“Concerning my second sortie that day on 5 April, 1966 (a dozen years after my first powered solo and exactly two years before another one of fleeting interest), this was flying in ‘S’ Sierra, XE609. I have severe doubts about the technical record that this fire was somehow blamed on venting or ‘leaks from a drop tank’. This surely was a fuselage fire from feed pipes around or closely related to the rear fuselage tanks, a long way upwards and away from either drop tank. The photo conveniently explains one other small thing to me after this long interval. The fire was mostly centred on the starboard side of the fuselage and illustrates why I saw no fire down behind the back end when banking high to the left initially and yawing up to the right to look left to check for smoke low and out of the back. In this photo the khaki shirted figure, who is standing with the airmen surveying the damage, from this back view looks exactly like Wg Cdr E.S. ‘Martin’ Chandler AFC, our popular OC Strike Wing who by then, for a year or so, had replaced tourex John Jennings. This image must have been taken after ‘Sierra’ had been towed in and been returned to the pan near ASF, as there is no evidence of foam on the ground. On landing I had immediately turned off Khormaksar’s runway and jettisoned my brake ‘chute a few yards onto the peritrack, by then aware there was a steaming fire, cooking the rear fuselage. I had hastily applied the parking brake with everything swiftly shut down, stood up, after first replacing the ejection seat bottom alternative handle pin and then the top handle’s slide pin, before unceremoniously abandoning the aircraft by slithering back over the hood and spine, down the wing and off the drop tank. The said fire, more cruddy smoke than flickering, fulsome flames was quickly extinguished by a rapidly attending airfield fire crew.
For some forgotten reason I was away for a few days on some duty or other immediately after this incident and was not able to follow up what happened nor was that fussed really. This was the first air test flight after a fair amount of work or engine change done in ASF. With retrospective analysis, the aircraft had clearly caught fire as soon as I took off. When airborne on that sortie, there had been a completely faltering and then totally useless set of R/T altercations between myself and the tower on both Local and Approach frequencies. Because of that extra strong amount of Aden midday sun beating down, it was only very, very slowly that I would, even could, realise that the rather crazed and ever so dim red fire warning light not only was on but had almost certainly been on for an awfully long time. Nowhere did one ever assume, in any Hunter flight simulator or projected emergency drills, that one could actually have a fire warning light which could come on and stay on, that was not immediately picked up and noticed straightaway! Certainly I suppose I had been spoiled in my previous thousand hours of instructing, mostly on the Gnat and the Jet Provost, sandwiched between my four year Germany tour and Aden – the Gnat had a powerful and unmistakable attention getter system with its more modern primary and secondary warning systems, and the JP3s and JP4s scarcely less so. Later on some modification came in, I believe, to avoid any possible recurrence of imperceptibly dim Hunter fire warning lights in strong sunlight but, possibly, there had also been some contributory electrical cause for the warning light’s pathetic dimness, whatever the sunlight conditions.
It was perhaps two minutes from take-off over the sea beyond the eastern facing runway I had used, when that slowly dawning consciousness heightened to full awareness, on the third time that I carefully inspected the too dull glow of the dim fire warning light in that brilliant Aden sunlit cockpit. I immediately throttled right back and pulled up into a steep climbing turn to port to establish whether or not there were smoke and flames out of the back and make back towards terra firma if possible. Pushing full top rudder to skid and visually cover that poor downward rear visibility below the tail, always the Hunter’s vulnerable blind spot for any defensive lookout as a singleton, there was a nil return on smoke. Straightaway I now had to reason that those mandatory ‘five seconds’ allowed after throttle back, ingrained in every head from our Pilot’s Notes for the warning light to go out before shutting down one’s trusty Avon engine, had perforce to be extended, doubled even quadrupled because of the longer time the undetected warning had obviously been poorly lit up. The Pan call I made was unheard by Khormaksar ATC, totally distorted and unrecognizable after R/T failure, as had been their apparent unheard warning to me on take off that I had started to trail venting fuel and smoke.
Quickly I was in the necessarily very high downwind left hand circuit position, thereby simulating our frequently practised forced landing pattern technique, as the potential of an increasing emergency looked imminent for stop-cocking, if the fire light stayed on, so as to flame out and extinguish both engine and fire. Also I knew full well I was flying above Sheikh Othman township, a hotbed of insurgent activity, when the recalcitrant fire light did, most reluctantly, go out but would reappear with any throttle opening. With a safety first reversion to manual controls and such a light crosswind and 3,000 splendid yards of runway, there was certainly no need (as some later misguided comment from above was added to the SOR!) nor any wish to write off any Adeni families below by releasing those big full 230-gallon drop tanks to turn them into a pair of one ton international political ‘bombing’ incidents. With that supreme confidence we all had in our Martin Baker letdown option available above 100 feet. there was plenty of time and opportunity to drop the 230’s on the deserted sand area when going round high finals, if there was any dangerous lack of control in manual. Thankfully this never occurred and the expected ‘dutch roll’ effect, even with full 230 gallon tanks, was quite minimal. We regularly practised manual forced landings so there was no great drama even though, thankfully in retrospect, my R/T was useless. This event was certainly far easier than one occasion virtually exactly six years previously. This was in a 26(AC) Sqn Hunter F.6 at night when on a ground tour, in fact my fifth Hunter trip that particular ‘day’. It was a complete turret drive failure, thus a double generator electrical and hydraulic failure, when the only airfield to go into was an inky black Gütersloh. There, almost unbelievably after two other runway emergencies, were two disabled Hunter 6’s, one at either end, one of which was in the threshold barrier which was still up! Providence’s hand had said ‘That will teach you a lesson’ for being overly nosey and switching frequencies to listen in to Güt’s unfolding dramas below, firstly on the Approach and then the Local frequency. To say that I, that night, was intrigued. albeit with timely shock and awe, would be an understatement. It was such a delicious moment to chirp up and announce over the R/T to the frazzled Air Traffic Controller my necessary emergency intentions, after that stimulating royal flush of warning lights had charmingly lit up my cosy cockpit on that pitch black 6 April, 1960 night. With both ends of the runway blocked at that exactly same, fickle finger of fate five minutes of night-time, after reversion to ponderous manual control and a few minutes later, I had to judge my wheels four, even more thankfully, unseen feet above that enmeshed cockpit hood and the erect barrier. Fortunately stop-cocking at the precise second and correct height was successful to land safely over both him and the barrier in that only available, opposite runway direction. . . . . and of course there was no brake ‘chute on the Mark 6. However, once the donk was out for this real nocturnal, flamed out landing, just a few feet above the erect barrier, XJ690 settled down and, thanks to the wheelbrakes accumulator, came to a very civilized stop, before that flare-lit runway did!
Back to 1966 Aden, I knew full well, as most others, that several pilots had banged out of Hunters not on fire over the early years after false warnings. I remember those five or six minutes extremely clearly, as much for some pretty daft comments from further up the food chain that went on, about not dropping those drop tanks, after I had submitted my SOR (Special Occurrence Report), without any further reference back to me.
The ‘LULU’ was the urgent demand for and the executive scrambling to the target area of the first pair of fully armed standby Hunters, with our 3” rockets and paired selection of inner/outer 30mm guns (used sequentially or, if needed, all four together), in response to any urgently tasked request from an Army unit in trouble up country, which required immediate close air support. This was almost invariably a Forward Air Controller-directed operational sortie but could be, much more rarely, to hit some clearly definable, specific target area. Usually, as the selected pair, we were already at ‘5-minutes’ readiness for any possible Lulu, with our cockpits fully prepared for any possible scramble start during the period from half an hour before first light to dusk, with our squadron changeover at 13:00. The section leader and No.2 would have been briefed and authorized on the sortie, plus any relevant operational situation on the ground and our more or less standard pair attack procedures.
Each pilot would have carried out his own thorough pre-flight, walk round aircraft inspection and completed all his weapon, external and internal pre-starting checks, with the parachute straps and harness, the ejection seat height and rudder pedals all pre-adjusted individually to suit. His ciné magazine would normally be already in the gyro gunsight or in the right thigh, zipped pocket of his lightweight, usually already sweat-stained flying suit. Finally having signed the Form 700 and authorization sheets, the pair would be ‘on state’. Once a pair was scrambled, the second pair of aircraft and pilots would be brought rapidly onto state. Normally the close air support was co-ordinated by a FAC (a trained Forward Air Controller on the ground or more rarely in a helicopter) in the particular area, usually but not invariably in the Radfan, thus only literally five minutes away. Surely this regular or occasional use of operational HE/SAP warloads for close air support, with live weapons so near in time and distance to such a large main base as Khormaksar, represented a most unusual situation in the history of air power. On arrival in the target area we would usually split our pair quickly into a mutually supportive, opposing racetrack pattern – the second Hunter would be at 1,500 feet or so, level in a synthetic ‘downwind’ circuit position flying in an opposite direction, so that any added instructions from the FAC, as one put down the first short marking burst of three or four rounds was immediately seen and reacted on for a further marking burst by the second aircraft, carefully watching the first fall of shot and taking in any adjustments given. We would call on the R/T to the FAC ‘In sighter for marking attack’ with later ‘Permission, in Live R/P’ or ‘In Live Guns’ and would get clearance if the previous attack line and position had been correct. The Army were extremely appreciative of that assistance always, even effusive but the praise surely should go to that flexible operational workhorse, the Hunter FGA.9. On pull out from one early marker burst, I vividly remember one particular adjustment call from a good FAC up in the Radfan, ‘Five yards beyond but on the other side of that rock’. As we fired our guns at times so close and above our own troops, the Hunters would be ejecting a substantial rasping spew of 30mm shell cases, which our troops affectionately called ‘brass rain’, while collecting the gunmetal feeding links in our ‘Sabrina’ under-fuselage panels. I feel sure I was not alone in preferring to be in a pair rather than ending up as a rare singleton after the unusual situation of an unserviceable start up, purely for the ambivalent feelings after successful support sorties when the casualty results were often given, usually on the following day. If one was in the usual pair, one halved, not always with a faultless logic, the degree of perceived responsibility for the opposing lives taken. Even before Aden, I would normally make every conscious effort to avoid carelessly hurting small creatures and insects but, after Aden and that minority handful of post-Radfan ‘close support for real’ sorties, this policy has been taken to obsessive extremes (mosquitoes apart, after malaria in Nigeria), an aspect never discussed with anyone but at times, when releasing trapped wasps and flies etc, a puzzle to my wife.
Lulu sorties, though demanding in their sense of responsibility for safe and accurately delivered weapons, were obviously much more enjoyable than the often boring Beihan operational patrols where one had to more loiter than fly round at high Mach number, also having those longish drag journeys up and back. My first landing on that hot, high (3,600 ft approx) and short Beihan airfield though, suitably called Operation Kimar Zahn, meaning, in Arabic, ‘a close run thing’ or ‘just OK’ was, by no small margin, the bumpiest runway surface which I ever encountered anywhere in a Hunter. At Beihan the brake ‘chute was most necessary rather than merely a desirable accessory to save brake and tyre wear. The Hunter after touchdown at Beihan was more like a bucking bronco, thus making one extremely reluctant to apply the brakes in any normal fashion as one would have wished. Similarly with this 1,800 yard airstrip being hot and high, the same touchdown Indicated Air Speed was a considerably higher true air speed and landing groundspeed, with those oleos being compressed and extended in such a rapid, unnatural cycle on the uneven surface. Apart from once landing in and with a line squall in Germany or experiencing the joys of an instant armful of throttle and immediate cutting back of this said power down on to Gibraltar’s wet runway into a strong south westerly, landing a Hunter was so straightforward a process. Like so many I enjoyed those standard, smooth Hunter touchdowns and landings invariably expected from that excellent wide Hawker undercarriage on any other RAF or NATO airfield clear of snow and ice, where the Maxarets would of course work fine, if really needed on shortish, evenly surfaced runways. At Beihan to provide that visibly symbolic and operational presence for the loyal Sharif of Beihan, one certainly arrived, for the initial touchdown rock and roll, both shaken and stirred! Beihan too had an impressive backdrop of jebels behind and beside that big tooth-shaped crag, which, as a noticeable distraction, itself made the scenery on one’s curved finals more unusual to say the least. Furthermore on that same hot and high topic, when carrying out strikes over the Radfan and elsewhere similarly high in the Aden Protectorate, one would certainly notice the different performance attributes on pull out recovery from simulated or operational strikes, compared to near sea level operation at similar weights.
Besides so much enjoyable flying and the theatre itself, there are three things which most Hunter pilots would remember, perhaps indelibly, from their Aden days. Firstly and perhaps shared with all arriving by air would be that initial searing blast wall of heat which literally just hit one when stepping out of the aircraft on arrival. Secondly was that easily remembered twin set of three figures engraved on each Strike Wing pilot’s brain from his first trip and ever thereafter, 235 degrees (Magnetic) and 135 nautical miles. This was the easily memorised signpost to Djibouti, the nearest and only viable diversionary airfield for Hunters, which was 135 nautical miles away and, in still conditions, reached by steering 235 degrees magnetic from Khormaksar. Very occasionally one could watch approaching one rolling over the desert from the north, in one great turbulent, angry mountainous wall in a surprisingly changing, deep odd colours of purple, yellow or even green, an obliterating sandstorm with minimal visibility to provide a timely reminder that, although the weather was largely predictable as hot and clear, one needed to be mindful that one’s closest diversion runway was indeed a long way away. A big memory of my only visit to Djibouti, not in a Hunter, was firstly of two of the French Armee de l’Air technicians refuelling our RAF aircraft with lit cigarettes dangling within the rapid chatter of francophone mouths on wings, and secondly of the amount of red wine as pre-flying, routine lunchtime fare.
Thirdly, a shared Hunter memory might be indirectly connected with that Longitude line of 45 degrees East, being thus one quarter way round to the other side of the planet from Greenwich. This north/south line of longitude ran a mere mile and a half from the western runway end but the shared memory connection was the necessary joining of the two 1:500,000 Aden ‘half million’ maps, which each pilot would need to paste and tape together. Their edges to be joined would run up and down that 15 degree east line and what was distinctively and necessarily memorable over these two maps and for flying was that the western half million map had all its spot heights of mountain tops being registered in feet but the more widely used eastern sheets had all the heights in metres – the main operational area just to the north around the Radfan and beyond straddled across both maps. A few miles over the then Yemen border to the west of Dhala was Jebel Jihaf, which rose to 10,720 ft and on our side of the border was a peak of 7,674 ft. To the east of Dhala, itself at 4,575 ft, one had spot heights of 6,523 ft and on the eastern half million maps, to the east of the Wadi Bana, were several heights actually above 8,200 ft, which were marked deceptively on one’s selfsame joined map as merely in the 2,000s, unstated but all in metres!