AIRYMOUSE REMINISCENCES

Following Harry Bot’s Airymouse Currie Wot memories last month, Stan Hodgkins recalls how he learned with Airymouse!

The old line ‘A long time ago in a galaxy far away…’ is what 1964 seems to me now that I am 80 years old... One Sunday afternoon, a tiny black and red biplane made a perfect three-point landing on the grass, just yards from where I was standing, and came to a stop almost immediately. The registration was G-APNT, a Currie Wot, and the pilot was Harald Penrose, ex-chief test pilot for Westlands. I was the new owner and it had been delivered by one of my boyhood heroes, a true aviation legend. He was also a great writer and I can highly recommend Airymouse, his book describing his adventures with G-APNT. At the age of 24, I was a Sea Vixen observer with 890 squadron of the Fleet Air Arm. HMS Ark Royal (the big one) was in refit and we were disembarked at RNAS Yeovilton. I was, of course, a frustrated pilot but had just managed to finish my PPL training at Exeter, with a grand total of about 40 hours, plus numerous trips in Vampires, Hunters and the station Tiger Moth.

Harald was a really friendly gentleman and seemed genuinely sorry to part with his little aeroplane, and he must have wondered how long it would last in my inexperienced hands. He had decided that it was time to stop flying and continue his adventures sailing. Anyway, he just gave me a few cheerful tips about flying the Wot and then he and his wife drove back home to Sherborne. Of course, I just had to fly it immediately. Someone helpfully pointed out to me that it wasn’t insured yet, but that wasn’t a legal requirement then, so off I went. I had just got airborne (from a longer bit of grass than Harold had used) when I heard a change in the exhaust note and noted that one of the long exhaust pipes was no longer there! Nevertheless, I carried on and did a few touchand-goes for the fun of it. The exhaust pipe had fallen in the middle of the airfield and I noticed that it had failed at the cylinder attachment flange. There was no other support for the pipes, and it was a wonder it had lasted that long – this was the first of several jobs to be done and it was several weeks before I flew it again. During the next few months, flying on a regular basis and cheaply building experience, I got to know ‘NT well and had enormous fun practicing circuits, aerobatics and PFL’s. I then started to explore the surrounding country and roamed freely over Somerset and Dorset, just like Harald did in his book. It was a terrific way to sightsee from 500ft in an open cockpit. Above Stan in the 1990s when he flew Airymouse at Newtownards when it was owned by Jeff Salter.

Now we come to the interesting bit which, after a gap of some 55 years, can probably safely be told/admitted. One Sunday morning in the autumn of 1964, I dragged ‘NT out of the hangar – it was a bit misty, but I thought it was flyable, the cloud didn’t look too low or that thick, so off I went. At about 800ft there were a few wisps of cloud, but I thought I could climb above it – BIG mistake! All of a sudden, there I was, enveloped in thick, wet cloud, rapidly running out of ideas. It still looked quite bright above so I continued to climb, hoping to break out into the blue so I could think what to do next. My observer training kicked in and I decided to maintain my heading into wind so that I would not be blown downwind miles from base. I was climbing at 50mph, so my ground speed was probably only about 30mph. Of course, I knew a lot about instrument flying, but

only from the other seat. In front of me was the classic huge Reid and Sigrist standard service issue, air driven, Turn and Slip indicator. I had naturally taken a keen interest in numerous instrument approaches in all weather conditions in Sea Venoms and Sea Vixens, as part of my dedication to self-preservation, but this time it was up to me. I had thought about being in this situation one day and had worked out a method of not losing control. The main thing was not to complicate the matter by attempting turns, and so the airspeed could be controlled by the elevators. Then, if I kept the slip needle centred with rudder, and the turn needle centred with ailerons, all should be well until I emerged above the clouds. Conditions were ideal for carburettor icing but I couldn’t do anything about that as no hot air system was fitted, and I probably didn’t even think about it. The rate of climb was about 500ft/min I suppose, and reducing with altitude.

Wild blue yonder…

Up, up, into the long delirious soaking grey I continued, eyes glued to that wonderful life-saving instrument – by now the rivulets of water pouring over the top of the windscreen had soaked my sheepskin coat, and still the cloud persisted. How long for, I don’t know but it seemed an eternity, and it was COLD. Luckily for me there was no sign of ice, so up I went hoping for a break and, quite suddenly, I broke into the wild blue yonder at 9,500ft on the Yeovilton QFE! Relieved, but still concerned and annoyed at my stupidity, I orbited for a few minutes plucking up courage Top The Reid and Sigrist turn and slip that Stan was so grateful for, dominates Airymouse’s instrument panel to this day.

Above A newspaper clipping during the time Stan owned ‘NT. The guy swinging the prop is Sandy Munro, his Vixen pilot at the time, and today they still fly together in their RVs. for the inevitable descent. I figured that the same technique should be employed, including heading into wind to compensate for any drift while at altitude. Just then, while glancing out beyond the right wingtips, I saw a DC-3 about two miles away. It must have been the scheduled flight in those days between Exeter and London Airport. They must have seen me – I was in their front quarter and they must have wondered if they were seeing things – maybe a ghost machine as imagined by Frederick Forsythe in The Shepherd (recommended reading). Anyway, I decided to vanish into the clouds without delay and commenced descent using the same technique, but with reduced power, just enough to keep the engine warm. Soaking wet and shivering, down I went into the murk, staring at the turn and slip, the ASI and the altimeter – as the Americans say, ‘needle, ball and airspeed’, giving the engine a burst every now and again to check it was still alive. After what seemed another eternity, I reached 1,500ft and peered hopefully into the gloom for any sign of mother Earth. At 1,000ft, still nothing and then, at 800ft, it started to clear – now, where the hell am I? Looking ahead I just saw fields and levelled out at 600ft, looking ahead for the airfield. No sign of it so I started a turn to the left and there, right underneath me, I saw the figures 09 on the end of the runway. Phew! Talk about beginners’ luck – I learned about flying from that! ■