A Foggy Irish Tale: Get-Home-Itis Once Again
As the dusk gathered, we finally saw the control tower of our home base in Münster, West Germany, dead ahead at about three miles. It had been a long and eventful flight that had tested us almost to the limits of our capabilities.
Although statistics tell us that flying is the safest form of transport, it is not without its hazards. These hazards include, but are not limited to: the weather, the reliability of the aircraft, the standard of maintenance, and the skill and abilities of those who operate it. Each of these factors can be seen as a link in a chain, and the safety and success of the mission depend on all these factors working together. However, if any of these links is weakened or compromised, the entire chain breaks, and the mission is likely to fail.
‘Get-home-itis’ is the desire to get home regardless of logic, sound decision-making, and or basic instinct - it is often a major factor in breaking the mission chain.
What follows is an account of a mission in which links in the chain were severely tested.
It was the middle of July in 1981 and the Squadron was coming to the end of its four-month 'tour' in Northern Ireland. We were all eager to wrap things up, hand over to the incoming squadron and go back home to Germany.
We had arrived in March, a few days after the notorious Irish Republican Army terrorist Bobby Sands started his hunger strike in the Maze Prison. As he continued to weaken, acts of civil unrest, violence, and terrorism increased, reaching a peak when he finally passed away in May. This meant that our "cabs" (Army slang for helicopters), and our support for them, were increasingly in demand.
During this arduous tour, we did not lose anyone, but one of our Gazelle helicopters was damaged by hostile fire. It was hit by two rounds in one rotor blade and another round that clipped the leading edge of another, peeling back the metal erosion strip like a banana. The pilot received a bravery award for flying the helicopter back to base, even though it was technically unsafe to do so. I suppose he had to make a tough decision in bandit country: either land and risk being shot by terrorists, or fly back to base and hope the helicopter would stay airborne.
As the departure date approached, the "we're going home" anticipation became almost tangible in the hangar and crew room. We discussed our plans: the married men talked about their family holidays in distant lands, and the single guys discussed what they had in mind once they were back home with their families or girlfriends in the UK. Essentially, we talked about how we would all unwind and return to normal life.
At the final flight briefing, the OC delegated who would be assigned to which aircraft and the route they would take. Lynx flight were to fly on an easterly heading over to the east coast of England and then south down to Kent and onwards to Germany. Gazelle flight to take the west coast and then traverse from Liverpool across the country to Kent. Each of the cabs would have a REME technician on board, commonly referred to as a 'flying spanner', to make sure that any required servicing and minor problems could be addressed en route.
Bright and early the next morning, I stowed my overnight gear and toolkit in the Gazelle I had been assigned. Then I went back to the Ops Room to gather the required paperwork for the flight and met my pilot Tim, a young officer.
It was a beautifully sunny morning, unusually warm for this time of year - especially for Northern Ireland. We departed on schedule, passed through the Aldergrove air traffic control zone, and set course for Belfast and then further on to the Irish Sea on a bearing of approximately 070 degrees.
After about fifteen minutes, the main AI (attitude indicator) failed. This instrument is one of the most important for the pilot, as it tells him how the aircraft is positioned in the sky. It is crucial, especially when flying in IMC (instrument meteorological conditions - basically flying in clouds). Without it, the pilot cannot fly unless he can see the ground, so flying at night is also not possible.
With a feeling of annoyance rather than alarm, I turned to Tim,
'Tim, the main AI's gone U/S, we ought to return to Aldergrove to get it fixed, it's not a long job and we can be back in the air in half an hour or so.'
'We'll be okay, the weather forecast is clear all the way, so I'll be fine just using the standby AI', he replied.
I should have insisted because I had a feeling that he had succumbed to the dreaded "get-home-itis" syndrome. However, he was the captain and in command, so we continued.
The main AI is located in the pilot's direct field of vision and is approximately five inches in diameter, while the standby AI is half that size and situated to the left of the instrument panel, making it more difficult to read.
By this time, we were flying over Belfast Loch, well on the way to the North Channel at an altitude of about 2000 feet, which was normal for helicopter operations at that time.
After about another ten minutes, the visibility started to change rapidly, and before we knew it, we were heading towards a thickening cloud bank. The North Channel and Irish Sea, located further south, are known for their rapidly changing weather conditions. Since we needed to maintain visual contact with the sea, descending was our only option. As we descended, the cloud bank kept getting lower until we were forced down to about 300 feet.
Looking to our rear I was alarmed to see that the cloud bank had closed in behind us, so returning to Aldergrove was now out of the question - we pressed on cautiously towards the Scottish coast.
This was when I had my first anxious twinge, because:-
- although we had life jackets on, we weren't wearing immersion suits and the North Channel is quite chilly, even in summertime. If we had to ditch it wouldn't take long to suffer from hypothermia and.…. I tried not think of the consequences.
- the height of the land we were approaching was about 400 feet, somewhat higher than our current altitude.
Luckily, the clouds thinned enough to allow us to climb and creep over the coast just south of Portpatrick. If we hadn't been so fortunate, we could have easily become just another aviation statistic.
We now had to adjust our heading to the east, which unfortunately led us into deteriorating weather conditions. The thickening clouds forced us to descend lower, and we urgently needed to find a place to land.
Referring to his airfield directory, Tim mentioned that there was an airfield at a place called West Freugh just a few miles to the east. We eventually spotted the airfield through the increasing gloom and contacted the control tower via radio to request clearance to land. Almost immediately the skids touched the deck, the clouds surrounded us like a cloak, reducing visibility to less than five yards. Phew, that was a close call!
We were greeted by a confused-looking chap who welcomed us but wanted to know who we were and where we were going.
'After that experience, my first destination is the lav!' I exhaled. We both chuckled rather nervously as he showed us into the control tower and the location of its essential facility.
'When you've both done, come upstairs and join me in a brew.'
While enjoying a much-needed cup of tea, he explained that he was the duty officer of the day, responsible for recording the weather conditions at specific times. He further clarified that West Freugh was a closed airfield, and the tower only staffed during the weather observation times.
'You're very lucky to be here as I was preparing to go home after my ten o'clock report', he remarked – our initial radio call was at about ten to ten. Another link in the chain had been challenged.
We quizzed him about the current weather forecast and decided to wait a while to see if the conditions improved. After about an hour a whiff of wind wafted the clouds away somewhat. The visibility improved and my intrepid companion reckoned it was good enough to continue our journey, although the cloud-base was still fairly low.
We proffered our thanks and farewells to the duty officer as we clambered back into our cab. He said he'd hang on in the tower and man the radio for half an hour in case we needed to return. We agreed that it probably wasn't necessary but thanked him all the same.
As we climbed to 50 feet, a cloud enveloped us once again, so Tim had to reduce our height immediately in order to see the ground. The only trouble was that we now had no idea where we were – yes, we were five minutes out of West Freugh and roughly east of an airfield, but by this time it was completely out of sight!
Flying at less than 50 feet in poor visibility isn't one of the most comfortable situations to be in: hills, trees, aerials, flocks of birds and tall buildings tend to inhabit this region of the troposphere, any of which can be fatal if they get in the way.
Our eyes must have been on stalks as we looked in every direction for some kind of landmark that would help us get back to the airfield. Tim was the first to spot the crossroads on his side of the cab and manoeuvred us close enough to be able to read the road sign pointing to West Freugh. I could just imagine a slightly altered Army recruitment poster: "Join The Professionals and read road signs to find out where you are."
Tim radioed our friend in the control tower, gave him our location, and said we were on the way back. He hoped we would be there in less than ten minutes. So, at less than 50 feet and carefully avoiding wires and telegraph poles, we cautiously followed the road towards West Freugh and landed once again.
Back in the control tower we drank copious amounts of tea and sat gloomily staring out of the window at the thick fog just beyond the glass.
Tim announced that if the weather didn't improve before one o'clock, we would have to stay the night. The original plan was to get back to Germany in one day. If we didn't depart by one, we would run out of daylight before we got home. Remember, without a main AI, we couldn't fly in the dark.
Well you've guessed it, one o'clock came and went which meant we were staying. Our man in the tower said that there was a small hotel in the nearby village of Sandhead and that he would be able to get his colleague to take us there.
On arrival, at what I remember was the Luce Bay Sands Hotel, (on Google Earth, it's now called 'Tigh Na Mara') we booked in, freshened up and sat down to a superb local seafood lunch.
During the afternoon the clouds cleared away and the rest of the day was wonderful - the proprietor of the hotel even took us out for a tour of the local countryside and a place called Logan Botanic Garden.
That night we had a slap up dinner (paid for eventually by HM Gov) and retired quite early after asking to be called at 7 am.
We were up bright and early, but unfortunately the sun wasn't. Outside it was dull and overcast with a really low cloud-base, perhaps no more than 100 feet. Tim pointed out that if we kept close to the coastline we'd be able to make progress, if somewhat slowly.
So off we went again, flying just under the clouds and following the coast. When all of a sudden ahead of us, a silver shaft of sunlight cut through a small gap in the clouds. Seeing blue sky above, Tim increased power to lift us through and we popped out into a bright blue day! A carpet of cloud below stretched out in every direction as far as the eye could see. Above the clouds to the north we could see the Galloway Hills rising to roughly 3000 feet, so at least we had some reference to the ground not far away, but in the opposite direction in which we were headed. I looked down to observe the clouds close the gap we'd just come through – a possible escape route gone forever, I reflected to myself.
'Would you pass me the UK flight charts, they're in my nav-bag on the back seat?' requested Tim.
I searched through his nav-bag but could only find the charts for the European leg of our journey.
'No UK charts here Tim, only ones for Europe,' I replied grimly.
'You take control and I'll have a look myself'. Tim rummaged in his nav-bag and then sheepishly said where they were; on the flight-planning table back in the Aldergrove Operations room. Oops.
Map reading is a skill that every soldier must acquire in basic training. Having been in the Cadets before I joined the regular Army I already had map reading experience, so didn't find it too difficult. We used Ordnance Survey (OS) maps, which are fine when one is on the ground, but they lack essential details if you're in the air navigating an aircraft.
Aviation charts are created to facilitate safer and easier navigation by identifying landmarks such as high ground, peaks, railway lines, roads, radio masts, prominent buildings, and more. They also indicate the locations of airports, navigational aids, radio frequencies, restricted airspace, and air traffic control zones. Flying over a region without a chart can make navigation challenging and potentially very risky.
We were now flying on a heading of roughly 170 degrees, hopefully parallel to the coast, but could see nothing to give us a good fix.
'Tim, if we keep on this heading we should eventually come abeam of Blackpool where we might just be able to spot a well known tower.'
So that's what we did, and after not too long, and to our great relief, Blackpool Tower appeared on the horizon.
Upon arrival, the weather was clear enough for us to land at the airport. We obtained the current UK weather forecast, which indicated low cloud at approximately 600 feet, covering the entire country, possibly clearing later in the south. Without maps and a serviceable main AI, we were now essentially grounded.
'Let's get a taxi into town and see what WH Smith's has got in the way of maps', I suggested.
We considered getting a set of 1:50,000 scale OS maps to cover our route, but it would have meant buying around ten separate charts. Ultimately, we decided that The AA Road Atlas of Britain was the better choice. We paid for it and then took a taxi back to the airport.
We must have appeared peculiar in the corner of the airport café, with the road atlas spread out on the table, held down by coffee mugs, as we sketched our flight plan on it.
We decided to aim for St. Helens first, then on to Warrington, Macclesfield, Leek and Derby. From Derby fly south-east and pick up the M1. Follow that for sometime and then head for Harlow, Chatham and Margate.
We would have to be careful from Macclesfield to Leek to steer clear of the Peak District. Further on the antennas at Daventry and Rugby would need to be avoided.
We submitted the plan to the Blackpool control tower so that at least the people there would know where we going and roughly when we would arrive at each of the waypoints along the route.
Back at the aircraft Tim jotted down the radio frequencies of the different air traffic control zones we were going to travel through, while I did a walk-round check to make sure all was okay with the cab.
Map reading the first leg to Warrington was fairly straight forward as the visibility wasn't too bad. However, from there on, the clouds were quite low and the visibility must have been around four to five miles.
Although this was the first time I'd navigated a helicopter, and was doing it with a road map at over a hundred miles an hour, I was soon able to recognize the towns and villages along the route. From time to time we had to slow down when the visibility changed or when we encountered occasional showers.
Perhaps I'm making it look quite easy here, but I can tell you that it needed my 100% concentration – my eyes were constantly flicking between the outside world ahead and the map on my knees. And of course I had to update Tim every couple of minutes, particularly when we needed to change headings.
I can't say I enjoyed it, but as time went on I become more confident with my navigating ability until, somewhere beyond Northampton, the clouds suddenly disappeared and we were in beautiful bright sunshine once again. I took my eyes off the map to gaze around at the countryside below. While I was distracted Tim climbed us to 3000 feet and when I looked at the map again I couldn't recognize where we were.
At about the same time Tim made a radio call to the Bedford Air Traffic Zone Controller to identify who we were and what our our intention was. Following this I turned to Tim and admitted that I'd lost contact with the ground and didn't know exactly what our location was.
Just like our previous experience re-finding West Freugh, we descended to the ground to look for a road sign to help us on the way. While doing this the Bedford Controller came on the radio and asked if we were lost – I'm sure I heard him chuckle as he did so. Tim replied that we were fine and requested clearance through the zone to Harlow, which was granted - reading the map now was easier as I was able to see much much further ahead.
As we passed London to the east, I could see most of Kent spread out in front and to our starboard side - even as far as the south coast! Rochester Castle was an easy landmark to spot and from there it was plain sailing all the way to Margate and out over the Channel beyond.
There's a peculiar phenomenon when flying over water and the sky is the same colour as the sea, the horizon becomes invisible. In this condition ships appear to be flying in the sky - it's quite odd and initially really alarming.
Anyway, we made it across The Channel without crashing into any of them, landed at Koksijde airport in Belgium to refuel and clear customs.
The remainder of the flight was uneventful: the charts were easy to read, the weather was fine, if a little hazy, the cab performed without any other failures and I managed to keep Tim awake all the way home.
We landed back at our base in Munster just as the sun was setting.
Chatting with those who were waiting for us, I found out that the Lynx flight (4 cabs I think) had taken a different route to us and had flown over to the east coast, where they got fogged in and had to overnight in Newcastle: and they had maps and serviceable AIs!
Our journey was one more example of how 'get-home-itis' can have an negative effect on decision making. As you can see, the links in our mission chain were tested quite a few times: we were lucky that none of them broke, thousands of other aviators have not been so lucky in their rush to get home.