The scene looked familiar enough, as the Vulcan crews pulled on their flying kit. But as each man went through his own routine, surrounded by neatly arranged rails of flightsuits and equipment, the mood was different. In the locker room at Waddington there would be irreverent talk of cars, girls and sport; the kind of merciless ribbing found in a rugby club. Thick skins and quick wits were essentials. But not this time. As they slowly pulled on layers of clothing, trying not to rush because of the 80-degree heat, each of them was lost in his own thoughts. The temperature was a struggle. They were going to be flying over a distance equal to about a third of the earth’s circumference: a journey from the tropics to a few hundred miles north of the Antarctic circle and back. They had to prepare to come down in the freezing seas around the Falklands. Some wore long johns under their flying suits. Then there was the ‘bunny suit’, one-piece overalls made out of thick acrilan pile. On top of it all they eased into a cumbersome, tough rubber immersion suit, sealed tight at the cuffs and neck. Heavy-duty zips running up the front and back further restricted free movement. If they had to ditch or abandon the aircraft, the immersion suit would buy them some time at least. Once they got plugged into the jet’s oxygen system they could circulate cool air through the suit. For now, though, they had to stew. Wearing it was definitely the lesser of two evils. Only Bob Wright chose not to put on the immersion suit before boarding the bomber. If he came down in cold water without having put it on, he wouldn’t have a chance. In sea temperatures around 10 degrees Celsius, his survival time would have been about three hours. The seas around the Falkland Islands in April could drop below 2 degrees Celsius. Sudden immersion in seas below 5 degrees induces vagal shock. Wright would have gasped involuntarily, perhaps inhaling a lungful of frigid saltwater as a result. He’d have begun shivering uncontrollably, then his muscles would have contracted, preventing him from swimming. A heart attack would have been a possibility, but without that quick release, acute accidental hypothermia would probably kill him just minutes later anyway. Wright knew all this. If, for any reason, the Withers crew found themselves flying south beyond the first fuel transfer, he decided, he would struggle to pull on his immersion suit inside 607’s cabin. For now, at least, he was more comfortable than his colleagues.
While the two flight crews prepared themselves, Monty and his men returned to the Vulcans. His Nav Plotter, Dick Arnott, climbed into the stifling-hot cockpit of 598 and switched on the Carousel INS to give it the time it needed to align before crew-in. The tiny triangular direct-vision window on the flight deck was open and a mobile air conditioner blew cool air in through the crew hatch, fighting a losing battle to keep the temperature down. All around, ground crews scurried about the fleet of V-bombers. The machines were beginning to come to life. And the noise was coming up. Arnott moved on to get 607 ready for Martin Withers’ crew.
Mick Cooper took himself away to clear his head and gather his thoughts. He lit a cigarette and pulled on the smoke. The others knew to leave him alone. It was only Mick Cooper psyching himself up, just as he did before the bombing competition. As he had then, he returned to the fold radiating confidence. And one or two of the others drew strength from that.
They all filtered out from under the canvas. Before boarding the two Vulcans there was just time to relieve themselves in the dry dirt behind the tents. After this, though, they’d be using the pee-tubes on board and wrestling with the layers of protective clothing. Wearing harnesses and Mae West lifejackets over their thick rubber immersion suits both crews walked out past a line of Victors towards the bombers. Another line of K2s on the far side of the pan pointed towards them, their five-man crews also beginning to climb on board through the hatches on the port sides of the cabins.
Jim Vinales had been shaken by the complexity of the refuelling plan. He couldn’t see how such a baroque undertaking could succeed. There were so many opportunities for it to go wrong. And if anything did go wrong, he thought, there was every chance it would do so with fatal consequences. He’d been lucky to survive bailing out of a crashing Vulcan once, ten years earlier. He didn’t fancy his chances of doing so again.
Vinales kept his feelings to himself. It simply wasn’t the kind of thing you shared. Doubt spread fast.
Barry Masefield just wanted to get in. He was always first in. He worried until he was able to actually touch the jet. That calmed him, up to a point. So did the familiar metallic smell of the cockpit. But for the little AEO, always claustrophobic, the cramped cabin of the Vulcan was far from an ideal environment. He climbed on board 598, took his seat and started his checks, pulling the blue book out of his flight bag, double-checking the AEO log and Met reports. Displacement activity.
Before joining the rest of the crew on board 607, Martin Withers’ Nav team, Gordon Graham and Bob Wright, disappeared underneath the dark shape of the Vulcan’s imposing silhouette to have a look at the warload. They chinned up using both hands to peer inside the bomb bay through the two access panels at its front. The full load of twenty-one thousand-pounders hung there, yellow rings painted around their noses to indicate that they were live. The old bombs had seen better days. One or two even seemed to be oozing some unidentifiable liquid out of the front. Curiosity satisfied, they dropped down, then climbed the ladder into the aircraft’s nose to take their seats alongside AEO Hugh Prior. Prior began to work through his checklist. The jets were combat-readied, but just because something’s worked once, that doesn’t mean it’s going to work next time.
The Dash 10 pod wouldn’t run up. He tried it again. No good. Vulcan 607 might only be the reserve jet, but it had to be fixed. Without the effective new ECM pod, they wouldn’t be exactly defenceless, but going in without it wasn’t a prospect he relished. He thumbed the RT and spoke to the crew chief over the closed-circuit landline. Word was passed straight up the line to the Engineering Detachment boss, Mel James, who sent immediately for the corporal he’d taken from Honington. This was exactly why they’d brought him. The specialist quickly diagnosed and fixed the snag: a tripped fuse on the X-band circuit board. They were still on.
Before the crew hatches were sealed shut for take-off, Monty wanted to wish the two other Captains well. He jumped up 598’s yellow entry ladder, past the tangle of 1950s wiring and hand-painted fuseboxes, past the tin box containing sandwiches, coffee and soft drinks, and stood between the two ejection seats on the flight deck. He rapped on Reeve’s Bone Dome flying helmet. Reeve and AARI Pete Standing turned to acknowledge him.
‘You two all right?’ he asked.
‘Yup,’ Reeve answered. Nothing more to say now.
‘Right, see you tomorrow. Do good,’ he encouraged, and left them, taking the crew ladder with him. They wouldn’t need it until they got back and, until then, it would just be more clutter. Monty skitted across to 607, and pulled himself up to send them on their way. The intercom on Withers’ Bone Dome had packed up on the flight out to Ascension so, much to his annoyance, he was stuck with one of the soft green fabric caps that tended only to be worn by the backseaters. He wasn’t at all happy about the timing of the fault, but at least he only needed to go as far as the first refuelling bracket. Monty tapped him on the head to get his attention.