How We Blocked St Hubert Airport, Montreal

An air traffic controller came over to us. ‘Will you be long? We have scheduled flights waiting to depart and you’re blocking the runway'

In 1962 I was a Flying Officer Air Electronics Officer (AEO) serving on No 18 Squadron, based at RAF Finningley, part of No 1 Bomber Group, RAF Bomber Command. The Vickers Valiant, which we operated, was the first of the three RAF nuclear bombers which comprised what was known as the V Force; the later arrivals were the Victor and Vulcan. 18 Squadron was different from the rest of the V Force. Our aircraft were equipped not for nuclear bombing but for electronic countermeasures (ECM) and instead of a navigator bomb aimer our crews carried a signaller who was the ECM specialist. The ECM equipment we carried was highly secret at the time, much of it of Canadian origin, and was quite different from that fitted to the main force bombers. Our equipment allowed us to 'jam' friendly ground and airborne radars to give aircrews and air defence ground stations opportunities to operate in a 'hostile' electronic environment. More than once the BBC television transmitters in the east and north-east of England were accidentally jammed out by our activities as we head across the North Sea towards the RAF early warning radar stations. The BBC always explained that the distorted sound and pictures were caused by unusual atmospheric conditions.

The Vickers Valiant itself was virtually ‘all-electric'; indeed, in the 1950s and 1960s the Valiant was often referred to as the Electric Bomber. The undercarriage, flaps, air brakes, flying controls, and indeed most services operated in normal aircraft by hydraulic power, were all operated by direct current electric motors. A powerful direct current generator was mounted on each of the four jet engines. The generators produced 28 and 112 volts to operate the systems and also to maintain fully charged banks of 24 volt and 96 volt batteries which were stacked on a large shelf in the forward end of the huge bomb bay. A series of rotary converters and 3-phase inverters running from the aircraft’s main DC bus bars provided alternating current for some services, such as aircraft instruments and the specialist ECM equipment.

In July 1962 our crew was allocated a Lone Ranger training sortie to Offutt Air Force Base, Nebraska. Lone Ranger was the generic name for an overseas flight operated by a single crew. The idea was to accustom V Force crews to operating entirely on their own without base facilities - the sort of thing that would have been needed if operating from dispersed or emergency airfields during war (if they had survived the initial strike). Landings and night stops on Lone Rangers were often at civilian airports or foreign air force bases. Lone Rangers were highly prized because they were usually jolly good fun and always provided welcome relief from the tedium of routine V Force duties. On these rangers, in addition to the standard five aircrew members, a ground servicing crew chief was also carried. His job was to supervise the aircrew when they refuelled and serviced the aircraft away from home base.  Lone Rangers to the USA were always known as Western Rangers and on those the final destination was almost always Offutt AFB, the HQ of the USAF’s Strategic Air Command. Our Western Ranger, WR 3498, had an extra bonus: we were to take part in an air display at St Hubert Airport, Montreal on the way home from Offutt. However, our ranger was not to go as planned.

On the first day we flew from Finningley to RAF Aldergrove in Northern Ireland where, due to adverse head winds, we had to refuel before the Atlantic crossing. After carrying out our own refuelling and having an extra breakfast, we flew on to the Royal Canadian Air Force base at Goose Bay in Labrador where we stayed the night. (More about Goose Bay on another Ranger Flight 10 years later when I was the Captain/1st Pilot of a Victor anker. Click here). The following day we flew on to Offutt, a flight time of just under 5 hours. After two nights at Offutt we flew north to Montreal carrying out ECM exercises with the USAF and RCAF en route. The following day, 27 July, our captain, co-pilot, navigator and second signaller flew the Valiant on the air display while I stayed on the dispersal with the crew chief to watch, answer the crowd's questions, and sign autographs. The Valiant put on an excellent and very noisy display but then had to remain airborne until the entire show had ended. After landing, the captain was instructed by Air Traffic Control to shut down on the main runway because the taxiways were being used as road exits for the thousands of cars leaving the show. All six of us then assisted with the refuelling of our aircraft and the after-flight servicing. Finally the Crew Chief made the aircraft safe and locked it securely. There being no further scheduled airport movements that day, we left the Valiant on the runway pointing in the direction we would use for take off early the next day. We all then repaired to our hotel and had a splendid night out on the town.

The following morning we returned to the airport very early because until we took off the runway could not be used for scheduled airport movements. And that is when the trouble started! The Crew Chief, as usual, was the first to board the aircraft. Almost his first action would be use the aircraft's internal batteries to open the bomb doors so that we could stow our luggage at the rear of the bomb bay. He switched on the main 24 volt batteries – but nothing happened! The voltage was zero. He climbed out of the aircraft and said to me, ‘Go switch the 24 volts on, Tony.’ Thinking that he had been in the cockpit doing something else and had forgotten to switch the batteries on, I boarded and operated the 24 volt battery switch. Nothing happened. The six of us then gathered outside on the tarmac where a sizeable crowd of spectators was stood around watching. Our captain was beginning to look very worried. This was critical! We needed the 24 volt battery on line in order to operate the contactor that would bring the bank of 96 volt batteries on line. None of us had ever experienced this problem before nor had we ever practised such an eventuality in the flight simulator. The emergency drills in the aircraft manual assumed that the aircraft 24 volt battery supply was always available.

After a few minutes, while we were trying to work out what to do next, an airport vehicle with flashing lights appeared in a rush and a flustered air traffic controller came over to us. ‘Will you be long? We have scheduled flights waiting to depart and you’re blocking the runway.'

The captain explained our predicament and told him why we could not use the airport's external battery sets.

‘No problem,’ said the airport chap. ‘I'm sure we must have plenty of 24 volt batteries. I’ll get some sent across right away and you can use one to replace your own.’

‘That won’t help,’ I said, thinking it was time I made a contribution. ‘The 24 volt batteries are in the bomb bay and we can’t open the bomb bay without power from the internal battery.’

‘There must be another way to get at the batteries,’ said the airport engineer disbelievingly.

‘Afraid not,’ said our crew chief gloomily.

Between us, we explained the Electric Bomber's peculiar system. The ever-growing crowd of onlookers, sensing a drama, drew closer. Eventually the crew chief made a suggestion.

‘I could go up into the organ loft. There's an access panel in there that leads into the forward end of the bomb bay. I reckon I could remove the panel and climb down into the bomb bay. Once I get into the bomb bay you can pass long cables through to me from an external 24 volt battery and I'll clamp them on to our own dead battery.’

Without being asked, the air traffic controller drove off to find some batteries.

The organ loft was the name for a cramped attic-like space above the nose undercarriage compartment which housed all manner of electrical generators, rotary converters and many of the specialist ECM equipment boxes. Access to the organ loft was gained by climbing up behind the nose wheel oleo and unfastening an overhead hatch. We AEOs and signallers were required to go up into the organ loft before every flight. It was more of a ritual than anything else because no-one seemed to know exactly what we were supposed to look for. Only our crew chief knew of the access panel that led from there into the bomb bay.

In desperation, we agreed to put the chief's plan into action without giving any thought to any possible snags or further implications. At this stage none of us had even thought to wonder why the battery had gone flat overnight. Several minutes later a very sweaty and grimy crew chief came back down with bad news.

‘It’s no good. I got the access panel off but it’s too small for me to get through.’ He was rather portly. ‘And what's more I dropped the panel fasteners and now I can't find them - it's dark as pitch in there.’

So we now had loose metal objects somewhere in a confined space that was full of high voltage equipment. The rest of the crew turned to me and looked at my very slim form.

‘Tony,’ said the captain, ‘you're thinner than any of us. Go see if you can get through.’

‘What if I can't?’ I asked, I thought not unreasonably. ‘What if I get stuck in the access panel hole? What if I get through to the bomb bay and you still can’t open the doors? I’ll be trapped in there.’

I was pressed into action in spite of my protestations. The crew chief handed me his torch and I climbed up into the hot, inky darkness. I knocked my shins painfully on several items of equipment but eventually I located the new hole through into the bomb bay. I shone the torch through the hole. That was when I encountered the next problem. There was a considerable drop on the other side which made it potentially dangerous to go through head first as I had first intended.

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