Hello everybody - I labour under the Nomme de Guerre of Findo Gask. I grew up in Burtonwood from 1954 to 1975, and I too am looking for some more info / reminiscences / experiences of the V-Bomber period at RAF Burtonwood. Particularly from anyone who flew Vulcans et al and any other supporting aircraft into and out of Burtonwood in that mysterious but fascinating period of 1961-1966. I've written my own personal response to the impact of the Vulcan upon my life, I hope you won't mind me attaching it here, and I'd very much value some peer reviews. Hopefully it may stir some dormant sparks of memory. And I hope you enjoy reading it.
THE VULCAN AND ME
The soundtrack to the first five years of my life, was the sound of Wright and Pratt & Whitney radial piston aero engines, approaching and retreating through the sky above my home. Growling in the distance, roaring and coruscating, tones and timbres metamorphosising as they manoeuvered and taxied on the ground, revving hard and then rasping and grappling skyward. Day and night, every day of the year. I grew up in the mobile shadow of the Dakota. The bigger aircraft I later learned were Globemasters, C-54s and WB-50 “Weather” reconnaissance aircraft.
I grew up on the edge of the village which was home to the world's largest United States Air Force base outside the USA. Its presence seemed to be the be-all and end-all of the village’s existence. Its buildings – strangely shaped, mysterious, multifarious, secretive - sprawled all the way from the southernmost boundary of Burtonwood village, right into the northernmost perimeter of Warrington town itself. The floodlights on its “pan” lit up my bedroom window from two miles distant. From my earliest memory, I remember, knowing "the base” was vast. It was not until my teenage years, that I was to learn at first-hand how truly gargantuan the place was. Bigger than most towns, - certainly bigger than most American “small towns” - a city in miniature, “Little Detroit”. Too large, surely for its services ever to be dispensed with? Too big to fail?
A few days before my fifth birthday, almost overnight, “The Giant” fell inexplicably mute. A cruel silence fell upon my life. The floodlights no longer illuminated my bedroom curtains. Like a child growing up in a steel-making town, I had known nothing else but the constant, comforting, doppler-ing drones of these familiar engines. They were respectfully distant, but sturdy, unfailingly reliable companions, and now they had deserted me. Our house was at some remove from the main village. I had no friends of my own age. I needed none. The Dakotas had been my mature, robust, eternal compatriots. And now they were gone.
Then shortly after came the further trauma of SCHOOL! Why did I need to go to school? I could already read (I read the newspapers every day). I had all the education I could possibly need at home. Why did I have to go to this cold, lofty, inhospitable place to suffer the bullying of all these stupid little kids, and the inexplicable rage and impatience (and misunderstanding) of teachers? Without even the support I had previously enjoyed from my roaring, departing and arriving friends.
“The Convoys” of American Army surplus vehicles regularly rumbled past our house at glacial speed. The building would shake and vibrate for fifteen minutes as they approached from locations unknown, trundled past and ultimately retreated into the distance, in a fug of dark-blue-grey diesel fumes. This was to be the new function of “The Base”, then? My dad drove me down there one Sunday afternoon when I was about six, and there were about fifty of my old friends, all now silent and awaiting their fates: fifty Dakotas lined up side-by-side, nose-to-tail, wings and tailplanes interleaved, still proud, still nose-high, unbowed. I felt such admiration, respect, affection and a tinge of childish regret for them. “The Convoys”, huge and frequent as they were, just seemed to disappear, absorbed into the enormity of “The Base”.
And then – a few months later – an apparent miracle. In some previously unknown and totally unexpected way, the Giant awoke from its slumber. Not with a drone – but an insistent, endless whistle, day and night, interspersed with THE LOUDEST NOISE OF ANY KIND I HAD EVER HEARD! Thundering waves of approaching earthquake, cold, hard, crackling, deafening roars, starting on the ground and leaping skywards, rattling the windows of the house, causing the Earth itself to tremble, only gradually fading away, four waves at a time. I should have been terrified – but I was enthralled, excited – almost an involuntary sense of fulfilment. Occasionally, through the perennially cloudy sky, I caught a tantalising glimpse of a massive triangle roaring swiftly overhead – and then it would be gone. I lay awake in bed at night, comforted by the distant whine, and the floodlights were back on again! The green-and-white searchlight on the roof of the water tower swept round incessantly through the gloom, illuminating its twin-triangles of industrial pollution, or northern mist. The four-wave, slowly rolling, eaves-rattling, all-enveloping earthquakes erupting without notice at any time around the clock. I think, for the first time in my life, I actually felt alive!
Now and again, another arcing groan of piston engines, somewhat more laboured, a subtly distinct and different drone – its perpetrator again generally hidden by the all-enveloping cloud. I just assumed that it was, once again, returned for some unknown purpose, my old pal the Dakota. But its shape, again glimpsed fleetingly through the overcast, although two-engined, wasn’t quite right.............. And on other rare occasions, could be heard the slightly apologetic, half-jet half-piston sound of a turboprop – never having been known at Burtonwood before.
“Dad - what are these jets?”. (I had occasionally heard “jets” at The Base before – nothing like these Titans, of course!) “They’re our V-Bombers, son, I think most of ‘em are called Vulcans. I think the RAF send them here so that the Russians won’t find ‘em all in the same place at once.”
The Russians?
Vulcan? Wasn't that the name of a big local factory that made railway engines? And the name of the pub that my Aunty and Uncle ran? As far as I was concerned, the name felt far more appropriate to these huge, deafening, triangular aeroplanes.
I'd aready become aware of The Iron Curtain, but now was hearing talk amongst the adults of new expressions – The Cold War; The Four Minute Warning; Pushing the Button. What did all that have to do with Burtonwood? And then, after about ten days, the Giant fell silent again. Why weren’t my strong, invincible, new-found-friends staying around? Was I to be betrayed and deserted again?
Spring 1961. I was seven years old. It was a cold, damp, miserable, overcast Spring. The house was chill, damp, disconsolate, tedious and smelled of cigarette smoke. The whining and the roaring had resumed. Burtonwood was alive again. The Vulcans were back! My big brother had just passed his driving test and was occasionally allowed access to my Dad’s Bedford Dormobile Crew Bus. I managed to persuade him to drive me down to The Base one drizzly, misty Tuesday evening. The level-crossing type barrier which stopped vehicles accessing the short-cut road through the base when the main runway was in use, was firmly down and guarded by RAF Police. And we weren't allowed to stop by it. So we turned left down an old roadway which had once led to a wartime dispersal. It ran parallel to the runway, and it was "this side" of the chicken-wire perimeter fence. We parked about 50yds from the Police-post. Alighting from the 'bus, I could see straight through the diamond-shaped lattice, and looked south-eastward. Just off the eastern end of the runway, through the all-pervading damp, I could make out four great white winged machines turned north-westward towards me. I knew by now what a picture of a Vulcan looked like. Three of these machines looked like Vulcans, and one like a - Victor? The whistling whine I could hear from my bedroom, here was loud and permeated the whole atmosphere. There were old-fashined looking caravans, buses and other military vehicles.
Without warning, a Vulcan dropped down right next to us out of the no-more-than-100-foot cloud base, right before my incredulous eyes, too fast and too enveloped for us to have heard its approching scream, screeched its undercarriage tyres down on the tarmac, puffs of light-blue smoke as it landed. Vast, proud, snow-white, ghost-like-bird, apparently looking and rushing implacably west down the runway, displaying that unmistakeable black radome "smile". Its wingtip seemed to flash over my head! It was by in an instant, the huge brake parachute fluttering and flapping noisily behind, waves and waves of hot paraffin air flowing over me, and the rapidly dissipating odour of burning rubber. How could anything so massive actually fly? As this visitor from another world was rapidly obscured by the mist, I simply stood, open-mouthed, pointing, speechless. Stunned into disbelief.
Seven years old. The most impressionable age. The defining moment of my life. I was hooked. I had fallen instantly, iredeemably in love, for the first time.
The "detachments" came and went at regular intervals over the next year or so. "QRAs" I later found out they were called. The village alternately exploded into life, then was silent and desolate again. You could walk down to "The Base" during these quiet times, look around at the vast horizon in all directions - no sign of aircraft of any kind, no personnel, apart from the regularly, suspiciously patrolling RAF Police in their obsolescent, dark-grey Morris J2 crewbuses. It fascinated me that suddenly, everything could be "happening" - then - nothing. I swear I once saw tumbleweed blowing north-eastward across the main runway! But every now and then - my wandering true love would return to me, and I slept soundly in my bed to the lullaby of sweetly-singing, mini-turbine Auxiliary Power Units.
October 1962 should have been a detachment like any other - but this time something was different. There seemed to be many more aircraft than usual, much more activity. No-one was allowed anywhere near The Base. The atmosphere in our house was tense and even unhappier than usual. Starting on a moribund Thursday afternoon and stretching right through the weekend, V-Bombers landed and took off almost incessantly, it felt like the village would be torn apart by this constant rumble and tumult. And more variety of aircraft - my mis-identified "Dakota" constantly flying around (spoiler here - I eventually learned it was a Varsity) over my school again and again - doing what? Calibration? Crew training? Bringing in supplies? Security? And frequent visits by a large turboprop aircraft - the Argosy? And HELICOPTERS! What on Earth could be happening? Was The Base being rightfully returned - overnight - to its former glory? But this felt altogether more serious, more urgent, more sinister - something which was happening which was quite outside my imagination, or control, or comfort-zone.
Then I read the Daily Mirror on Saturday morning. In horror. A four-page spread, including the centre two pages. The world was about to be plunged into nuclear Armageddon, we were all to be annihilated over a standoff between the Americans and the Russians. There, right at the centre of the Daily Mirror, pictures taken inside an American espionage/command and control aircraft (an early AWACS?) - the control desk from which nuclear war would be administrated, and there - the biggest picture of all. A big, red (was it falsely-coloured in? I know it was red in the picture) button. THE Button! The one which the American Serviceman in charge of the aircraft, would push to begin the end of everything. Me. My Mum. My Dad. My Brother. Everything. Everyone. I seem to recall the caption read something like "THIS IS THE BUTTON!" or more dramaticaly "THIS IS THE BUTTON THAT WILL END THE WORLD!" I had never before been so convinced of anything, as I was that the World was going to end within the next couple of days. I sat quietly and waited, cold and desolate inside. I was also convinced that this very aircraft was airborne somewhere high above our village. The tiny room under-the-stairs was quietly but hastily tidied and cleared to accomodate the whole family. We ruefully regretted having dug-up and demolished the old Anderson Shelter in next-door's back garden, which had once been associated with our own house.
By Tuesday the sorties had begun to decrease. The night-time take-offs subsided. The whining APUs grew fainter. The visits by the Varsity and the Argosy ceased. The newspaper coverage became less hysterical. By the following Friday the Tumbleweed atmosphere had returned. The Cuban Missile Crisis was over, but no-one was ever to reassure me that The Button had gone away.
It only occurred to me in later adult life - those 'planes were carrying nuclear weapons! Atom and hydrogen bombs! Any of those times I heard those Waves of Four take off, they could have been on their way to destroy - well, Moscow, Kiev, Leningrad (as it was then), Murmansk - and probably not coming back...............…
The QRAs became less and less frequent, by the time I was twelve they had all but stopped. Then - one early summer's morning - the familiar prevailing sou'westerly was blowing, the sky was a gorgeous powder-blue, furnished generously with cushions of hasty, white, fluffy clouds eager to be on their way. I played quite happily in the back garden. There had been no aviation activity of any kind for some months - then! - a familiar roar from the direction of The Base. My heart leapt with unbounded joy, the Vulcans were back! I rushed around to the front, almost tripping over myself. The triumphant roar grew and grew, the ground shook, and above the distant rooflines of The Village a beautiful white vision effortlessly tackled that gorgeous blue of the sky at about 35 degrees, visibly tucking up her undercarriage as she went. Was soon at about 1500 feet directly above Bold Power Station. And then - still climbing, and totally without warning - and I was truthfully struck by the feeling of spontaneity - she completed a perfect 360 degree victory roll! My mouth dropped open once again. There was no-one around to tell - it had happened, in an instant it was over! The Sun was just at the right point on its journey through the sky, to catch the full glint and shine of those immense anti-flash-white wings, twinkled for a split-second on the aircraft's minute glazing - how could such a huge beast do something so agile, so effortlessly? I had stood on the ground as one of these mighty beings rolled past - aghast that it could even FLY - but now! - that something of that size - could perform such gymnastics?! Then she turned North, and East over Earlestown and continued to climb slowly, traced and rumbled her way through the sky at the back of the house, disappearing directly away over the Foundry that bore her name.
But - wait - there was another roar! Couldn't be the same aircraft, I could still see her smoke trails disappearing in the distance. A second Vulcan launched on the same trajectory as the first - climbed to the same height - and executed the same aerobatic manoeuvre! This was incredible - a private air show all to myself!! Then there was a third roar - and a fourth! The customary Wave of Four. All four aircraft executing exactly the same graceful and spectacular roll, glistening and glinting white, spreading their beautiful wings against that marvellous sky. Their white, and that of the little clouds, complementing each other perfectly. As the last thunder-rumble and crackle died away north-eastward, I was thoroughly unable to believe what I had just witnessed. To this day, I can scarcely believe it happened. I have never met anyone else who will confess to having seen this spectacle. But I stood there in my back garden watching them fade into memory, listening to the silence already once again descending over The Base, and cried with exaltation and gratitude. Fly safely, fly well, my true loves!
I read many years later that "QRAs ceased after June 1966" and that the RAF as a flying proposition withdrew from Burtonwood thereafter. The mining of coal seams beneath Runway 09/27 and the attendant subsidence, precluded any further heavy-duty use. Although no archive documentation appears to exist on the matter, I rather fancy (it suits my fancy, anyway) that my last four, white, beautiful birds had been part of some type of closing ceremony, a Bomber Command farewell to Burtonwood. Well away from their home bases of Finningley, Waddington, Scampton, Coningsby or Marham, the lead aircraft piloted by a somewhat high-ranking officer, well familiar from long sorties with the aircraft's capability; no ordnance or particular fuel load on board, it flashed into his mind "we've got to do something a bit special - can't pass up a chance like this!" and had - spontaneously - twisted the aircraft's L-shaped yoke sharply to the right. She had rolled perfectly. The pilot of the second aircraft in the "stick" had then glanced up out of his tiny cockpit window as he pushed his throttles forward and began his take-off roll, seen the display and muttered, or thought "We're not bloody letting that bugger get away with that!" And at the very same point, had made exactly the same move, perhaps muttering "Sorry, chaps!" down his RT to the rear-seat crew, buried in the aircraft's bowels. Then the third (well-experienced) pilot had opined "well if they can both do it, so can we!" and Number Four had pronounced "Sod it! We're not being left out of this!" Perhaps there was some prior, covert discussion between the crews, perhaps there was some heavily-coded RT chatter - but it suits my temperament to believe that it all happened on the spur of the moment.
It must have been around this time, that I would learn the true identity of my faux-Dakota. After a quiet ("Tumbleweed") period at The Base, another warm and clement summer's day, a twin-piston-engined aircraft was flying round and round, landing, taking off, landing, over and over again. And now, I could see from it's overall shape, as it droned over the house, that it definitely wasn't a Dakota, but it was about the same size. It was an aircraft, a reasonably large, actively flying aircraft, it was worth going taking a look at. So, I borrowed a neighbour's dog, and went for a walk down to the runway. It took about half an hour to get there, the 'plane was still flying round and round. I could see as I got closer, it was a grey aircraft, with splashes of orange "day-glo", and a nosewheel undercarriage. And RAF markings. Approaching the runway, I could see the "level-crossing" barrier was down, and it was manned by the RAF Police. And their faithful old Morris J2 crewbus. The RAF policeman seemed not unfriendly, but he struck me as being most distinctly un-policeman-like, most definitely un-RAF. He reminded me more of a stand-up comedian, or Northern music-hall artiste. He seemed approachable, so I enquired politely with him "Excuse me officer, can you tell me what that 'plane is, please?" He leaned back, one fist on his hip, pushing back the peak of his cap a little with his other hand, and rather distantly scanned the horizon. He replied slowly, with a definitely local accent "It's a Var-CITY". "Why's it flying round and round?" "He's doin' calibration checks." Whatever they were. All very interesting, a British version of the Dakota, a few more flight-deck windows, a longer nose, a bit more modern. Until now, didn't even know such 'planes existed. Anyway, I felt to make any further enquiries with him might just be an annoyance, and perhaps might even seem a bit suspicious. I didn't want to get arrested. I watched the "circuits and bumps" for a while longer, then walked the dog back home.
Aviation then began to have a decreasing significance in my life, the role and the profile of the Vulcan changed, there was less and less activity of any kind at The Base. Railways, music and girls began to become far more interesting. It was not until eleven years later, I got married, and went on my honeymoon - and subsequently family holidays - to a North Wales seaside town immediately adjacent to a busy RAF station. The long-forgotten regular rasp of turbojet engines, the long, whistling taxi-runs, and the sudden and clever antics of fast aircraft. My memory, my childhood emotions and connections were stirred from hibernation.
We were all made aware of the impossibly heroic Black Buck missions to the Falklands - although none of us were to discover, until a couple of decades later just how impossible and heroic were these sorties. And achieved, of course, by a troupe of Vulcans, redeemed from obscurity just as they were about to be scrapped. Suddenly, and long overdue, the Vulcan became a national icon. Well, I always knew they would get the recognition they deserved. They just left it a bit late, that was all.
As with any RAF station worth its salt in the 1980s, RAF Valley held an annual air show. We now had children, and timed our family holidays to coincide. The weather was always glorious, my old childhood friend the Dakota was in sharp evidence; but, of course, for me, the highlight was the Display Vulcan. About 5/8 the way through the show, holding away in the distance, pulling an improbably tight holding-loop just above the horizon, was the reassuringly menacing, triangular shadow of the great bird. Darker than ever, now in her tactical, low-level, multi-green-and-grey camouflage. Her show slot came, she made the classic centreline approach, incredibly, agonisingly slow, her silhouette looming larger and larger, distinctly nose-up, no sound audible from her at all, dropping lower and lower. My God! had she flamed-out, was she going to crash? She approached the front of the crowd line almost "on the deck", I now detected the reassuring whine from her engines, the pitch of which was already rapidly increasing. As she arrived almost exactly opposite me, no more than 50ft off the ground, the throttles opened, and she let out - I know this is a cliche, but it's just the only possible description - the bellow of some great primaeval beast, trumpeting across a prehistoric swamp, a triumphally deafening and primal howl, followed by that almost-forgotten, great earthquaking roar. All other sound was completely blanketed. We were joyously deafened. Her nose went up, but she gained no forward speed. Then she just climbed effortlessly away from the runway, trailing huge plumes of wonderful black smoke, achieved about 1200 feet then twisted and dived back again towards us. By now, every single car alarm amongst the thousands of gathered vehicles was bleating enthusiastically. People were clapping and cheering and of course, I was in tears. My first love was back, strong and agile as ever, huge and elegant.
The rest of the display was noisy and impressive, undercarriage up, undercarriage down, every single variation of profile, configuration, bomb doors open, approach, departure and manoeuvre; airbrakes out and in; fighter-like tight turns (on a wingtip!), wing-waggles. But not that incredible victory-roll. Well, by now, she was a rather venerable and distinguished lady, we couldn't expect her to do anything that might put her, and her crew, and people on the ground at risk. A final flourish, another deafening high-speed, low-level pass, then a steep, turning climb away and - gone! Marvellous. The ground still trembling for seemingly minutes afterwards. I'm sure the announcer was moved to say "Well - follow that!"
I was ultimately prompted, cajoled and persuaded to join the Air Training Corps as an adult instructor. Having taken some time to become used to the strangeness of my new calling, I ultimately began to relish the prospect of being allowed legitimate access to previously mysterious and forbidden RAF stations, on Annual Camp. One of those early camps was at the old RAF Abingdon. VC10s were being taken out of storage and prepared for refurbishment to flying tankers but sadly, over on the old bomb-dump and fire practice areas, two or three decommissioned Vulcans awaited their fate. Still largely physically complete, but sadly never again capable of mounting the air. Vanquished but still proud old warriors. And, thanks to the efforts of some of the Air Cadet Liaison team, a few Cadets and members of staff were allowed access to the previously only-to-be-imagined interiors - the Coal Hole, and - no, you are joking! - the cockpit (as I was to discover, it could hardly be described as a flight deck). Now, standing beneath that great iron triangle of delta wing, as the crew access door was unlocked, I finally appreciated what an enormous and complex piece of work this was. How on earth did they EVER fly, to say nothing of carrying out those complex manoeuvres?
The access ladder came down (not quite to the ground, and I never was much good on ladders, but hey, I wasn't going to miss this opportunity), I clambered up ungracefully, and caught my back on the door catch. Ouch! Sticking my head into the Holy of Holies, my first thought was Where do I go? There didn't seem to be any room at all to get into the Belly of The Beast. Certainly no headroom to speak of. Then with even less grace, I insinuated myself into the Coal Hole, into which were squeezed four seats - three, shoulder-to-shoulder facing backwards at inexplicable, incomprehensible dusty instruments, across a rudimentary metal desk, worn to a sheen, and a fourth, tip-up seat, just behind, on the left, also facing backwards, tightly adjacent to the tiny round window. The enclosed atmosphere was hot in that summer weather; the interior of the aircraft held that familiar, at once reassuring and disquieting aviation smell - a melange of old leather, hydraulic fluid, aviation fuel, warm electrical insulation, rubber and vomit. Turning with some difficulty and looking forward, I was confronted by another short, narrow ladder and could make out, at the top, through a small gap, the narrow and thoroughly inadequate cockpit windows. "Wanna go up on the flight deck?" someone asked. "Will I make it up there?" "Some Vulcan pilots were older and bigger blokes than you!" Couldn't miss this, I struggled up the vertical ladder, and squeezed myself into a claustrophobic space smaller than the front seats of a Mini. I literally had to squash myself between the two pilots' seats, lifted my leg awkwardly over the throttles, and sat myself down in the Captain's chair.
I could barely see the outside world. The round cockpit window, which I'd always assumed was huge, was directly adjacent to the left side of my head. And was no bigger than a porthole. The "main" cockpit windows appeared as no more than slits. The American B-36 pilots used to say that flying one of those monsters, was like sitting in your French windows and flying your house. This must have been like trying to fly your house while crouching behind and trying to see out of your letterbox. In a tiny lobby crammed with clocks! There seemed to be thousands of instruments, gauges, lamps, indicators, clocks, and of course the flight controls - that legendary L-shaped stick, and the rudder pedals which pushed back against your shoes. You would sit literally cheek-by-jowl with your co-pilot, almost as intimately as Father, Son and Holy Ghost in the back! You must have had to have been pretty good mates. I held the stick, set my feet as comfortably as I could at the pedals. "It's OK, you can move 'em around a bit, they're not connected to anything any more". So I did. A boyhood dream. I was at the controls of a Vulcan! Moved those four great throttle levers back and forth, too. Then my attention was drawn to the concertina-folded blinds above, and the Velcro strips around each window. "On a nuclear mission" our guide said, "once they'd taken off, all those blinds would come down and be fastened tight - to avoid the flash from the weapon. They'd fly all the way there, and most of the way back - if they ever came back - purely on instruments. There'd be just dim red lights in here." Even on training missions, to be as realistic as possible, so that the crew would be used to "standard procedure".
Now let me get this right - on a QRA scramble, five or six big men, of a certain age, in cumbersome flying suits, and heavily padded-up with immersion and cold-weather gear, and carrying flight-bags, would be expected to run to the aircraft, up those ladders, find their seats, plug themselves in, don their helmets, seal the aircraft and be airborne in less than four minutes? "Yes". And then fly for hours, without being able to see outside, imprisoned in a dim-red cell - with not even anywhere to have a pee? "Quite right. And probably with an eye-patch on, so that, if the flash did get one eye, they'd be able to fly just on the other." And would probably be advised, if it were the 'real thing' to not bother entertaining any prospect of coming back? "Yup." I felt the romance and mystique of this flying life begin to ebb away a little. "But they carried on doing it, honing and perfecting their skill, year after year, and all loved the Vulcan dearly." Yes, that I could understand.
And in the latter days, when the Vulcan's role was changed to "tactical" (i.e. low-level) the pilots would have had to fly this massive machine, just - looking out of the window? "Yeah, that's right, and utilising the Mk.1 eyeball". Through a letter box. And a porthole. It was at this time I became aware of the RAF concepts of LOTW ("look out the window") and TLAR ("that looks about right").
The eighties wore to a close, I still attended the odd air show, and the Vulcan was always the show-stopper. Never disappointing in her volume, dimension, grace and agility. But no aircraft can fly forever, especially not something so large, so complex and, let's face it, so obsolete as the Vulcan. Her technology was from the 'forties, no aircraft would ever be expected to fly effectively and safely for such a massive length of time. And yet - when she flew - she still looked so futuristic, so other. At the end of the display, it was always as if you almost couldn't believe what you'd just seen. Like those times aged seven, and twelve, at Burtonwood. But we had to face the truth, the RAF (i.e the Government) weren't going to stump up the increasing costs of keeping just one aircraft flying, no matter how heroic its exploits. The sad day came too soon, in the early 'nineties when she made her final flight. Banking over the crowd, achingly slowly, as if not really wanting to depart, bomb bay doors wide open, with that heartbreaking word "FAREWELL" taped in huge letters within. Even just watching it on TV, I sat and wept. They were condemning another integral foundation of my childhood. Like Bold Power Station, and Parkside Colliery, both of which I'd watched being built. The latter seen grow inexorably, vertically into the skyline as the civil engineers pumped in concrete, 24 hours a day. Like the "new" control tower at Burtonwood, which had stared dispassionately towards my bedroom window, across the rooves of the village, the whole time I lived there. Like all those other mysterious and arcane buildings on The Base, slowly and mercilessly being torn down, reduced to rubble and scrap; carted away by the lorryload like just so much meaningless rubbish. The very fabric of the place which had, on numerous occasions, been integral in maintaining world peace. They were demolishing the years that had formed me. And I was powerless to stop it. They call it Progress.
But someone bought her! Someone was brilliant and stupid enough to buy XH558 and vowed to return her to her natural element! That visionary, saint and genius was Dr. Robert Pleming, a person who must have shared similar feelings to my own, about these flying tributes to the ingenuity and foresight of humanity. The news was good, the news was bad, it came and went. The money was available - the money had all gone. Some procedures cost ten times more than originally estimated. Mystery donors contributed; I threw in the odd contribution wherever I could. Against my better nature, I started gambling on the Lottery, in the hope that I might win enough to throw the odd million at the VTS Project. Previously unappreciated structural strengthening was necessary - that might not, in the end, actually work. There was enough money, just - then the CAA couldn't decide what type of certification she needed. Some components were strictly time-limited, and time wasn't on her side. It all went quiet again. I vowed and declared that when the prospect of her first flight in restoration was announced, I just had to be at Bruntingthorpe to see her.
The symptoms which would harbinger my ultimate diagnosis of bowel cancer were starting to trouble me in 2007, probably distracting me, when out of the blue it was announced - she'd flown that day! They'd hoodwinked me, got her airborne without notice - and she had performed beautifully, faultlessly. I watched the footage on TV later that evening - and, yes, I wept again. She'd triumphed again! I would at last be able to see my first true love doing again what she did best.
Not unsurprisingly, given the impact of the bad news foretold above, much of 2008 and 2009 saw me out of action, with invasive tests, treatments, procedures, operations and convalescences. By 2010, thanks to the NHS in general and a brilliant team of Consultants in particular I was back to full operational status - and shortly thereafter bestowed command of an Air Cadet Squadron! I dutifully attended various air shows with my unit, XH558 was always the highlight, The Big Draw. I revelled in watching her and listening to her - even if she couldn't get up to anywhere near the antics of yesteryear. There was too much money and too much to lose to risk putting her in jeopardy, just for the sake of hubris. She was the last of her kind. The sole survivor. The only one to have escaped extinction.
But she took me by surprise a couple of times - once driving south down the A1 in Nottinghamshire, on a Saturday afternoon, on my way to see my eldest son - serving in the RAF at a base in Lincolnshire, and quartered near RAF Cranwell. I became aware of a shape in my left peripheral vision - an immediately familiar, instantly recognisable profile. It was her! Flying alongside me at probably no more than 200ft, taking her time, slowly moving forwards to appear in my left windscreen. There are no laybys to speak of on that part of the A1, so I couldn't pull in to watch. Slowly, inexorably, she pulled away from me, finally leaving only a vanishing, smoky silhouette in the distance. I just felt blessed.
Again, driving back with my (now) partner, from seeing her son in Oxford. On the Northern Ring Road I became aware ahead, of the outline of an aircraft retreating away from us. And a distant rumble, over (or should that be beneath?) the engine and road noise. A dark aircraft with a very large wingspan. And four very smoky, very closely grouped engines. Which didn't have a T-Tail; and therefore by a process of elimination wasn't a VC10. Could only be the Vulcan! Presumably having been to Brize Norton for maintenance (didn't know that was happening!) and was now on her way back to - Bruntingthorpe? Robin Hood(the old RAF Finningley)?? "Look, Kay, it's the Vulcan, it can only be the Vulcan!" "Oh, wow.........................." Kay was mightily unimpressed. "It's just an aeroplane".
The last time I saw XH558 perform was at RAF Cosford in (I think) 2014. She flew right over me. Several times. I took some footage of her on my digital camera - trying to avoid including the bald and capped heads all around me - but nothing could replace the actual physical, visceral experience of being there, with her, in her magnificent presence. There never had been, and never would be again, another one like her. We all knew, we were drawing to the end of an era. Listening to her roar, and howl like a victorious animal, and whistle softly, flick away from you, flick towards you - like a tiny fighter but multiplied by 100! Absorb it, drink it in, embed it on your consciousness. I cannot deny that I felt proud - probably a little unsure just of what! Just imprint on your memory, indelibly that ground-trembling rumble as she leaves you in the wake of her wonder.
I have watched pairs of white swans flying "in formation" above my house, inwardly comparing their wheeling synchronisation to that of V-bombers in their classic, pure-as-snow anti-flash white livery. I have observed the athletic aquatic gliding of Thornback and Manta Rays, how their magnificent "delta wings" bestow them the ability to manoeuvre, turn abruptly, flip, and then "fly nose up", snouts just poking out of the water, profoundly reminiscent of the Vulcan approaching its display that day at Valley. And how the Manta Ray's eyes, perched out on those twin probosces, remind me of the tiny porthole in the Vulcan's cockpit. The way they can take flight spontaneously out of the water at fantastic speed. I know the comparisons should be the other way round, I know my perception is very much "wrong end of the telescope" - but just refer back to the paragraphs above - I was seven years old, for goodness' sake!
The end came in 2015. Over the course of one weekend, XH558 was going to overfly as many towns in the UK as she possibly could, before touching down for the last time at "Finningley" - to be grounded for ever. We all knew why, we were all aware of the "Donald Rumsfeld Concept" of flying such a rapidly ageing machine - there were too many things that we didn't know we didn't know. There were no essential spares left for her, it would have been prohibitvely expensive to have made new ones. Even just setting up the tooling for the manufacture of such things - just for one aircraft. Yes, I know, I know, and yet.............. There was an aching, inevitable, inescapable sadness about it all. She could have flown for another five years, or been a Smoking Hole In The Ground in the middle of the following week. Everyone wanted to keep her flying and everyone realised that they couldn't possibly do that.
One of her final dates was to be with Liverpool John Lennon Airport - along the runway which I'm certain, to this day, was built principally to replace 09/27 at Burtonwood - so the US Army could continue bringing materiel in for its largest European storage facility. (At the time the new runway was built, to exactingly modern standards, Liverpool was little more than a small provincial airport). Ask the people who lived on Hale Road in Widnes who, in the 70's and 80's were periodically awoken in the early hours of the morning, by the rumbling of lines of slow-moving armoured vehicles - moving from the direction of Speke (as it was then) towards - well..................... - where else if not Burtonwood? And I swear that, in dawn's bleary light, early one morning in 1979 or 1980 I saw from my bedroom window in Castlefields, a massive Douglas Cargomaster (I distinctly remember the "thimble" nose radar) on approach to Speke. There were none of those in use by anybody but the USAF.
So, the house in which I now lived was directly beneath the main ILS approach to said runway, I should be in line for a fantastic, if almost unbearably poignant view. In fact, she was due to fly right down the Mersey from Manchester, and over the Silver Jubilee Bridge. What a sight that was going to be! Except - the "powers that be" decided that such a spectacle would cause far too much traffic chaos in Halton. Of course, traffic chaos in Halton was something totally unprecedented, wasn't it....................................?! How sardonically appropriate, that the mighty and ancient God of Fire was to be ultimately cowed and defeated by those most modern and omnipotent of twin Gods - Health, and Safety.
Anyway - she was still going to "salute" LJL, she still had to approach, and depart, one way or another. I found myself the highest possible spot in Runcorn with a reasonable view of the runway. This was near the appropriately-named Prospect 'pub, overlooking the mighty chemical works. At least I would get some sight of her either arriving, or leaving. She was due in at 14:00. I arrived there about 13:15, and waited, impatiently scanning the skies. The wind was light, and from the North West. It was a balmy sort of day, a little hazy, but visibility was good. The Mersey and Weaver estuaries stretched out below me. 13:57, still no sound, no sight of her anywhere, was she actually going to appear? She couldn't let me down, not this last time, could she? Then - at exactly 13:59, there was a movement in my left peripheral vision. I swung. Silently, her dark presence stole in over Frodsham Hill, dipped slightly over Frodsham Marshes, swished regally past me, just below, just the slightest sound of turbojet engines discernable. I watched through my binoculars as she turned gracefully, first to port, then to starboard to line up with the centreline - she dipped out of sight towards Hale. A few seconds later there was a familiar but muted roar, in the distance, of those four mighty Olympus engines - still at peak performance. I saw her emerge again, wings outstretched, unbeaten; climb and bank away again in the distance, down towards Garston, Aigburth, the Albert Dock, Liverpool Waterfront, all points North. Watched her until there was no more of her to see, just a faint patch of smoke in the far distance. She had gone. I think I waved and whispered an almost inaudible "Goodbye............"
She had burst into my life with a roar, and departed from it again fifty-six years later, on a whisper. I guess I would have preferred her to have deafened me one last time - but this was enough, I had seen her, I had borne witness to her, I had said my goodbyes while she was still flying - perfectly. There are still places in the country where I could go to hear that roar again, to see her "fast-taxi" but, if she's not going to vault into the air, what's the point? The brake parachute will deploy again, too soon, the airbrakes will pop out like latent barn-doors, the wheel brakes will apply, her nose will drop, she'll slow and turn ruefully back towards her dispersal or hangar. There'll be hardly a trace of that once proud radome smile. She'll turn disconsolately from her natural element. She will have had her expectations wildly raised, and cruelly dashed. In a few fleeting moments. I can imagine a tiny drop of condensation trailing down from that flight deck port hole. Oh come on, she's just a machine! Yes, but what a machine, and what an impact she has had on everything that I am.
