would use a chart given to him by a mere skipper—there was no point in arguing about it at this early stage. Fortunately I had brought along for light reading a book called Sailing Adventures on Lake Ontario. In this was described a visit to

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Nicholson Island, just past Belleville (of blessed memory!), and not only that—the writer gave a magnetic course from this island to Oswego. Equally fortunately, Keith had spent some time on this island, and knew just how to get there. So that was all right. Totally exhausted, I fell into a deep sleep, and when I woke in the early hours of the next day, there was Keith scowling at me because I had slept through the watch period he had allotted me. I found out later that Inge had threatened them with horrible mutilation with her sewing scissors if they woke me. It made sense, really. Obviously I had to be on the top line when we went offshore, which was the whole point of having five people on board for a chug down a canal and a river that most people single-handed. However, they did not see it this way (with the possible exception of Peter), and this had consequences. We tied up at Oswego early on the morning of June the first, unstepped the mast, obtained a cruising permit, and met Doug Soper, a well-known travel writer in Canadian Yachting magazines, who was on his way back from The Bahamas. He handed over his ―lock negotiating kit‖, which consisted of two planks, two by twelves, tied together, and two straw bales. Just hang it over the side when entering a lock, he told us. We would see why when we got there. He also enlightened us on a point which had eluded us through all our Power Squadron courses, namely how to get a lock gate opened. Three blasts on a horn will do it, he said. I was very glad we had brought along the hunting horn, and it did a great job. Doug asked us to leave the straw bale rig at the other end of the canal, for the next chap heading north. And so we set off to tackle the 28-lock system which took the Oswego Canal and the Erie Barge Canal up and over the valley between the Adirondacks and the Catskills, and down into the Hudson. The entire voyage has been written up elsewhere; for the purpose of this book I will mention just a few memorable happenings. Halfway along the canal, Keith called a halt because the engine was due for its first oil change. We tied up at a small wayside dock, and Keith asked me for the oil. What oil? I had assumed that this kind of thing was done in harbour. The oldster running this dock sold beer and pretzels, and that was about all. However, he did indicate a gas station just up the road, whence I trudged, returning with the oil. Then it turned out that the

323 NUTS AND BOLTS replacement filter they had sold me at Port Credit was the wrong one. Some screw in, others have a bolt through the middle, and I had been unlucky, so we had to replace the old one. By this time Keith was obviously wondering what kind of an idiot he had crewed up with, and I was fighting down the urge to tell him to jump ship and catch the train home, if he didn‘t like the way I did things. Once on the Hudson, there were no more low bridges between us and the Atlantic, and we decided to have the mast re-stepped at the first place recommended by the locals. This was the Hop-O- Nose marina, just a short distance up Catskill Creek. It was a charming place, run by a chap of Indian descent. He lassoed our mast under the spreaders with a slip knot, the rope running upwards through a pulley block attached to the overhanging branch of a giant tree. Enlisting the help of a couple of his crew, they hauled the mast upright, lowered it gently into the boat, made fast a couple of shroud lines, and jiggled the rope to make his knot slip. After a minute or two of jiggling, his knot refused to slip. With a muttered Indian oath, he swarmed up the rope, undid the knot, pushed the rope away, and swarmed back down the mast. Never seen anything like it. In the evening we met the couple on the boat tied up next to ours, who told us they were on a world cruise. I was to find that more and more people were doing this. The next incident occurred halfway down the Hudson. I had been looking forward to this part of the trip, but was disappointed. Firstly, the wind was smack on the nose all the way, and you don‘t go tacking on the Hudson—not with tugs towing trains of coal barges, and ocean-going cargo liners steaming past. Second, while it was nice enough to see all the classic sights gliding past— Roosevelt‘s Hyde Park mansion and so forth—it was galling to have to steam past Rhinebeck, where I would have liked to tie up for a day or two to inspect all those WWI warplane replicas, just to fulfil Keith‘s three-week timetable, so he could get back to his consulting business. It was here that I began to formulate another of life‘s guiding principles: NEVER undertake a passage in a sailboat with a fixed timetable. You will soon find out what this did for me, but meanwhile the third disappointment was that there was hardly anywhere to tie up for the night. We had been motoring all day,

324 RYERSON HALF TIME and as the sun started to go down we were getting a bit desperate, when out of the gloom loomed a sign saying ―Columbia Yacht Club‖ (or some such name). We made straight for it, and tied up at the only dock in sight, which was a gas dock. We were welcomed by the Commodore, a big, burly chap, and asked him if he knew of somewhere nearby where we could dock for the night. There was nowhere, he told us. We would be welcome to use the facilities of the club, but we would have to anchor out in the river. I didn‘t like the idea, but what can you do? Out we went, and very carefully set a couple of anchors. An anchor watch schedule was then compiled, after which Keith and I climbed into the dinghy, with a view to phoning home, ordering some supper and establishing a ferry service. Unfortunately this did not turn out to be a practical proposition. I fished out the oarlocks which I‘d been carrying around for some time, and they did not fit in the receptacles provided for them in the dinghy! I could have died! How the hell was I supposed to know there were two sizes of the bloody things? Fortunately, Keith said nothing—just looked at me sideways through hooded eyes. I think if he‘d said anything at that point I would have killed him. We took an oar each, and made our unsteady way to the shore, using the oars as paddles. I made my call to Inge, telling her we would be at Nyack, the prearranged meeting point, next day around late afternoon, while Keith looked for some treats for the rest of the crew. We tied the dinghy at the stern, had a rather al fresco meal, and retired early, in preparation for the long day ahead. Around three in the morning I was awoken by an enormous bang, and then another. Staggering up on deck, I saw that the dinghy was banging against the side of the boat. We had not realized that the Hudson was tidal almost up to New York, and the current had just reversed itself. We tied the thing fore and aft against the side of the boat and went back to bed. I can confirm that the deck of a small boat in the middle of the river Hudson at 3 A.M. is no place for someone in pyjamas, even in June. We made an early start, and docked at Nyack in mid-afternoon. I want to say right here and now that the Nyack Yacht Club is the fundamental orifice of the universe, and if this book manages to persuade just one yachtsman to steer clear of the place, it will have served a useful purpose. However, despite the hostile atmosphere and unfriendly treatment, it was great to see my friends again. We

325 NUTS AND BOLTS provisioned, and had a great supper in a restaurant in town. Next morning, we said our farewells, and were very glad to leave the horrible place. I had a qualm as we approached the George Washington bridge. It didn‘t look the same as the last picture I‘d seen, and I realized they had built another deck on to it. The question was, did they put it above or below? No way to find out now, so I just pressed on without saying anything. People tell me, sometimes I worry too much. The traverse of New York harbour was interesting. Inge was enjoying herself at the helm, playing tag with the Staten Island ferry, which gives way to nothing. I experienced a gut-wrenching bout of nostalgia as we passed the broken-down, rotting remains of the New York docks, where once proudly rode the mighty ocean liners—the Queen Mary, the Normandie, the United States, the Bremen, the Rex...now the home of mobsters and street gangs. We waved goodbye to the Statue of Liberty, and Inge took us under the Verrazano Narrows bridge, the official start of the Atlantic Ocean. I took the helm, while Inge went below to make sure that everything was secure. Vic and Alison were up forward doing the same thing. Keith was below, sharpening his pencils, probably. We were on a spanking beam reach when suddenly the wind rose to a screeching howl in the rigging and over we went! The sails hit the water, and the cockpit filled with water. I was thrown to the side of the cockpit, near the engine control panel, so I managed to start the engine, then applied full rudder, and hoped. Slowly she turned into wind, and slowly righted herself. I was tremendously relieved to see Vic and Alison scrambling back from the bow. Inge came up to see if anyone was hurt, and as a grand finale, Keith stuck his head out of the companionway and said, ―Isn‘t it about time you turned the engine off?‖ We headed out on the specified course, past the Ambrose Light, and were now officially out of United States waters. Next stop Bermuda! We set course; the wind was directly behind us. The night was pitch black; the wind rose to a high pitched shriek in the rigging, and we were tearing along with the main fully furled, and the jib the size of a pocket handkerchief. The next day it calmed down a bit, and I enjoyed the best day of ocean sailing in my life. The following day looked like being a repeat of the same; we were getting along at a fair clip, with Alison

326 RYERSON HALF TIME at the helm, when there was a great bump, and the whole boat shook. What the heck was that? Random thoughts flashed through my head—unexploded WWII torpedo? Russian submarine? Moby Dick? We looked over the stern, and there was a large buoy, painted half red, obviously broken away from somewhere. Sighs of relief. Poor Ali had to undergo the usual jokes about woman drivers, but it didn‘t matter, because we all knew that she was the best helmsman of the lot of us. While we all sawed away at the wheel, trying to keep the compass needle from swinging too far away from the course we were trying to steer, you could hardly see the wheel moving when she was in charge. Fascinating to watch, really. Anyway, the next unexpected thing to show up was an oil rig. This shook us, because we thought we would be halfway to Bermuda by now. In fact, we were right on the edge of the Continental Shelf. Keith lost no time in asking for their position, which gave him an accurate starting point for the rest of the passage. As the second day drew to a close, the sky ahead started to look threatening. A yacht passed us heading for New York, so we asked them over the radio what things were like. They told us they had been in rotten weather for ten hours. Sorry we asked, I thought. Then we were in it. The wind had veered until it was now smack on the nose, and the only thing you can do in a sailboat when this happens is to ―hoist the iron jib‖—in other words, start the engine. Oh, there is another thing you can do—you can turn around and run before it until it blows itself out, and this is what I should have done. If I had my time to come over again I would certainly have exerted my authority, turned the boat around, and gone back as far as New York if necessary. As it was, my spineless submission to Keith‘s demand that we press on put the whole voyage in jeopardy, and could very well have consigned us all to Davy Jones‘s Locker. This was possibly the greatest mistake of my life. Well, enough of that. We were butting into what is sometimes laughingly referred to as a ―confused sea‖. This is when you are sliding down the side of a huge wave, and another huge wave travelling in the opposite direction hits you with an enormous bone-jarring bang and snaps the boat over on to its other side. We

327 NUTS AND BOLTS were in fact nearing one apex of the so-called Bermuda Triangle, where several tall ships and many others had met their end. It is the point where the Gulf Stream meets the Humboldt Current, and they duke it out to see which can make the most mess. One small bonus was that the wind had backed a few points, so we were able to sail again, running the engine only to charge the batteries. Manning the helm was a miserable business. The bow would go right under, and a huge wave would come over, straight towards you. It would bounce once, twice, and the third time would smash right into you. The salt made your eyes sting; when I tried to get some protection with my reading glasses, the salt would cake over them in less than a minute. When my watch was over and I staggered down the companionway to the hanging locker, trying to find something warm to put on, with the aid of a small flashlight, Keith‘s voice would snap out of the darkness, ―Douse that light!‖ Him and his bloody night vision! I tell you, if the Queen Mary had passed within a cable‘s length with its lights on, we wouldn‘t have been able to see it. I think I hated him then. Things came to a head after a couple of days. I was at the helm when Keith poked his head above the companionway and asked me if I was aware that the boat was filling with water. I have thought about this moment many times since. The main thought that springs to mind is James Bond‘s version of a Japanese haiku: ―You only live twice; once when you are born, and once when you look death in the face.‖ For I knew this was it. There was no chance of our surviving in this weather. Funnily enough, I cannot recall any feeling of fear; rather I was pissed off at myself. What stupid mistake did I make? How could this possibly happen? These defeatist thought processes lasted all of five seconds. I had been running the engine to charge the batteries, and I could smell diesel exhaust fumes in the cabin, so obviously what had happened was that the exhaust pipe had become disconnected, and the engine water pump was pumping water into the boat. With a curse, I shot back to the helm, turned the engine off, and opened the exhaust gate valve. Here I must unfortunately interrupt the narrative for a few words of explanation. My name is not Alistair McLean—I‘m just trying to tell you what happened. In our engine installation, the water pump supplied cooling water to the exhaust system, reducing

328 RYERSON HALF TIME the temperature so that the pipe itself could be made of reinforced neoprene, attached to the engine by means of a Jubilee clip (all right—worm drive clamp if you insist). At the point of exit from the stern was a shutoff valve, whose function was to prevent the sea from sloshing in when the engine wasn‘t running. I had omitted to check that this valve was open before starting the engine to charge the batteries. Pressures being what they are in a diesel engine, the gases had to find another way out, so the Jubilee clip didn‘t stand a chance. I spent the next half hour in the engine compartment reattaching the exhaust pipe, and no doubt inhaling more than my fair share of residual fumes. From there, events proceeded to their inevitable conclusion. Tired out and a bit woozy, I was halfway up the companionway steps, reaching out for the top handhold, when a confused sea hit us, the boat was snapped sideways, I missed the handhold and was shot across the cabin, smashing my head through a piece of side panelling. I distinctly remember, just before passing out, a beautiful feeling of euphoria as I sank into a deep slumber such as I had not experienced for the last eighteen months. When I came round about quarter of an hour later all hell had broken out in the boat. Inge had strapped me on to the bunk, and had strapped herself beside me. Vic was trying to raise Bermuda radio, Keith was working the radio direction finder trying to get a fix, and Alison was at the helm, worried sick about me. She told me later she thought I was dead, ―the way my eyes rolled up‖. Inge had tied a can of cold beer to the back of my neck. When I asked about this, she said, ―You‘ll find out when we get there.‖ In fact, this was the only use made of the beer during the whole trip. Keith had said I wouldn‘t touch a drop, when I had insisted upon stocking a large amount in an icebox, and he was right. Nevertheless, it did serve a very useful purpose. As the day progressed, Vic established contact with a nearby Dutch freighter, responding to an all-ships alert put out by Bermuda radio in response to a PAN-call he had made earlier. This vessel told us we were still 80 miles from Bermuda, and acted as a relay station until we were within VHF range. At one stage Bermuda radio asked if we required a helicopter, an offer which Inge graciously declined, to my infinite relief.

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We pressed on all day, but by nightfall still had not sighted Bermuda, and Keith was posting lookouts to report the first sound of water breaking against rocks, so we had to heave-to for the night, which must be one of the rottenest nights I have ever spent. The sea had moderated, but rain was coming down as if poured from some giant cosmic bucket. Every few seconds, 50 million tons of water would crash on to the deck, and start to seep through the various deck joints, most of which had by now been sprung by the colossal pounding the boat had taken. One leak was right above me, and, constrained as I was, I could not get away from it. Drip drip drip on to my head, I began to see what the Chinese water torture was all about. Next day Nature, having given up the struggle, came out all friendly and smiling. The sea was calm, the sun shone out of a cloudless blue sky, and soon Bermuda was in sight. Inge made them turn the boat so that, when she raised my head to window height, I could see the white houses with the pink coral roofs, and the green palm trees. Then it had to be all business for a time. Bermuda is surrounded by a coral reef, through which the U.S. Navy had blasted a channel during the war, to get their warships in and out. This was now known as the Town Cut, leading to the harbour at St. George, and you don‘t mess with it. We had absolute priority over all other traffic, and I remember thinking—I hope they make a mess of the docking, so they‘ll appreciate my being in command in future. After a few minutes I started to wonder what was happening. I looked out, and we appeared to be going around in a circle. Then a voice came over the radio from the boat behind, saying that, while they were perfectly prepared to give way to a boat with an injured man on board, if they were going to go round in circles all day, could we please get past, since we have a broken rudder. What had happened was that Keith had forgotten to haul in the taffrail logline, which had become jammed in the rudder, and he had had to dive over the side to free it. That will teach me not to think bad thoughts! I was taken off the boat, put in a waiting ambulance, deposited in a lovely clean dry bed, and given the once-over by a Dr. Addlestone, complete with beard and London accent, who sent me for an x-ray. I was given a clean bill of health, and told to stay away

330 RYERSON HALF TIME from boats for a week or two. He told me that my wife‘s action in strapping on the beer cans was the best thing that could have been done. Apparently the scalp had lifted from my skull at the back of the neck; she had rolled it back, and held it down by the beer cans. By the time he got to see it, it had healed such that no stitches were required. I told him she had trained at Charing Cross, and he said that explained it—he had worked there himself. On my way out, who should be standing there but Peggy Williamson. Inge had looked in the phone book, on the off chance that she might still be in Bermuda, and she had come right away. She drove me to her apartment, and left me to my own devices, which consisted of climbing into a hot bath with a bottle of gin, and then falling into a sound sleep, from which I woke, much refreshed, halfway through the following morning. Once again I boarded Peggy‘s car, a clapped-out old Morris Mini which she dubbed ―Menopause Minnie‖, and was driven to the boat. I got the crew together and told them that, as far as I was concerned, the whole thing was over for this year. I thanked them for coming this far, and said they were perfectly welcome to a vacation in Bermuda at my expense. I would think about what to do with the boat. Peggy and I stayed most of the day, doing what we could in the way of hauling cushions, clothing and so on out into the sun to dry, caulking seams, and checking for damage. I noticed a big red smear along one side of the hull, where we had encountered that buoy. As we were thinking of calling it a day, the crew came up and told me they had had a meeting, and decided to go on without me. I could fly down and meet up with them at Virgin Gorda in about eight days. I was of course hoping that something like this would happen, but it wasn‘t for me to suggest it. I wished them bon voyage, with not a little envy, because this was the part of the trip I had really been looking forward to. We saw them off, and Peggy spent a week showing me round the island. It turned out that Willie had died a few years ago, succumbing to a heart attack while on his early morning swim. I said we would like to visit her properly when all this was over. Any time, she said, and that was how we left it when, after a week, I flew down to Virgin Gorda. The second day here, I was enjoying a pint at the Bath and Turtle prior to my morning visit to the docks, when someone dashed in to tell me my boat had arrived. I

331 NUTS AND BOLTS hastened down, and there they were, resplendent in their Inge II tee shirts, making fast the mooring lines. After a heartfelt reunion, we prevailed upon a passer-by to take a picture of us all standing on the deck. It‘s a bit over-exposed, but it‘s the only one we have. We then adjourned to the Bath and Turtle for a celebratory drink, after which I took them to the Fischers Cove hotel, where I had booked them in, and we arranged to meet for supper later. Then I went with Inge to our room, and she told me all about it. The weather had been calm all the way. It had taken them three days to motor through the Sargasso Sea, those thousands of acres of weed, debris, shipwrecks and assorted junk that collect at the confluence of several currents, which cancel each other out. She told me that, after a few days, she experienced a weird feeling that she wanted it to go on for ever. And so, having made arrangements to have the boat looked after (ha!), we made our way back to base, to commence THE BVI YEARS.

332

CHAPTER 15: THE BVI YEARS

ack in Canada, we reflected on what had happened. Whilst convalescing at Peggy‘s, I had read in the local papers about B how the Newport-Bermuda race had been hammered by the same two storms that we had been through. For the next few days, competitors had come staggering in with various degrees of damage. Dismasting and broken rudders seemed the most common, but one arrived carrying a cook with a kitchen knife in his chest; it had been hurled across the cabin at him when a confused sea hit, rather like what had happened to me. Fortunately the guy was all right, although I couldn‘t help feeling we were both living on borrowed time. Certainly from that time on, nothing seemed to be particularly important or worth worrying about. I refer, of course, to things like administration, meetings, other people‘s opinions and so forth. Observant readers may have noticed the occasional emergence of this outlook prior to the voyage; let‘s just say it had now received experimental confirmation. I recalled with amusement seeing on the St. George‘s harbour dockside a replica of the kind of ship used by Christopher Columbus, with a notice saying, ―If you think you had a hard time getting here, look how they did it in the fifteenth century.‖ Inge recalled her pleasure, when Keith was suffering a bout of seasickness, and she gave him a Gravol injection in his bum. ―I‘m not usually so forceful with it,‖ she said. The autumn term went off smoothly enough. The word had spread, goodness knows how. The students knew all about it. One in particular, a very smart German chap called, believe it or not, Johann Schmidt, knew which button to press to divert me from the path of true endeavour. I would be in the middle of a lecture on nozzle theory or something, he would ask a couple of questions, and before I realized it I would be talking about sail theory. In the end I had to go up to him, and said: ―Mr. Schmidt, I‘m on to you. If you really want to know how to sail, you can damn well buy me a

333 NUTS AND BOLTS drink, and I will tell you.‖ They loved it. He went on to do my degree year, and finished up an assistant prof. We were looking forward to the Christmas holiday, not only to find out how the boat was doing, but also to enjoy our first Christmas in the BVI. Regarding the latter, I can confirm that the BV Islanders take their pleasures very seriously. A great deal of effort was devoted to drinking rum, dancing in the street to over- amplified rap ―music‖ and so on. I was interested to note how many churches there were, and how well attended. On the other hand, our boat was not doing very well. Oh, the teak was nicely varnished, but any idiot could do that. The roller reefing system wouldn‘t work, and the anchor windlass was seized up solid. I asked him what the hell he had been doing, to let it get like that, and his only reply was that it wasn‘t mentioned in our arrangement. Well, now I knew the kind of person I was dealing with. The lower bearings were simple enough—I just saturated them with WD-40 and had at them with a pipe wrench until they saw my point of view. Then I winched the bastard to the top of the mast in the bosun‘s chair, where he was kind enough to do the same with the top bearings. After all this messing around, I said that, from now on, the furling system was to be exercised once per week, and he could take that f--king windlass to pieces and lubricate it properly, and exercise it once a week. Certainly, he said, and upped his monthly charge by a hundred dollars. He knew what cards he was holding. I had no alternative but to agree, having no other avenues to pursue at the time. Merry Christmas, Ludwig, for that was his name, and probably still is, unless someone has shot the bugger by now. After all the messing around, we had about three days to get in a quick sail. Then the ―Christmas Winds‖ started. I had been told about this phenomenon, but didn‘t know what to make of it. The wind started whistling in everyone‘s rigging, and waves were crashing on the rocks, so I thought I would observe other‘s attempts to get out of the harbour, whose access was a narrow, tricky dogleg. Three boats set out for the exit. The first got halfway along, and I could see its mast starting to go back and forth like Flash Harry‘s baton at a Beethoven concert. It executed a 180 and started back into the harbour, bumping into the second one, which promptly followed it back in. The third, having seen all this, turned around before it

334 THE BVI YEARS even reached the start of the exit channel. So, we had a ―sail-less‖ holiday. Bottom of the learning curve, yes? Well, not quite, for there was worse to come, but we‘ll get to that. The winter term came to an end, and graduation day approached. My graduating class invited me to their party, which was one of the nicest I had ever attended. After a fair amount of beer had flowed, one of them delivered an oration on the lines of ―Our intrepid prof, who rode his boat down to the Caribbean—‖ At which point I jumped up and yelled, ―I didn‘t ROW it, you fool, I SAILED it!‖ which brought forth a great gale of laughter. They then presented me with what they called a 38-foot boat, which was a plastic kit of a boat hull, on to which someone had glued 38 plastic feet. I have it still. It is one of my most treasured possessions. After that—and this is the part I have most difficulty in believing, in retrospect—they all stood up, saluted, and sang ―God Save the Queen‖. What do you do with a bunch like that? Well, I‘ll tell you what I did—I drank down a pint without stopping. I‘d never done it before, and I‘ve never done it again, and it made me feel a bit queer for a few seconds, but it was worth it. I really think it made their evening. Also at the end of that term I was privileged to attend the convocation ceremony at which our first woman engineering graduate was honoured. She was a very bright young lady from Venezuela called Dirima, and I recalled how she had come to me halfway through the final term, almost in tears, because she was actually afraid of one of the profs. This shook me. Although I had, early on, concluded that everything said about the academic rat- race was true, what kind of people WERE we, that something like this could happen? Knowing the person concerned, I could see her point of view, but obviously nothing could be done about it, so I decided to try to talk her out of it. ―After all, Dirima,‖ I said, ―nobody‘s perfect—even me.‖ That got her laughing, and I went on to say that, from what little I knew of him, he was basically unhappy and insecure, and if she could find it in her heart to make allowances, she would never have to see him again, and being so bright she was bound to succeed.... Anyway, she graduated with straight As, and after the ceremony she insisted on having her photo taken standing next to me, which is another of my prized possessions.

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That summer, we had arranged with Vic and Alison to spend time on the boat. They were to have it to themselves for a week, then we would join them for a couple of weeks. Halfway through their first week, Vic phoned me to say that he was worried about the saildrive. He had dived under to have a quick look, and it appeared to be corroding badly. The sacrificial zinc anode had been almost completely eaten away, and what seemed to be an O-ring was protruding from the lower gearbox joint. I told him we would decide what to do when I‘d had a look at it; meanwhile I would try to get a handle on what the heck was happening. After asking around, it was the insurance agent who put me on the right track. ―Oh, yes—the Volvo saildrive—made out of aluminium, isn‘t it? What kind of antifouling paint are you using?‖ Blue, I told him. ―NO NO NO!‖ he said in an exasperated tone. ―Is it copper-based or tin-based?‖ I had no idea, I admitted. ―Well,‖ he said, ―if it‘s copper-based, there‘s your answer. Copper and aluminium form a classic pair leading to electrolytic corrosion in the presence of salt water. Your saildrive unit is the anode, and the whole boat hull is the other.‖ I thanked him, and went to check up. Sure enough, our antifouling paint was copper-based. Oh well, something else I hadn‘t known about. To repeat, experience is a good university, but the fees are rather high. Around two thousand dollars, as I recall. We got down there, knowing what to expect. There was obviously nothing to be done while the boat was in the water. The only answer was to haul out, fit a new saildrive, and apply tin-based antifouling paint. If memory serves, we decided to enjoy our sailing holiday, keeping a very careful eye on the gearbox oil levels, then Inge went home with our friends, and I stayed on to organize the haul-out, and supervise the fitting of the replacement saildrive, as soon as Inge could get it down. It took me a day to get the haul-out done, and there she sat, propped up by timbers, with a ladder up the side. I hoped this was not going to be my lifestyle for too long. Next day, Inge phoned to say that she had despatched the unit that afternoon, via Eastern Airlines, and it should be with me in a couple of days. I hung on for a couple of weeks, until my money ran out, then had to return home. Several months passed before I could get down there again, during which time I collected a great stack of bumf related to

336 THE BVI YEARS

―shipping‖, the very mention of which now gives me nightmares. I regard it as the lowest form of human activity, in particular the bottom rung, a hierarchy of ignorant, corrupt scum, or ―Customs Brokers‖ to give them their official title, several of whom I had to bribe in order to have the unit finally delivered. I found out later that it had reached Atlanta, wherever that is, (all right—I know where Atlanta is—I was just being nasty; I hate that place like you wouldn‘t believe), the same afternoon that Inge despatched it, and it had been sitting there ever since, presumably waiting until the relevant scumbags got their backhanders. Sorry about that temper tantrum. Readers who are still with me will be glad to know that, having definitely reached rock bottom, from now on the only way was up, and in company with Inge, Vic and Alison, Neil, Malcolm and Niki and others, I commenced my climb to Mr. Churchill‘s ―broad, sunlit uplands‖. The same day that the saildrive arrived, the amiable New Zealander in charge of the boatyard had it fitted, then a day elapsed to give the tin-based anti-fouling time to dry, and the following day he lowered me and the Inge II back into the Caribbean. I went to see Malcolm and Niki, to tell them all about it, and the upward swing accelerated when they said they would be pleased to look after our boat, if we wanted. This was more than I had dared hope for. I fired Ludwig on the spot—one of the most satisfying things I have ever done—and returned home well content. There is one more loose end to tie up before I get back to my engineering career. Going back to the Frigidaire days, I had described the start of a friendship with Peter V, which had lasted a long time. Now the end was fast approaching. He wrote to me suggesting, of all things, a model seaplane contest in the BVI. He enclosed a proposed set of rules, and said he was halfway through construction of his entry, in the hope that I would agree. The sheer craziness of the idea appealed to me. I showed it to Inge, and she agreed. She had never liked him very much, but knew we went back a long way, and accepted that. She also knew how much I enjoyed my hobby, and used to pull my leg about ―playing with toy aeroplanes‖, while realizing how seriously I took it. In fact, she often would give me a hand, and some of the best photos of me in action were taken by her. I even got her to build one once, but that‘s another story.

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I got in touch with Neil and asked if he would be interested. As expected, he was very keen on the idea, at which point I wrote to Peter confirming that it was ―on‖. At the time I had two rubber- powered seaplane models. My favourite was a scale model of a German WWI Hansa Brandenburg Sea Monoplane, complete with two moustached Krauts, the one in the rear cockpit wielding an enormous Parabellum machine gun. The other was a stick model on to which I had grafted a pair of Styrofoam floats, and known as ―Pegleg Ike‖. I tried them out on our pond; no way could I make them take off, however much rubber I packed in. I put that one on the back burner for future consideration, and concentrated on making sure they would alight without tipping over. As the day of the contest drew nigh, we were already having an enjoyable time on the boat. Inge and I were temporarily booked in at the Guavaberry Spring Bay resort, as the boat was full with our friends. Vic and Alison and two others were due to return home the next morning, and Peter was due later in the day, so it should work out well. We decided to go for one last sail, and after a pleasant day of picnicking at anchorage, snorkelling and so forth made our way back to the yacht harbour. There, standing on the dockside, hatless under the blazing sun, stood Peter, his wife, and his young daughter, together with three large suitcases. Oh bloody hell. What on earth was going on? I looked at Inge, and she looked at me as if to say, ―I might have known.‖ We docked, they came round, and I tried desperately to make the best of it. ―Weren‘t expecting you until tomorrow—you must have had a good following wind, what?‖ He explained—I am not making this up—he thought they had to cross the International Date Line to get here from England. I said unfortunately the boat was still full, and I would have to book them in at a local hotel. I went off to do this, followed closely by Inge, who clearly didn‘t want to be left alone with them. Fortunately the Ocean View Hotel, right outside the harbour, could accommodate them. Unfortunately, as I found out later, it was an insalubrious dump, without even air conditioning. Had I known that, it wouldn‘t have made any difference. Having made sure they were taken care of for the night, we made our way back to Spring Bay as soon as we decently could; we just wanted to be alone.

338 THE BVI YEARS

Next morning, we arrived at the boat, and Neil was sitting in the cockpit with Peter, talking about motor cars. As we came aboard, they acknowledged our presence, and kept on talking. Look at it from Inge‘s standpoint. Here she was, stepping aboard her dream come true, looking forward to showing people around, possibly hoping for some words of admiration, appreciation, thanks for the invite, or what-have-you, and here were these two TALKING ABOUT BLOODY MOTOR CARS! I think Neil still doesn‘t appreciate how close he came, at that moment, to excommunication. She said, ―I‘ll be in the coffee shop if you want me,‖ and left. I knew she was going to go off like a hand grenade any minute, and felt powerless to do anything about it. Peter told me that unfortunately he had a bout of pneumonia recently, and had been unable to complete his model, thereby, of course, negating the whole object of the exercise. As the sun climbed higher in the heavens, and the full heat of the day hit us, Peter‘s face turned a purplish colour, and he collapsed on to the bunk, fighting for breath. I looked at his wife, trying to think what question to ask. ―Oh, that‘ll be his asthma,‖ she said. ―His WHAT???‖ I ran to the coffee shop and came back with Inge. She took one look and said, ―He‘s having an asthma attack— give me the medication quickly.‖ ―What medication?‖ That did it. She blew up. ―How DARE you bring him down here, knowing he suffers from asthma, without telling me and without bringing the right medication!‖ She ran round the harbour to Niki‘s boat, returning a short time later with something that she injected—saved his life, for all I know—and after a while he recovered. While she was away, his wife turned to me and said, ―Is she always like this?‖ ―Only in cases of absolute, unbelievable stupidity,‖ I replied. Next day they were gone, and I never saw him again. Back in Canada, we were visited again by Lionel West and his wife. I took them to the Toronto Boat Show, for which he was very grateful. While collecting an enormous bagful of brochures, handouts, catalogues and such, he explained that, after selling his

339 NUTS AND BOLTS garage business, he had bought a pleasure-boat dealership in Cambridge, and it would enhance his prestige if he could say he was ―just back from the Toronto Boat Show‖. I also took them to a concert by the Toronto Symphony Orchestra, which had recently acquired Seiji Ozawa as its conductor, a tiny Japanese with a huge smile and a great mane of hair, who put his whole heart and soul into the music, and the orchestra responded accordingly; I‘ve never heard them play so well, before or since. The concert took place in Massey Hall, at that time Toronto‘s premier concert hall, named after Vincent Massey, a former Governor General of Canada, brother of Raymond Massey, one of my favourite film actors. Little did I know that, very soon, I would be up on that same stage myself. It happened like this: The Ryerson brass were by now pushing very hard for university status. They had already started to refer to the place as ―Ryerson Polytechnical University‖, probably a way of getting around some silly bylaw which prevented them from describing themselves as a university until they had been accredited as such. Round came this memo, advising us that the next convocation ceremony would be such as to reflect our increased status, and faculty were expected to support this enterprise by appearing on stage, in academic regalia, when the students were being presented. As a kind of side issue, they told us where the stage would be. The buggers had rented Massey Hall! Oh boy, I was going to enjoy this. First, I made sure that it would be me who presented our graduates, which was not difficult, because nobody else wanted anything to do with it. Next, I visited the local university tailor and ordered a Nottingham University Engineering hood. Since this seemed to give him a bit of a problem, I explained that it was two bands, one light blue and one dark blue. I also bought a mortar board, or cap, as they call it here. My reasoning was that, since they were optional, hardly any of my colleagues would be wearing one, which would make me stand out. But I wanted to practice with it, never having worn one before, to make sure I knew which was the front, and which side the tassel should hang over. God is in the details. Came the great day. We marched through the Toronto streets, the police held up traffic for us, in we went to Massey Hall and up on to the stage, while a band struck up ―Land of Hope and Glory‖.

340 THE BVI YEARS

The speaker was none other than Phil Lapp, Technical Director of de Havilland Special Products and Applied Research, or whatever my old firm calls itself this week. Canada was still struggling with the metric system (and still is, in my view), and Phil brought the house down with a pithy observation I remember to this day. ―We must bear in mind,‖ he said, ―that there are only two countries left in the world still using the old imperial system. In alphabetical order, they are Uganda and the United States of America.‖Good old Phil, I thought. I must remember that one. And so the presentation of the grads started. It ground on for the first few classes, like they do, and when my turn came, I was the first to be wearing a cap. Approaching the microphone, I gave it a flick with my fingertip, looking around as if to make sure that the sound system was working (a tip I had learned from somewhere, to wake them up), and I‘ll swear I saw some of them jump. I inclined my head to the audience and gave them a smile, then turned to the brass, swept off my cap with a gesture I had been practising for a fortnight, and began: ―Sirs, I have the honour to present—‖ I could see Phil Lapp looking at me curiously, as if trying to place me, so I gave him a wink. I called out the grads names loud and clear, and had a little chat with each as he came up. One in particular, I asked him if his parents were here, and said I would be honoured to meet them afterwards, and perhaps have a drink. I could see that I had the audience. They were leaning forward trying to catch every word. When finally I swept my cap off to signal the end of my presentation, I like to think that the applause was louder and longer than any of the others. Silly, isn‘t it? And yet, I felt as if I had made up for the poor show put up by that daft little pipsqueak at Nottingham all those years ago. Then came a totally unexpected development, which led to a really grand finale. The brass, in hot pursuit of university status, had come to realize that their best hope lay in getting the maximum number of Ph.D.s on the teaching staff, and certainly no one with less than a Master‘s. But here was I, with my pass degree, a thorough nuisance, insubordinate, rude to administrators, the most expensive on their payroll in terms of experience, and the lowest in terms of qualifications. Yet they couldn‘t fire me, because I had a clean ―good conduct‖ sheet, and couldn‘t lay me off, because I had tenure. So, they offered me a scheme they had thought up, called

341 NUTS AND BOLTS half pay for half workload. If you are working a two-term system, then half workload is three or four months per year, giving you more than half a year to do what you like. On the other hand, I still had five years to go, and since one‘s pension is based on one‘s last five years‘ salary, I would most definitely have my pension cut in half. I think they were hoping I would realize this, and beg to be allowed to retire early, in which case they would be rid of me for good. I talked it over with Inge, and we decided that it was too good to turn down, and we would take a chance on the pension. In the end it worked out very well. Although there was less money coming in, after retirement there was always more in the bank than when I had been working. I still cannot understand the reason for this, but at any rate it bears out the adage: ―When you find you are working in order to be able to afford to go to work, that‘s the time to retire, baby.‖ The first year this took effect was quite interesting, to utter the understatement of the twentieth century. When everything was cleaned up at the end of the autumn term, off we went. Inge had by this time taken early retirement, having become totally fed up with the administration into which she had been promoted, so she was on half pension already. Our first task was to sail the Inge II to the main island of Tortola, Malcolm and Niki having advised us of their grandiose plan to build a large catamaran and sail it to Australia, to start a new life there. I had received favourable reports about Johnny‘s Maritime Services, at Nanny Cay, a large marina, so we decided to give it a try. Unfortunately, the day we made this move was the day on which the BVI was supposed to change from the European system of buoyage to the American one. As usual, they made a complete pig‘s ear out of it. No advance information, no notices, nothing in the papers—diddlysquat, as the saying goes. The Nanny Cay people had moved the channel buoys without telling anyone, so we went past them on what we thought was the correct side, and ran aground. Being rather good at this kind of thing by now, it was a matter of a few seconds while I tied a bowline at the end of a rope, jumped into the dinghy and rowed to the dockside, throwing the loop over a bollard, while Inge wrapped the other end round a winch and started winching us off. In less than five minutes we were docked at Johnny‘s Maritime.

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Johnny turned out to be an amiable Arab, Khalil something-or- other, who did a reasonable job for a year or so. I told him about the buoys, and asked if he could tell me who to complain to, but he had no idea, not having heard of it either. In the end I just made myself realize that this was the way things were done in the Caribbean. ―When she come she come, man.‖ While on a shopping trip in Road Town, the capital of the BVI, Inge made friends with Frances, who ran a company called Caribbean Connections. This was part of the charterboat industry, upon which the prosperity of the BVI was based. Later, the fools tried to turn themselves into the financial centre of the Caribbean, and now, after twenty years, I think they are about to get their comeuppance, being on the world‘s blacklists of suspected offshore tax evasion havens. Soon, in my opinion, they will have to look back to their origins, and resume their rightful place as the world‘s finest cruising grounds. But I digress. Frances‘ company worked in conjunction with the charter firms, arranging the collection of fees, immigration and customs clearance, dockage and so forth, tasks which most firms were only too keen to unload. Needless to say, it was heavily computer dependent, and she was always having problems with the office girls making stupid mistakes, machines crashing and such. Inge asked if she could have a look, after office hours. She stayed for most of the evening, finally announcing that all the office computers were stuffed full of unauthorized material, mainly games, private correspondence and such, and should she remove them? By all means. Half an hour later the job was done. That was the start of a lifetime friendship, and I still correspond with Frances from time to time. She didn‘t fire anyone, but got Inge in to ―assist them in enhancing their computer skills in this complex field‖, or something. Frances was also the fundraising officer for Virgin Islands Search and Rescue (VISAR), an organization supported entirely by donations, plus a contribution from Britain‘s Royal National Lifeboat Institution, which enabled them to obtain a boat equipped with all the necessary survival gear. This in turn led to another introduction which started a lifetime friendship. We met Emmett, a retired U.S. Navy captain, who had been fingered for the job of treasurer to VISAR. Since the task involved some computer skills,

343 NUTS AND BOLTS and he didn‘t know much about it, it was suggested that Inge might be persuaded to give him some computer lessons. Very little persuasion was required! We visited him and met his wife, Ruth, and the four of us hit it off right away. Only last year I visited them at their latest home in Jacksonville, Florida. The next thing to happen was that I heard the long-awaited BVI Community College was about to start up. I thought it would be a good thing for me to become involved. Quite apart from the possibility of earning some cash, it seemed to me that not too many people knew anything about refrigeration, which I should have thought would be of vital importance in this part of the world. Having exhausted what I thought might be the appropriate government channels, I found the location of the newly-appointed principal‘s office (don‘t ask, don‘t tell), and bearded him in his den, so to speak. He was an American, and so didn‘t mind my barging in on him. I explained my thought that refrigeration was a most important thing down here, and hardly anyone seemed to know anything about it, particularly on the marine side. If the position was not already filled, I would like to put in my application. He heard me out, riffled through some papers, and said, ―Don‘t say anything about refrigeration here.‖ I couldn‘t believe my ears. ―You mean it‘s not even on the syllabus?‖ I blurted. ―Looks like it ought to be,‖ he said. He thought for a while. ―Here‘s the deal. If you can find five or more students by next Wednesday, I‘ll get you a room, and a timetable.‖ And that was how it began. I got my five—just. It was hard going, and I was rather surprised at the poor response. Emmett kindly let me use his car, and I visited all the companies I knew about. Most regarded me with suspicion; they were getting along very nicely, thank you...didn‘t have time to waste on that kind of stuff, etcetera. I finished up at the only refrigeration company on the island, run by a pleasant chap called Dick Morris, with whom I struck up a friendship which lasted until he left the island several years later. At this first meeting he was quite ambivalent. He thought it was a good idea, and time someone did it, but he personally did not think it would work out, because most of the islanders were too lazy to

344 THE BVI YEARS interest themselves in finding out about something useful. However, he would give me any help he could, and if it took off, and I were to run it next term, by that time he hoped to have some apprentices, and he would send them along. He gave me a package containing charts and tables of the properties of Freon-12, and catalogues showing the functioning of various types of controls, which were a godsend during that first term. If I couldn‘t make a go of it with help like that, then I didn‘t deserve to. My lucky streak continued when he loaned me a 20- pound tank of Freon-12, a charging and testing set, and a leak detector. His parting words were that he wouldn‘t touch sailboat refrigeration systems with a ten-foot barge pole, saying that they were badly engineered, underdeveloped and usually incorrectly installed. Sounded like an opening to me! For the first two years, the college did not have its own building, but rented premises above a row of shops near the centre of Road Town. My first course took place in a small room next to the main classroom, which was reserved for the important courses—you know, Sociology, Cultural History of the Caribbean, Spanish...I was depressed to see the amount of time-wasting tripe that was being peddled. Still, it was their country, and I was just a visitor, so I had better keep a low profile and just get on with it. Needless to say, this outlook did not last very long, but it got me through the first term without too many hassles. During this time, we became quite friendly with the principal, to the extent of inviting him to lunch on our boat. At the time it was anchored off a beach within walking distance of the college. He jumped into the dinghy, and I was afraid his business shoes would go right through the bottom. When we got to the boat, we both made a great pantomime of taking our shoes off as soon as we stepped on to the deck mat, before going down into the cockpit. He took the hint and did likewise, thereby averting the possibility of considerable damage! That first course went off well. The students appreciated my showing them how to charge and test a system, how to find leaks, and how to determine what its operating temperatures and pressures should be. Two of them were in partnership, running a power boat called Rescuer 1. They would intercept a radio call from someone in trouble, dash out there and, hopefully, fix the problem.

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They were always wary of refrigeration systems, not having too clear an idea what they were actually doing, and I think they were very pleased with the course. As the term ended, I agreed to run the course next term, which would coincide with the next time we would be down. Fortunately, teachers at the college were exempt from the stinking work permit regulations, probably because ―they‖ realized that the people they were looking for to teach serious subjects like maths and science would, like me, die rather than ask some bureaucratic ponce for permission to work. But let that pass. Before returning to Canada, we made a determined effort to sail ―round the corner‖ to Trellis Bay, which I had been looking forward to since reading my first Caribbean cruising guide in 1978. We couldn‘t do it! The boat could not be persuaded to sail round ―The Bluff‖, a small mountain that went straight down into the water, guarded at the bottom by continuous snaggle-toothed rocks, on which waves were breaking with enormous force. Every time I tried to tack further out, the wind started blowing us backwards towards those rocks. In the end we had to give it best, started the engine, and motored back to Nanny Cay. It all got sorted out the following year, but it was not a particularly brilliant end to our first half-year down there. Nevertheless, we had at last started getting integrated into the local life, and that was a good feeling. Back in Canada, as the autumn term approached, I decided to visit Ryerson a week ahead, to get acclimatized, find out where everything was and so on. Just as well I did. I went into my office, and there, sitting at my desk, was someone I had never seen before. Call me unreasonable if you will, but this was something I had not bargained on. I introduced myself, told him he was sitting at my desk, thanked him for keeping my chair warm for me, said I was just going to nip upstairs to get some papers, then I would be able to move back in. I drew on my memories of days gone by, without saying anything indictable, to get my facial expression and tone of voice to imply that, if he was still there when I got back, the office walls might run with blood. It must have worked, because when I got back he had gone, and I never saw him again. However, worse was to come. I dug into the staff filing cabinet where my course outlines were kept, thinking to find out whether any more needed to be printed. They had all gone! In their place was a batch of

346 THE BVI YEARS outlines written by someone I shall call B, which were different in every respect. The textbook had been changed, the ratio of lab marks to term test marks to final exam marks had been changed, the topics covered had been changed. It was as if I had never existed. I rummaged through all the filing cabinets I could get open, but there was no trace of any of my work. There was nobody around I could ask. Well, it looked as if I was going to have to stage a comeback. Fortunately, I still had the original of my course outline, so I spent an hour or so printing off a large number. Then I removed all B‘s outlines and put them in a garbage bag, replacing them with mine in the cabinet. Finally, I deposited the garbage bag in the dumpster that stands outside the physical plant department. I went home to concentrate on getting tuned into my first few lectures, and on the first day of term I was at my desk early, thoroughly prepared, having found from the master timetable that my first class was at eleven, B‘s at ten. Like most of the others, after a three-month summer holiday he had turned up quarter of an hour before the first class, thinking to grab a few papers, hand them out, make a few introductory remarks, and leave. I could never do that, thanks to the accursed Victorian Work Ethic my parents had saddled me with. Anyway, at quarter to ten, precisely on schedule, he burst into my office, almost incoherent. ―What have you done?‖ ―Who, me?‖ I asked innocently. ―Where are my course outlines?‖ He was verging on the hysterical. ―In the Keele Street landfill site by now, where they belong,‖ I answered, getting into the swing of the thing. ―How dare you...etcetera.‖ By this time I was on my feet, advancing towards him. ―Now you listen to me, mate. If you wish to adjust the form of a subject we are both teaching, you can bloody well meet with me, and we will discuss things in a civilized manner.‖ I was now shouting at the top of my voice, and an interested crowd had started to gather. ―Until you can get this concept through your thick skull, I will continue to teach this course exactly as I wrote it. There are plenty of the correct course outline for both of us. Make your own arrangements, but do not ever try a trick like that again on me!‖

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His face was ashen. ―But I ordered all those textbooks.‖ My last word: ―Well, it‘s a load of old cobblers anyway.‖ I had never heard of it, but since they all were, it was a pretty safe guess. I am informed that, for many years afterwards, this encounter was spoken of in low tones during coffee breaks and the like. I then went on the warpath, trying to find out what the hell had happened during my six months‘ absence. It appeared that something called the ―Thermodynamics Review Committee‖ had authorized these changes, so I immediately asked to meet with this committee. At the appointed hour I turned up, and the room was jammed to the doors. I got to the podium, looked at them, and said ―I asked to meet the so-called Thermodynamics Review Committee; this looks like the whole bloody department to me.‖ No response. I could sense that they were looking forward to what was to come. This was the Tysoe they knew, about to entertain them. I continued: ―So, am I to assume that the whole department conspired to put the skids under me when I was away for half a year and couldn‘t defend myself?‖ Still no response. ―Very well. I wish to put forward a proposition. If two teachers are teaching the same course, and one of them wishes to alter something, he should meet with the other, and discuss the matter. Will everyone who agrees with this proposition please raise their hand?‖ About half of them did. ―Well,‖ I said, ―if we can‘t even agree on a thoroughly fair, democratic principle like that, there‘s not much point in wasting everyone‘s time, is there? Let‘s go and have lunch.‖ I was halfway to the door when called back. It was the ex-chief draughtsman from de Havilland. ―Look, John, you can‘t go storming off just because not everyone agrees with you.‖ ―In this case,‖ I said, ―I not only can, but am going to. If you don‘t like the way I do things, try to get rid of me, but remember— my course was the very first from this department to be accepted by the P.Eng. for accreditation purposes.‖ On the way out, I pointed at B and shouted, ―And you, chum, don‘t push it.‖ After that they left me alone for a while. One of my best memories of teaching engineering was the field trips I was able to arrange. Thanks to a colleague who had been some big wheel in Ontario Hydro, and was one of the few who

348 THE BVI YEARS befriended me, I met with the chief engineer of the Lakeview generating station, and managed to arrange a deal whereby he would let me know when one of their units was coming up for overhaul, so that the students would be able to see the complete insides of a large turbo-alternator. Not only that, they had a very good instructional film which they showed to visiting engineering groups. Lakeview was, to my way of thinking, a handsome building with four large stacks which, when I had my yachting cap on, I called the ―Four Sisters‖, a well-known fix for anyone navigating Lake Ontario. One day about a couple of years ago the government caused it to be blown up ―because it was an emitter of greenhouse gases‖ BUT WITHOUT HAVING EVEN STARTED AN ALTERNATIVE MEANS OF POWER GENERATION. With people like this in charge, I am sometimes rather glad that I am near the end, rather than just starting out. But—enough of this morbid introspection. My other favourite field trip was to Orenda Engines, in Malton, thanks to Les. The engine company had managed to survive the Arrow cancellation, having obtained a contract to modify their jet engines to run on natural gas, so that they could be used to power the booster pumps for the Trans-Canada gas pipeline. Here, the main interest was in the method of producing turbine blades. Hitherto, it had been a matter of having a highly skilled (read expensive) operator working a high-precision (read expensive) milling machine, to profile-mill the rough forgings. Now, the whole thing was done by CAD-CAM, a computer programme which worked a machine about the size of the room I‘m sitting in. I think it stands for Computer-aided Design/Computer aided Machining, but don‘t quote me on that. I was rather hoping I might meet the legendary deputy chief engineer Les had told me about. He was from China, and apparently a man after my own heart. If he thought someone was messing him around at a meeting, he would jump up and scream ―no tickey, no shirty; shitty on shirt tailee ten cents extra!‖ Unfortunately I never met him, but wherever he is, I salute him. Some years later, I found that the husband of Inge‘s best friend had done one of the first CAD-CAM programmes for Orenda, and one of his prize possessions was a compressor blade made to his programme. Small world, indeed.

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All the time the degree thing was looming ever larger in our daily work. Now we were having to tackle the requirement for a ―project‖, rather similar, I suppose, to the thesis requirement for my Nottingham degree, but in our case having some actual engineering input. I visualized this as a student being handed an assignment to be completed by a specified date, with stringently supervised progress reports, using equipment of his own choosing. A good approximation to the real world, in fact. I made these points at the various meetings we had, but I don‘t think half of them knew what I was talking about. Without waiting for a consensus to develop, I was first out of the gate with a topic I had been trying to find time for, on the air conditioning rig, which I labelled ―An Investigation into the Effects of the Positioning of Wet-Bulb Temperature Measurements in Closed Air Ducting Upon the Accuracy of Psychrometric Calculations‖. There—that should satisfy the brass. I put the title up for grabs, and it was taken on by a bumptious student, who fiddled around for a week or two without doing very much, and then started telling Bob what he wanted him to do. Bob, quite rightly, told him to do it himself. He complained to me, whereupon I blew the whistle on the whole thing. Not a very auspicious beginning. I‘ll tell you how the rest of it went later, because now our second half year in the Caribbean was about to start. The boat was in reasonable condition after the first year at Johnny‘s Maritime, and we lost no time in making ready to go sailing. We were nearly out in the open sea, with the mainsail up. Inge was on deck coiling a mooring line, when there was a bang like a pistol shot. The mainsheet block had snapped in two, and the boom swung out wildly. I steered broadside on to the wind, giving Inge time to scramble to safety before it swung back. Somehow we managed to furl the sail, and motored very carefully back to the harbour, with the boom swinging from side to side—a death machine for anyone who got in its way. When we reached the relative calm of the harbour, Inge was able to grab the flailing mainsheet and make it fast to a nearby cleat; thus we were able to dock without doing any damage. What the Duke of Wellington might have described as ―a demned close- run thing‖. Serves me right, I thought, for allowing myself to be

350 THE BVI YEARS persuaded to buy Harken junk, instead of sticking to my original preference for good old English Tufnol and gun metal. Talk about false economy! This thing was made literally of bent tin and plastic. I wondered just how much more junk we were carrying around, but no doubt we would find out in due course. Which we did, as will be related. For now, we wanted to make another attempt to sail to Trellis Bay, having thought the thing through, and decided upon a plan of action. It took two days to find a suitable mainsheet block, because I had calculated the force on the block, and determined the minimum cross-section area of the flanks, in order to keep the stress below the safe limit of the material used. So, with Inge going quietly round the bend, I wandered around the shops with my pocket ruler and slide rule, calculating cross-section areas, until finally finding one that looked strong enough. Having re-rigged the mainsheet, we set off again, and this time everything went smoothly. I had decided to do the trip on the other side of the Sir Francis Drake channel, which was about a mile wide at the point of passing the Bluff, and sail very nearly up to Virgin Gorda before coming about and approaching Trellis Bay from the north. It just about doubled the distance, but it was a spanking sail. We were on a broad reach all the way there and back, and creamed along at five or six knots. As we furled the sails and chugged gently into the bay, I experienced an indescribable feeling of elation. This, to me, had been one of the major goals of the project all along—to visit the famous Last Resort restaurant, and see the legendary Tony Snell in action. There, on the right, was the tiny island of Bellamy Cay, with the Last Resort perched on it, right where it was supposed to be. We positioned ourselves a discrete distance from the other anchored yachts, executed a decent Bahamian double moor, and treated ourselves to a celebratory drink. But—there was work to be done. We had worked up a good appetite during the voyage, and there on the beach was what appeared to be a beach bar. After a short dinghy ride, we entered de Loose Mongoose for the first time. It was to become our favourite spot for refreshment and friendship for years to come. It was run by a very friendly couple, Chris and Mary-Ann, who

351 NUTS AND BOLTS welcomed us and introduced us to the house drink, called a no-see- um, after a species of biting sandfly which turns up in the islands. I never found out what was in it, except, of course, for plenty of rum, but it was pink in colour, and tasted wonderful, so what more could you want? Well, lunch, actually. The cook was a very friendly local lady called, I think, Dawn, with a great beaming smile, and she made us a hamburger with onions and fries which I swear seemed like the best meal I had ever tasted. No doubt the ambience had a lot to do with this, but even so, it was so perfectly done that I can still recall the flavour after all these years. We spent an evening at The Last Resort, and it was everything I had looked forward to for so many years. I knew quite a lot about Tony Snell already. He started out as a stand-up comedian at London‘s Windmill Theatre, prior to joining the RAF. Around the time I first visited that hallowed spot, when in London for my pilot medical before starting my flying training, he was on patrol in his Spitfire over Italy when jumped by a flight of 109s and shot down. He baled out, landing behind enemy lines, and was put into a POW camp from which he escaped, and made his way back to England. I think he then made a pile doing real estate in the U.S., and with the proceeds moved down to the BVI and started The Last Resort. He was terrific! Seated at his mighty Wurlitzer he filled the place with weird sound effects, bellowing out rude songs about charterers, politicians, sex, governments—you name it. At one point he was doing a sentimental rendering of ―Yellow Bird‖ when a large lump of bird poop fell from the ceiling and landed on his head, whereupon he pulled out a gun and fired, and a yellow bird fluttered down into his music box. Then he led his tame donkey, Chocolate, through the restaurant and into a box at the back, from which it stuck its head out of an opening, soliciting leftovers from the diners. We had our first taste of Last Resort pumpkin soup, which Inge tried to duplicate when we returned, but did not succeed until the following year, after we had made friends with Tony‘s wife, Jackie, and found that ginger root was the missing ingredient. The college term was due to begin in a few days, and there was still one more place we wanted to visit while in this corner of the island group. We sailed across to Virgin Gorda, entering Gorda Sound by the northern approach, and anchored off Mosquito

352 THE BVI YEARS

Island, near the resort known as Drake‘s Anchorage. This island is probably familiar to many people, having just been bought by that irresponsible buffoon Richard Branson, who has promised to turn it into the biggest eco-resort in the world. Whatever that might mean, what it certainly means that yet another bit of paradise on earth is doomed. Well, it was a lovely spot when we knew it, and I shall always treasure the memory of it. We immediately made friends with the charming American couple who ran it. We spent many hours chatting with them about pretty well everything. When he realized that I knew about refrigeration, he said he had long cherished the idea of keeping his red wine at 55 degrees Fahrenheit, because that seemed to be the temperature which suited most of his discerning customers, but nobody had any sensible suggestions. I said it could most probably be done, if the kind of control valve I had in mind was available in this part of the world, and it would mean a bit of surgery on his wine cabinet, and would he like me to look into it? He certainly would, so that was where we left it, and returned to Road Town, in time for the start of the college term. The classes were still being held in the same place, above the shops, although work had actually started on a college building, which was situated halfway between Road Town and the airport, and would be the very devil to get to, there being absolutely no public transport in the whole of the BVI. Cross that bridge when we come to it, I thought. My course had been listed in the college curriculum, and on the first day I was very gratified to see about 30 people in the room. This was more like it! I spent the first period finding out about them, getting them to put their names on a class list, telling me which firm they worked for and so on, and handing out charts and tables of the properties of Freon. While this was going on, a hubbub was getting louder outside. I opened the door, and there were all the beautiful people standing around gossiping at the tops of their voices. I had no idea who they were, and didn‘t care. In a very loud voice, with my best fake Oxford accent, I said ―I say, there—would you mind keeping it down a bit? I‘m trying to teach a class in here.‖ There was a deathly hush. It was the suddenness of it, you see. I don‘t suppose anyone had ever spoken to them like that before. I re-entered the classroom, slammed the door and gave it two

353 NUTS AND BOLTS fingers. They loved it. Broad grins all round, and a small ripple of applause. Off to a good start. Rather to my surprise, I found that there were two teachers from the secondary school in the class— science and mechanics, and an idea began to form. At the end of the session, I approached them, asking if they thought there was a possibility that school workshop space might be available from time to time, so that I could include some practical work in the course. They thought this was a good idea, and promised to arrange a meeting for me with the principal. He seemed very pleased to see me, and certainly he would ask the mechanics teacher to make the necessary arrangements. I couldn‘t find the name of Dick Morris‘s firm anywhere on the class list, and thought I had better look him up. I told him I had 30 students, and it looked like being a good year, and was he still interested? Sure, he would send all three along to my next class. I then told him there would be workshop space available at the school, and wondered whether he might have some old stuff he could lend me for demonstration purposes. He could do better than that. He had enough spare stuff to make me a small system, and would get someone on it right away, and well done. Boy, was I ever on a roll. Pushing my luck to the limit—well, after all, when the cards are running for you, you raise, right?—I broached the subject of the wine cabinet, and asked if he could suggest a starting point. He said it looked like a job for a thermostatic throttle valve, which had been one of my first thoughts, based on memories of the Blue Steel inertia navigator system, but it had not seemed likely that such a thing would be available down here. I asked him if he knew where one could be obtained. He took one out of his desk drawer and placed it in front of me. That should do the trick, he said, and there are a couple of different orifices you can try if it doesn‘t cut the mustard first time. By this time I was nearly speechless Me!! I managed to croak, ―How much do you want for it?‖ ―Oh, take it,‖ he said. ―I can‘t remember why I got it in the first place.‖ As might be expected, with this kind of help the course went with a swing—technically, that is. Administratively, there were a few snags, the first of which cropped up in the second week. I handed round the class list, to make sure of including any late

354 THE BVI YEARS registrants, and nowhere could I see the names Dick had given me, of his three apprentices, whom he had given the afternoon off to attend. Next day I went to see him, and told him about it. He took it in his stride. ―Well, John, I did warn you.‖ He bet me a case of Red Stripe that I wouldn‘t find a single native Tortolian in my class. They would, he said, be from St. Kitts, or Trinidad, or Guyana. And we are educating them for free (I hadn‘t realized that), so they can go back home and cash in on it. Seemed crazy to him. And me too, I thought. Later, he told me he had torn a large strip off them and docked them a day‘s pay, pour encourager les autres, as they used to say in the French Navy. During the week we sailed round to Drake‘s Anchorage, and I got to work on the wine cabinet. It took me all day, and when it seemed to be cooling down nicely I asked the manager to let it run overnight with a couple of bottles in it, because I might have to make some adjustments in the morning. Next morning we dinghied in for breakfast, and he was looking at me in a way that took me straight back to Avro, when the top electrical brass first saw frost forming on the cooling line to the Blue Steel alternator. It seemed that I had got it right first time, which worried me for a while, but when the evening dinner guests arrived he was happily pouring the red wine at 55 degrees F. Seldom have I seen such a satisfied customer. But that was not the end. He gave us a drink, and asked if we would like a weekend in one of his chalets. We got some things from the boat, and moved into the chalet the same evening, and that was one of the best weekends we ever spent. We had a little game, which consisted of applying numerology to events during our life together, things like, how many times had we moved house? What was my mean time between jobs? Stuff like that. We concluded that this was our seventh honeymoon. How much it was worth, I didn‘t even want to think about. Far, far more than I could ever have charged him for my work. While I had been mucking about with the wine cabinet, Inge had been busy making knots for a knotboard she was planning to give them. This was her latest hobby. She would make a whole lot of fancy sailors‘ knots, I would find a suitable piece of wood and apply a nice finish to it, and we would both fix the knots to the board, usually with brass escutcheon pins such as boatbuilders use

355 NUTS AND BOLTS for attaching delicate bits of trim. I would do a drawing of the finished board, giving a key to the names of the various knots. There were a few of these already in places like de Loose Mongoose, Caribbean Connections and so forth. The next task, then, was to find a piece of board for this latest one, which was going to be quite large. I had heard of a boatyard in the West End of Tortola, which was reputed to have a lot of offcuts of exotic wood, so we decided to have a look. As we approached, I couldn‘t believe my eyes. There, tied up at their dock, was Errol Flynn‘s schooner, Sirocco. Anyone who has read David Niven‘s autobiography, The Moon‟s a Balloon, would recognise it instantly. I could go on at length about this beautiful vessel, but another time, maybe. There was work to be done. I procured a sizeable piece of three-quarter inch teak-veneered marine plywood, as used extensively in the build of the Inge II, and while persuading the friendly workers to cut it to my measurements, found that it was indeed Flynn‘s floating love-nest, which had been purchased by some American multibillionaire, who had ordered a complete refit. I never heard of it again, but just to have seen it made my day. I had been fed up with our awning system for some time, and drew up a arrangement which would simplify the process of changing from sailing to lying at anchor. After a day‘s sailing in the tropics, you don‘t want to spend a lot of time re-rigging the awning—you just want to pour some rum and watch the sunset. I visited the local machine shop and asked if they could send someone round to help finalize the design, and make the necessary parts. Round came Tony Edwards, a friendly Englishman, who realized exactly what was required, took his measurements, and returned a few days later with a complete set of very nicely made struts and fittings which, to the best of my knowledge, are still in place. I heard in a roundabout way that, a few days later, he had left that firm and started up on his own. Meanwhile, Dick had given me an old compressor and some other discarded items, so I went to see Tony in his new place, and asked how much he would want to section these items. He asked why I would want to do such a thing, so I told him about my course at the college. He said there would be no charge, and he was glad to see that someone was actually teaching something useful

356 THE BVI YEARS there. During the course of a very friendly conversation, we were both surprised to find that, many years ago, we had lived within a mile of each other in Ewhurst. What a small world indeed. Back at the college, I thought I should have a word with the president, as the chief‘s job was now called, only to find that he had departed, I was given to understand, under a cloud. This sent a little chill up my spine, for I was beginning to find out how things worked around here. If you were in a job which was coveted by someone who had strong government connections, you could be off the island the next day on some trumped-up charge. I had seen it happen a couple of times, and thought it none of my business, but this was getting rather close to home. The person I should see was the registrar, a lady named Eileene. I requested an interview, during which I told her that, in my class, there was not a single native Tortolian, and it struck me as rather strange that we should be giving free instruction, on a most important topic, to off-islanders. I was abruptly told to mind my own business and get on with my job. The reader is left to imagine how this response reacted with me, but I was having too good a time with everything else to start World War Three over it. Later, perhaps. When the term was more than half over, a chap from the Public Works department turned up and said he wanted to register for the course. Well, this one‘s more than half over, I told him, but I daresay it will run again next year. This didn‘t satisfy him. His boss had told him to put in for a course credit, as it would improve his prospects of promotion. I told him you didn‘t ―put in for it‖, you got it by attending the course and passing the final exam. Oh, he could pass the exam all right—he knew most of this stuff already. I spent a few moments framing my response. My first impulse was to tell him to ―naff off‖, to use the Princess Royal‘s favourite phrase when confronted by the ungodly. However, something more academic was called for here. So: ―I see. I am to be the rubber stamp for your promotional aspirations? Forget it, pal.‖ He didn‘t like it, but then I didn‘t like him, so that made us even. Another funny occurred on the day of the final exam. The two teachers did not turn up. I could not understand this; they were two of the most intelligent and conscientious people I had met.

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Why on earth would they do a thing like that? By chance I happened to spot one of them while on the way to Pusser‘s Pub for a pint of John Courage Best Bitter, before I dared look at the exam papers. I asked him why he hadn‘t done the exam. He looked astonished and said it was the Queen‘s Birthday. I bought him a drink and explained the horrible mess he had landed me in. I couldn‘t possibly fail them, after the headmaster had been so kind to me regarding use of the school workshop, yet I couldn‘t legitimately pass them without an exam result. We worked out a deal whereby they would write the exam the following day in the library, with me invigilating. I cleared it with the chief librarian, and the news must have spread, because all morning students were creeping in to have a look and having a good giggle, to see two of their teachers writing an exam, invigilated by a honky. The penultimate act of this farce took place the next day. I had marked all the papers, which, to my great pleasure, were of a high standard, entered everything up, packaged the lot and took it to the registrar. Scarcely looking up, she said I could leave it with her secretary. I left it just where it was, and stood there. Finally she looked up with that expression I knew so well—‖You still here?‖ ―I‘ll take my paycheque now, if you don‘t mind. I have to return to Canada tomorrow, and there won‘t be much time.‖ Pause. ―It will be sent to you.‖ I had heard about this, and wasn‘t having any. ―Well, no, actually.‖ I pushed the package towards her, dislodging some papers on to the floor in the process. ―I have fulfilled my part of the bargain, now you fulfil yours. I want my paycheque NOW!‖ ―It isn‘t ready‖ Oh well, here we go:

He either fears his fate too much, Or his deserts are small, That dare not put it to the touch, To win or lose it all.

I parked my behind on her desk and said, ―I am not leaving this office until I get my paycheque. Do I make myself perfectly clear?‖ Green eyes smouldering with hate, she went into the next office and returned with a cheque which she just about threw at

358 THE BVI YEARS me. Although it was obviously in order, I made a great show of taking half a minute to examine it closely, gave her a curt nod, and left. Well, that‘s torn it, I thought, but in fact I never heard any more, although I gather it created quite a stir when the news spread. The final act took place a couple of days later. I was approached by a fellow called Clive, who had been put in charge of coordinating the marine-oriented courses. He asked if I would be teaching my course next year. Better ask Eileene, I replied, and told him I‘d just had a row with her. ―Oh, join the club,‖ he said. ―Who hasn‘t? Anyway, it‘s only a temporary arrangement—things will be better next year.‖ I said I would be pleased to, although some conditions were attached. This generated a raised eyebrow. Conditions? I told him I would require a guaranteed ride to and from the college in its new location, which would otherwise be inaccessible to me. Surely the college would operate school buses or something, or did they expect all their staff to drive BMWs? Also, I would require space in a lab or workshop for the equipment I had accumulated. He said it would take him some time to go into these issues, so I told him to write to me letting me know the situation. For some reason which now eludes me, I had to return to Canada two weeks before Inge (remember—I was still working half time, whereas she was fully retired) and a lot happened during those two weeks. At home, I had finalized a deal with a couple who wanted to charter our boat for five weeks, starting on the same day Inge was due to return. I gave them detailed directions how to get to Johnny‘s Maritime, and on the appointed day I drove to the airport to meet Inge. It was wonderful to see her again after all this time, and she regaled me with a story about how she found that the boat tied up at the next slip was Carapace, which we both knew belonged to Dr. Spock. She lay in wait for him, and went for him fang and claw, as I believe did 99 percent of the western world‘s women, who held him personally responsible for rearing a generation of brats. She described how he put up a good case for having been completely misunderstood and taken out of context. His book, he said, merely contained some suggestions for possible alternative interactions between parents and children, in some particular cases,

359 NUTS AND BOLTS and had unfortunately been published just as the entire moral fabric of civilization was breaking down due to outside influences—the Cold War, the war in Vietnam, that sort of thing. Look—don‘t start on me. I‘m out of my depth here, merely reporting a conversation between a highly intelligent woman and the doctor himself. As we got nearer home, she said, ―John—I have a confession to make. I‘ve moved the boat to TMM (Tortola Marine Management).‖ I nearly lost control of the car. ―You‘ve WHAT????‖ Then, ―Wait ‗til we get home—I need a drink.‖ Then she told me all about it. Johnny had presented her with a bill for water, which she knew could not be correct; being Inge, she had kept her own tally, which amounted to about twenty dollars, whereas this was for nearly two hundred. She had approached Johnny, saying that he had obviously got us confused with someone else. He, being an Arab, was not about to allow a mere woman to criticise him, and threw a tantrum, whereupon she went round the corner to TMM, where she was already well known to the manager, Barney Crook, through Frances, and asked if he would take our boat. No problem, and Dr. Spock helped her to move the boat. I told her I had just despatched a couple to Johnny‘s for a five- week charter, at which we both started to giggle, maybe a trifle hysterically. It turned out well in the end. When they got back they told us they‘d had a wonderful time and a lot of fun tracking the boat down. They were impressed at how well we were known down there, and the boat was everything they had hoped for. Inge saved the nicest part to the last. Emmett and Ruth had broached the possibility of our house-sitting for them next time, so that they could plan a long-awaited trip to Russia or China or somewhere. During the next few years, they travelled all over the place, while we enjoyed living in their wonderful house. Back at Ryerson, progress continued in the lab. In my Power Generation course, I emphasized the importance of being able to calculate the correct air/fuel ratios and exhaust gas constituents for different fuels, and I acquired for the lab a gas chromatograph, to be used for the experimental analysis of the exhaust gas of the various power plants. Up to that time, this had been done using the

360 THE BVI YEARS classical Orsat apparatus, which I had first used in 1944 in the Shakespeare Street lab of University College, Nottingham, under the supervision of George Nicholson. In this, a caustic potash solution absorbed carbon dioxide, pyrogallic acid absorbed oxygen, and carbon monoxide was sucked up by a solution of cuprous chloride in concentrated hydrochloric acid. I wanted to keep them both, since the Orsat had a visual impact, while the chromatograph was just a box of tricks. However, Bob finally talked me out of it, probably because I had bestowed upon him the honour of mixing this noxious muck. I had another fourth-year project going in the lab, under the heading ―Experimental Determination of the Influence of Air/Fuel Ratio and Various Additives on the Exhaust Products of a Four- Stroke Engine‖. The Lotus engine was to be instrumented accordingly, and the project was being undertaken by two of my best students, who were good friends, so it looked like being a success. Things went well for a month or so, but then they started to tell Bob what they wanted him to do, with the same result. I didn‘t like doing it, but obviously no one had any idea what I was talking about in terms of an engineering project. Also, most of my colleagues had copped out with what they called ―software projects‖, in other words computer exercises. At this point I withdrew from the whole business. I received a letter from Clive down in the Islands, asking me to sign up for my course next year. That was all; no mention of the points I had discussed with him, so screw them. I wrote back politely declining his request, and heard no more. What really surprised me was that, from then (1986) until a month ago as I write (January 2009), ―Refrigeration‖ did not appear in the college syllabus. I was amazed to read in the local paper, which I still have sent: ―This year, for the first time, Refrigeration is to be included in the College syllabus.‖ I emailed them promptly, pointing out that, for the first two years of the college‘s existence, I had run a course on refrigeration, and, while I was glad to see that this most important subject had finally been resurrected, in the interest of historical accuracy I would like to see the record set straight. They were kind enough to print this, and I should jolly well think so, too! The fourth of June, 1989, is a date which lingers in the memory. Tiananmen Square. Just prior to our annual escape

361 NUTS AND BOLTS southward, a departmental meeting was called, to hear an account by members of a group of my colleagues who had recently returned from a ―cultural exchange‖ visit to Peking, or whatever it calls itself this week, with the object of discussing methods of teaching engineering, or some such excuse for a Far Eastern jolly at the taxpayers‘ expense. I let them drone on for half an hour, and then, during a lull, I said, ―Didn‘t you notice anything, er, unusual going on?‖ There was an embarrassed silence. I pressed on. ―Like, for example, machinegun fire, tanks roaming round the streets, that sort of thing?‖ Still no response. My voice rising, I said, ―You don‘t give a damn, do you? You weren‘t even going to mention it, were you?‖ I called them a very naughty word, and left. ―And what would YOU have done?‖ I hear you cry. I‘ll tell you what I would have done. I would have taken the first plane back to Canada, at my own expense if necessary, and I would have written to the prime minister, copy to my MP and every newspaper in Canada, requesting that my country break off diplomatic relations with China and file an official protest with the United Nations. AND I would have expressed profound regret and deepest sympathy for the relatives of the slain students at that stupid meeting. I know it wouldn‘t have achieved anything, but at least I would have done it. And now, back to the nicer things in life. Down in the Islands once more, it was very pleasant to find the boat plugged into the dockside power, a bottle of rum on the cockpit table, ice in the iceboxes, and a few supplies—coffee, bread, sliced ham, stuff like that. I met with Barney as soon as possible, telling him that I wanted to get rid of that roller reefing system and replace it with some proper sails, which he thought was a good idea. He was friendly with the chap who ran North Sails, over in St. Thomas, in the U.S. Virgin Islands, who was visiting him tomorrow, and he would send him along. This duly happened, and two days later Barney said the sails were ready, and he was taking some people to St. Thomas, and would bring the sails back with him. That same afternoon the mainsail was up, and a lovely sight it made. The jib took a little longer. It may be remembered that the jib furling rod was also the forestay, so the whole lot had to come off, and a proper forestay fitted. This was organized by Barney at the local rigging shop, and the following day, off came the jib furling rod,

362 THE BVI YEARS and at last we had a real forestay. On to this were clipped a series of flat aluminium extrusions, each one being epoxied to the next as they were slid up the wire, to form a flat bar on to which the jib was hanked. Thus the jib could still be wrapped around the forestay, but the action was much lighter and smoother because there was no bearing friction to overcome. I asked Barney about reefing the mainsail, and this amazing man promptly sketched an arrangement of lines and pulleys which he called ―lazy jacks‖. These formed an open net on each side of the main, so that all you had to do was let go of the main halyard, whereupon the sail would drop into the net as far as you wanted it to, and could be tied off at leisure. I still have this sketch, and hope I can find it in time. It was done on the back of an envelope, so anyone who thinks this phrase is a figment of engineering folklore had better be prepared to eat their words. Before consigning the roller reefing system to the deep six, I sawed one of the bearings off one end, Neil having promised to have a look at it through Hymatic‘s newly acquired electron microscope. Barney advised me to stick round for a while, because his whole fleet was moving to the newly completed Road Reef Marina in two days. He noticed my astonished look, and told me about it, while we were sipping rum in the Inge II cockpit. For months he had been negotiating with a local contractor, Roosevelt Smith, who was working on the construction of a new marina in an area previously known as Careening Cove, just at the back of Road Reef, one of the ―guardians‖ of Road Harbour. Here I must interject a word or two, to get a pet peeve off my chest, with apologies to those who know about it already. One of the things that drives me up the wall when reading under- researched novels by thriller writers who have never been within a mile of the sea is their use of ―careening‖, when they mean ―careering‖—that is, zooming around in an uncontrolled manner. ―Careening‖ is when you run your boat aground, pull it on to its side by hauling on the main halyard, and scrape the bottom, repaint it, repair any holes and so forth. Anyway, to continue. Nanny Cay had been taken over by a consortium of businessmen, whose first act had been to double the charges for boat mooring. Barney had told them to shove it, and told Smith he would be moving in immediately. Smith had started

363 NUTS AND BOLTS waffling about it not being quite ready, having been buggering about with other projects for months, whereupon Barney said he was moving in within three days, and if it wasn‘t ready he was going to get his own contractors to finish it, and leave Smith to deal with his lawyers. He did, and it was. I was beginning to like this guy. That‘s the way to do business in the BVI! At last we put to sea. What a difference! I spent the first hour just admiring the beautiful curve of the main, its battens ideally placed, taking up an ideal aerofoil section. Inge was having a great time working the jib. Going about was a piece of cake. Never before had we felt so completely in control. Almost too soon, we were anchored in Trellis Bay and, as arranged, phoned Emmett, who collected us at de Loose Mongoose, and took us home for lunch. Next day they left for China, I think it was, or maybe Russia. Here we were, in paradise, living in a wonderful house, with a car. I thought for a few moments that I must have died and gone to heaven, but the highly unlikely probability of the second half of this proposition brought me to my senses, and we proceeded to make the most of it. In the morning we would drive to TMM, where Inge had a steady job teaching computing skills to Barney‘s office staff, while I was in demand for fixing refrigeration systems which had started misbehaving for various reasons. As I worked away on various boats around the marina, some of the others would come and watch and ask questions, and before long I was conducting impromptu classes on the dockside. One day Barney approached me and said he was wondering how much we were going to charge him for everything we were doing. I told him neither of us had work permits, and it was not in our nature to ask anyone‘s permission to work—we just enjoyed doing it. In that case, he said, if I waive your docking charges, would that be acceptable? You just bet it would. The barter system. One of my wilder dreams is that one day the whole world will be run that way. You fix my teeth, I fix your car, and the government can take a running jump. Ah, well, back to reality... The Ryerson term was rudely interrupted one day. I was walking up the main street in Toronto, halfway between the railway station and the hotbed of learning, when I spied a newspaper stand banner headline: ―Hurricane devastates Virgin Islands.‖ How I got

364 THE BVI YEARS through that first class I‘ll never know. There wasn‘t another until the afternoon, so I phoned Inge and asked her to try to get in touch with them. I roamed the streets looking for later editions, but it was all the same—total chaos, they didn‘t even know where the Virgin Islands were! I bought paper after paper, but it was all nonsense. I phoned Inge again, and she was close to despair. All the lines were down, there was no way of contacting them, there was no power, so emergency transmitters were useless, nobody knew what the situation was...and so on, for three anxiety-filled days. Was this the final end to our dream? At last we were able to get through to TMM. Yes, they had a battering from hurricane Hugo, their roof had been blown off, but the boats were okay. We couldn‘t wait to get down there again. What a mess! Houses everywhere without roofs, road crews still working on sections of road that been swept out to sea, and many other signs of utter devastation. TMM had cleaned itself up quite well. Barney took me round to inspect our boat, which looked none the worse. ―Oh, we strung her up like a Christmas turkey,‖ he said. There was a bent stanchion, and the fibreglass had been bashed in some places, but the thing Barney wanted to show me was, he said, something he wouldn‘t have believed if he hadn‘t seen it. On our mast, just above the spreaders, was a small white light, the steaming light, to be shown at night if you are under power. A piece of the TMM roof had blown off, and sliced off this steaming light as if with a sharp razor. And that, said Barney, was the closest our boat came to serious damage. He went on to explain that the reason for the near- total disaster was that the hurricane had stalled over the island for two days, instead of passing over in half a day like they usually did. It had then moved on to Puerto Rico, where again it had stalled, creating havoc in the well-known hurricane hole of Cuelebra, at the east end of the island. He described the utter chaos there—boats piled on top of each other, emergency services completely overwhelmed. The only people who escaped were those who put out to sea in advance of the hit, and rode it out—you need guts to do that. Just then, one such survivor staggered into the harbour and tied up alongside. The crew, a handsome couple, stepped off, fixed their mooring lines, and stood there looking, with infinite sadness.

365 NUTS AND BOLTS

I approached them gingerly. ―Can I offer you a drink?‖ It was the best thing I could have said. We sat and drank rum and chatted about inconsequential things. Everyone knew exactly what had happened, so there was no point dwelling on it. After a while, I thought we had reached a stage of rapport, when I dare ask the obvious question, without upsetting them. ―What are you going to do?‖ He responded in a tone of utter conviction and determination, the like of which I had never experienced before, nor have I since. ―We are going to get what we can for this. We are going to return to the States, where we will buy a motor home, and drive it clear up to Alaska.‖ The end of a dream. Perhaps the start of another one? I really hope so. I felt quite humble, realizing how fortunate we had been. Another Ryerson term was disrupted when I read in the BVI Beacon (the local paper) that some Texas oil multibillionaire called Beale intended to establish a rocket range in the Lesser Antilles (the island group in which the BVI are situated). Apparently the idea was to have a launch facility near the equator, so that he could place geosynchronous communications satellites in positions where they could cover the whole of the earth, and thus have the edge over everyone else. All codswallop, of course, but what attracted my attention was that he proposed to use rockets fuelled by hydrogen peroxide, so I thought I had better do something about it. I wrote to the Beacon, this time as a former rocket engineer, giving a brief summary of my past involvement with HTP– powered rockets (and possibly over-dramatizing my part, but at least the facts of my employment could be checked by anyone with Beale‘s resources). I then went on to describe the awful dangers of handling the stuff, the RAF and Navy missile contracts which had been cancelled because of this, and so on. I pointed out that the Americans had the whole of the Atlantic Ocean to splash into in the event of a misfire, whereas the island group consisted of lots of small centres of civilization, all of which would be put at risk. Finally, I challenged anyone who thought of going along with this insane proposal to stand, as I had, within 100 yards of a rocket engine firing, which would make them realize that this is not a toy to be played with by ignorant amateurs, and why hadn‘t he asked the Americans to launch his stupid rockets from Cape Canaveral, or some other place accustomed to the procedure. I already knew

366 THE BVI YEARS the answer to that last bit. From various sources I had learned that they had told him to get lost. He had already conned the government of Anguilla (which, let‘s face it, is not among the top ten space-faring nations) into going along with his proposal, and the governor of St. Croix (no doubt under the influence of a large back-hander) had allowed him space to establish an HTP tank farm. The Beacon printed my letter, which was followed in the next issue by a sneering, sarcastic letter from one of Beale‘s aides. This was enough to convince me that they didn‘t know what they were talking about, and I was able to trash him in the nicest possible way. I also wrote to O‘Neal, the chief minister, suggesting that it might be a good thing if he were to lead a deputation of concerned citizens of the area in opposing this development. Predictably, I received no reply, not even an acknowledgement. One day I received a phone call from a lady in St. Croix who was forming a group to oppose the whole concept, had been following my campaign against it, and wondered if I would be willing to cooperate with her group in providing material for distribution over the widest possible area. Be glad to, I said, and we discussed it at some length. Then, my curiosity overcame me. ―Don‘t get me wrong—I love having phone calls from ladies in St. Croix, but how on earth did you obtain my phone number?‖ ―Simple,‖ she replied. ―I reasoned that there couldn‘t be too many Tysoes, even in a country as large as Canada, so I phoned directory enquiries, and there are thirteen of you. I struck lucky on my third try.‖ Something new every day. Finally the whole thing got clobbered, I‘m not sure exactly how, but I like to think that I played a fairly significant role. Another upheaval occurred during one of our periodic haulouts to renew the anti-fouling paint. As previously described, I had found out the hard way that we needed tin-based paint, and I now found that this had been outlawed, because some idiot had anchored over an oyster bed, and his tin-based paint had killed all the oysters. Thus I entered the twilight world of illicit goods. The paint was still being made, in places like Brazil and Indonesia, but it was brought in at the dead of night in unmarked containers, and you had to know where to get it.

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Talking about twilight worlds reminds me that I should say something about the introduction of the metric system in Canada, and my part in it. One day I had gone with Inge to an open-air concert on the lakefront, featuring Johnny Dankworth (after all these years!) and Cleo Laine, Inge‘s favourite singer. It was a wonderful setting—a grassy knoll with a small bandstand on top, and everyone sitting around munching sandwiches, drinking beer and having a good time. Much too good for the authorities, of course. It is long since gone, but that‘s progress. Afterwards we strolled round the gardens, and there was a kiosk advertising the forthcoming introduction of the metric system. Since I knew I was going to be saddled with it one way or another, I went inside and asked the girl on duty for a list of the official Canadian government-approved conversion factors. Oh yes, I was determined to behave myself, much as I abhorred the whole business. Her eyes glazed over. She obviously had no idea what I was talking about. I tried prompting her: ―You know—how many centimetres in an inch, that sort of thing.‖ ―Oh, we don‘t have anything like that.‖ Now it was my turn to be nonplussed. ―Would you mind telling me why you are here?‖ That set the stage for what was to follow. On the day it became law, it was clear to me that some very inferior intellects had been at work. Unlike civilized European countries, where you buy half a kilo of butter, we had to buy 454 grams, and still do. In other words, we were getting the worst of both worlds. The legislation also included vicious, totalitarian police state penalties for selling potatoes by the pound, but the eggs really hit the fan when a bunch of escaped lunatics went round pasting conversion dials on all the gas station tire pressure gauges, in kilopascals. This caused such an uproar that it was hurriedly withdrawn, but that incident alone put the kiss of death on peaceful acceptance of the change. Even today you can tune into a traffic programme and hear a report of so many centimetres of snow, followed immediately by some irate truck driver shouting down his cell phone, ―What‘s that in inches, Charlie?‖ I never did find a gas station attendant who knew a kilopascal from an elephant‘s ear. If only they had done it in kilograms per square centimetre AS IN ALL EUROPEAN

368 THE BVI YEARS

COUNTRIES they might have got away with it. From that time on I‘ve done my best to undermine it on every possible occasion. The time came for chairman Ian to retire, and a party was arranged. Unfortunately I had to miss it, because you had to book air travel months ahead to get down to the Caribbean around Christmastime, and I had booked before knowing the date. I had particularly wanted to be there, to pay him tribute, so I asked Bob if he would mind reading out my message. I seem to have lost the original, but this was the gist of it, from memory:

Ian—I am sorry not to be with you tonight. You know the reason. You ought to—you were one of the people who made it possible for Inge and me to be sitting in our boat in the Caribbean at this moment, proposing your good health with a glass of rum....At the end of the winter 1980 term I disappeared...fitting out the Inge II for the voyage south...you hauled me in, gave me a bollocking, and suggested I should drop in from time to time...we compromised...you let me finish without firing me.... If there were more administrators like you, the world would be a better place.

I am informed by usually reliable eyewitnesses that Bob delivered this message with the appropriate mannerisms, and it was well received. What, mannerisms? Me??

O wad some power the giftie gie us To see oursels as ithers see us.

With the new sails in place, we invited Vic and Alison down for a REAL sailing holiday, an invitation which they accepted with alacrity. We spent most of each day sailing around from island to island, while Vic trimmed the sails, delighted with the ease of action, and with the way they set. It took him two days to find that the optimum setting was full jib, and the main down to its second reefing point—there was less than half of it showing, but the Inge II was creaming along faster than she had ever done before. I was totally surprised, and I don‘t think even Vic had expected it to be

369 NUTS AND BOLTS quite like that. What was happening was that the whole driving force was coming from the jib, with the main acting as a slot on an aircraft wing, smoothing out the airflow to obtain the maximum lift/drag ratio. With this setting, we could sail right across the Sir Francis Drake channel without touching the helm. One day we went shopping in Road Town, and Vic bought a spear gun, which the government, in a fit of hypocritical eco-friendly gefingerpoken, had recently banned, but which, in typical BVI fashion, was still on sale in one shop. He carried this down the main street over his shoulder, and nobody even looked twice at us, although I was quaking in my shoes. We anchored off a convenient reef, they took the dinghy, and came back with an enormous lobster which he had speared. I cannot remember a meal I have enjoyed more. Another evening we were anchored in Trellis Bay, cooking some conch fritters on the kerosene stove, when it caught fire. I don‘t just mean that fat splashed on to the burners—the whole bloody stove was on fire! You could see the tongues of flame licking out of joints in the body panelling. It‘s amazing how fast you can move when something like that happens. I frantically unscrewed the gimbal mountings while Vic managed to get a rope round it, somehow we got the thing out on deck, and threw it over the side. It hit the water with a mighty splash and a great gout of steam, and sank slowly to the bottom—about ten feet down— hissing and bubbling for a few minutes. Phew! That cured me of kerosene stoves. Propane for me, from now on. What had most probably happened was that the insulation— fibreglass mat in those days—had, over the years become saturated with fat dripping down, and something had set it off that evening—probably the incandescent end of a match falling down through a gap, or a drop of burning alcohol sloshing over from a starter cup. By this time I had overcome my morbid fear of propane, realizing that all the horror stories about boats blowing up were due to sheer incompetence and stupidity; having propane appliances in the cabin, leaking away steadily and undetectably over a year or two, accumulating in the bilge, waiting patiently for a bilge pump motor to start sparking. In my system, a gas cylinder, together with a gas barbecue on which we cooked most of our meals, was hung over the transom, together with the gas regulator. For stormy days, there was a two-burner countertop stove in the

370 THE BVI YEARS cabin. This was always shut down by turning off the main cylinder and letting it burn itself out. There was NEVER any gas in the cabin. It must have worked, because I‘m still here. An amusing sequel to our narrow escape was that, the next morning, several people with masks and flippers were diving around the boat, scavenging the remains of our stove for spare parts. An interesting event which took place while we were down there was the official opening of the Road Reef Marina. It was to be a grand occasion, with Chief Minister O‘Neal performing the actual opening ceremony. Since this character had already denied me thrice (hey—where have I heard that before?), first when he was the member for Virgin Gorda and I had requested an interview upon arrival, second when I tried to approach him about the college, and third my letter about the rocket range, I resolved to get up close, to see if I could find out what made him tick, unaccustomed as I am to being ignored by tinpot politicians. We became friendly with the owners of a boat called Footloose, which was tied up about ten feet away from the platform at which all the dignitaries were to be on display. They invited us for drinks, and a grandstand seat at the ceremony. After the lesser lights had twittered on about nothing, the time came for the great man to strut his stuff. Even I was astonished at his ignorant, uncouth, totally inappropriate ramblings. It was here that he made his remarks, mentioned previously, about the delays, obstructions and general unpleasantness associated with work permits and trade licenses for expats being deliberate, to give the locals a better chance. I stared straight at him for most of the time, and he glanced at me a few times, but I can‘t say it had any effect. I could see that Barney, in addition to wanting a pee, would have liked nothing better than to have kicked him into the harbour. I was highly delighted when O‘Neil was defeated in a general election, and replaced by Dr. Orlando Smith, but my faith in him was swiftly eroded. There was a crisis at the grandiose government building, built at enormous expense to enhance the prestige of the government. Employees were falling ill in increasing numbers, and to me the symptoms reported were reminiscent of those experienced in the outbreak of the so-called ―Legionnaire‘s Disease‖ in the States a few years previously.

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I went to see Dick about it, and he agreed with me; he had actually been called in to review the air conditioning system, and had put in such an adverse report that they had dropped him. It was the same thing—mould on the wooden supports of the cooling towers on the roof. He had got a scientific friend to analyse the mould, and it included aspergillus niger. That really frightened me. Those were the little rascals that had eaten the ball bearings out of my first TSR-2 oxygen connector. Somehow (don‘t ask, don‘t tell) an investigative reporter had got hold of all this, and Smith had to answer questions in the legislative assembly. Oh, it‘s just mould, he said, everyone breathes some mould every day, I don‘t know what everyone is worried about. Not aspergillus, they don‘t. Of all the irresponsible, stupid responses, this has to be the worst. I think in the end some American consulting firm was hired, and the whole system was replaced, at a cost of several times more than that of the original building. And so we come to the year of my retirement. This coincided with the year of the final accreditation visit, for full university status, and the academic rat-race was hotting up. The brass were hiring Ph.D.s from all over the place, mainly Eastern Europe, graduates from obscure universities no one had heard of, several ―linguistically challenged‖ with unpronounceable names. The first thing I saw upon our return from the south was the Toronto Star, with its front page and several pages inside plastered with large photos of some of my colleagues, peering from partly closed doors, running away, holding their hand up to try and block the camera lens...you know the kind of thing. It turned out that they had gone as a group to spend their summer in Hungary, at a university called Miskolc, which had awarded them doctorates, which they had then passed off as Ph.D.s at Ryerson. Someone (I know who, but I‘m not telling) blew the whistle on them, the Star sent round an investigative reporter, and the rest, as they say, is history. Hilarious! I immediately dubbed the university ―Miscalc‖, and made up a little song about them, which I sang at a staff party. It was based on Nina and Frederick‘s ―Mango Vendor‖, and started off:

372 THE BVI YEARS

Doctor! Buy me doctor! Came to de college before daylight Got to get me doctor before de night, So, buy me doctor, doctor—doctor...

As the date of the accreditation visit approached, I was pushed further into the background. Schedules were issued, saying which profs would be presenting which courses, and it was made clear to me that I would not be presenting my ―Environmental Control Engineering‖, which, let it be remembered, was the first course from this department to be approved by the P.Eng. Don‘t want any pass degree scum fouling up the works, do we? I was allocated some Mickey Mouse course that had been foisted on me to make up the hours. We‘ll see about that, I thought, so on the day I stayed at home. The impact of this action was, however, lost. That same evening, I was dozing off nicely. A thunderstorm was raging outside, but so what? Suddenly there was a bloody great bang—the loudest thunderclap I have ever heard, right overhead. My heart gave a colossal thump, and stopped! After what seemed an eternity, it started again, galloping furiously, like the Charge of the Light Brigade, and then another colossal thump, after which it stopped again, and the process was repeated. I prodded Inge into wakefulness. ―I think I‘ve had it,‖ I said. Instantly, the Nurse went into action. She felt my pulse for a minute or so, told me to get some clothes on, but quickly, busied herself on the phone, bundled me into the car, and less than half an hour later I was in the emergency room of the Mississauga hospital, being pumped full of digoxin. You can tell how long ago this was. I made some remark on the way, like, ―What kind of a dirty trick do you call this? I work all my life, and just before retirement I die.‖ All she said was, ―Just shut up and enjoy the ride.‖ I was transported, with digoxin machine still attached, into the intensive care ward, where a very brisk and competent doctor plugged me into a large console, which had one of those ghastly screens that shows how your heart is doing—you know, the kind that suddenly goes flat in the horror movies. This was still going THUMP diddle diddle, but it was gradually settling down. The doctor then clamped an oxygen mask on me.

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―Hey,‖ I said, ―I‘m not at twelve thousand feet yet.‖ ―Just do it,‖ he said, and left on the rest of his round. I felt like a jerk for wasting his time. Obviously most of the people up here were worse off than me. I was discharged after a couple of days, during which time all hell had broken loose at Ryerson. I had an aneurism, whatever the hell that is. I was at death‘s door, I was dead...amazing how rumours spread. Inge had phoned the office to say that I was being treated in intensive care, and would be unable to continue my duties at Ryerson. Having put me to bed, she informed me that my working days were over, and I may as well get used to the idea. She mounted guard over me, determined that nobody from Ryerson was going to get near me. However, a student managed to get as far as to deliver a present for me. They had clubbed together and bought me a real humdinger of a coffee-table book entitled Modern Jet Fighters, a brilliant feast of superb photography, coupled with excellent descriptions, specifications, and what-have-you. I still take it down from my shelves and look through it from time to time. I went to Ryerson one more time. They were having a big ceremony to honour a number of profs who were retiring after twenty-five years of service, and I was included, despite the fact that I had only made twenty-four and a half. On my way to the hall, I went to have one last look at my old office, and there were my former students, standing around chatting, while waiting for their next class. When they saw me, they all gathered around, and insisted on shaking my hand. I had discovered that it was the one woman student who had suggested their present, so I went up to her and said, ―My goodness—you certainly knew your Tysoe, didn‘t you?‖ I swear that was the only time I ever made a female engineer blush. At the ceremony, I left one last footprint on the sands of time. There was the president, and, within earshot of a number of my colleagues, I said to him, ―It seems I have to retire before I can get to see you.‖ This flummoxed him, as was intended. For days before the accreditation visit I had tried to see him to object to my being prevented from presenting my own course, but his secretary had obstructed me, and now it was my turn. I gather that this, too, was talked about for the next few years.

374 THE BVI YEARS

I will close by saying that, in retirement, it has been my pleasure to oppose junk science like global warming, and to discredit rabble-rousing environmentalist demagogues like Suzuki, whom I was convinced was going to wreck the world‘s economy with his ill-informed crapulous nonsense. But, of course, the bankers beat him to it . And when thyself with shining foot shall pass Among the guests star-scatter‘d on the grass, And in thy joyous journey reach the spot Where I made one—turn down an empty glass!

375

CHAPTER 16: SUMMING UP

a! Are you kidding? Whose leg are you trying to pull? In your dreams, man! Are you speaking to me? Don‘t be H daft!...Well, you get the idea.

PRIME WHEEZE: It sounded a good idea at the time. THE BRASS: Administrators

“Experience is a hard school, but fools will learn in none other.” Or, more civilized: “Experience is a good university, but the fees are rather high.”

Some are, and must inevitably be, better than the rest.

If an item works perfectly the first time, you have obviously overlooked something.

No overtime pay, no overtime.

Safety systems are put in to prevent fools from hurting themselves, and honest men from getting on with the job.

Meetings are a waste of time.

Nobody‘s perfect—even me.

RE PSYCHOLOGICAL TESTING: I said earlier I would justify my derogatory remarks concerning the use of this method in the selection of engineering staff. At a time when I was dealing with a certain company, one of their best sales reps retired. They had just instituted a recruiting system based on this method, and after several months the new rep was announced, with a metaphorical fanfare of trumpets. He was introduced all round the industry—I recall a lavish lunch—and a month or two later he was gone. I rest my case.

376 SUMMING UP

MAXIMS FOR PILOTS:

Q: What is the difference between a pilot and an air traffic controller? A: When the pilot screws up, the pilot dies. When the ATC screws up, the pilot dies.

The most important aerobatic is the 180-degree turn.

Always weave towards predicted flak.

The most useless part of the runway, to a pilot, is the bit behind him.

Kick the tires, light the fires, last one off‘s a sissy.

BUMF: RAF expression for official paperwork. Short for bum- fodder, or toilet paper. Also a mnemonic for the pre-landing drill of vital actions: B: Brakes off U: Undercarriage down and locked M: Mixture rich F: Fuel, on, and sufficient for overshoot; Flaps, as required

THOUGHTS ON EDUCATION:

EDUCATOR: Someone who knows everything about education except how to teach.

“Universities claim to teach people to think, so that they can understand the basic principles.”

This is total nonsense. You cannot TEACH a person to think. Either he can think or he can‘t. Come to that, you can‘t TEACH anyone anything. The best a competent teacher can do is create an environment in which they can LEARN. The whole thrust of my efforts in the field of engineering education was directed towards showing them HOW TO GET THE RIGHT ANSWER.

377 NUTS AND BOLTS

GLOBAL WARMING:

Earlier in the book, I remarked that there would be a lot to say about this. Well, belay that. As the months passed, I became more despondent about the way the whole human race seems to have been brainwashed by this junk science gone mad. Now that the economic life of the entire planet seems about to collapse, the imbeciles running things are still rabbiting on about greenhouse gases, carbon footprints, windmills, and the rest of the claptrap. Sure, the climate is changing—always has, always will—seems to me it‘s getting colder, and there is NOTHING we can do about it. However, we COULD do something about the seemingly imminent financial collapse. Those in charge, who know nothing about either subject, are obviously going to opt for working on a plan, the results of which will not be known for a hundred years, whereas the results of their amateur tinkering with the financial system will be known by next year.

Nevil Shute, my favourite writer, says in the first chapter of his autobiography Slide Rule: ―If I have learned one thing in my fifty- four years, it is that it is very good for the character to engage in sports which put your life in danger from time to time. It breeds a saneness in dealing with day to day trivialities which probably cannot be got in any other way, and a habit of quick decisions.‖

But leave the wise to wrangle, and with me The quarrel of the universe let be. And in some corner of the hubbub couch’d Make game of that which makes as much of thee.

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