The Percival Prentice

 

 

Excerpt from " A Prentice Logbook"

 

By Bill Wilkinson

 

My love affair with the Percival Prentice began in July 1962 when I bought G-AOKF for £1,350. Before buying I looked at the specifications very carefully; it was an all-metal aircraft built to military requirements, a six-seat machine, it was fully aerobatic (with two people on board) and had an IFR instrument panel. The glass-house cabin gave excellent visibility; the fixed undercarriage was widely placed and looked as though it could handle the fiercest of crosswinds. The most important requirement was that it was cheap.

 

Pipers and Cessnas were just beginning to arrive in the U.K. and represented an entirely different philosophy. They looked and felt like cars and to me appeared slightly delicate. The Prentice on the other hand was a rugged, sturdy machine built to take a hammering. From the beginning I felt very safe flying it. There were some unique features which aroused my curiosity. It had anti-spin strakes running along the fuselage to the tail and had turned up wingtips, another anti-spin feature. The engine, a Gipsy Queen 30 series II, was slightly underpowered and noisy but economic to run. The parts were easy to get and there were no problems in servicing. Well-padded modern headsets took care of the noise. The Prentice was to replace wood and fabric aircraft such as the Proctor, Magister and Auster. These aircraft were deteriorating fast in the British climate and to pass the C.of A. test was a near impossibility.

 

For night flying the instruments were lit by ultraviolet lamps. The readings on the instruments could be clearly seen. This was far superior to the little dinky sidelights that the new American aircraft had.

 

My Prentice was to be based at Biggin Hill Airfield in Surrey, about an hours drive from Knightsbridge where my flat was located in Central London. The servicing was to be carried out by the Surrey and Kent Flying Club.

 

It was with a feeling of joy that I took off from Biggin and set course for Spain with three of my drinking pals, Roy Fletcher, Pete Dreelin and Pete Heffernan. We were going to Pamplona to watch the running of the bulls through the town. This was an event, which at that time, was not yet a major tourist attraction. Our first stop was Nantes for refueling and then on to Biarritz. After a couple of days eating and drinking in Biarritz we took off for San Sebastian in Spain. I quickly became aware that my war-surplus radio was far from adequate. It had four channels only. These were 118.1, 118.3. 121.5 (the emergency frequency) and 117.9 mhz (the NATO channel). The regional and area frequencies were not on board. As we came to the Spanish border I called the San Sebastian control and asked for clearance to land. No answer. We flew on.

 

I called again. Still no answer. We had a discussion amongst the four of us and decided to press on. If the Spanish Control did not want us to land, surely they would fire off a red Verrey light. We were all watching for a light and keeping a careful eye open for other traffic. Nothing. I put the flaps down and landed. At the end of the landing run I turned to backtrack.

 

Later we were to discover that aircraft movements were controlled by signals with red or green flags. These pocket-handkerchief sized flags were impossible to see from the end of the runway. So much for the jet-age in Franco's Spain.

 

The sole runway was located between two small hills. I glanced either side and noted with consternation that there were soldiers on the top of the hills pointing their rifles at us.

 

"What do we do now? " I asked.

 

Peter Dreelin, a jolly, easy going Australian, who was flying as co-pilot said, "She'll be right, just leave it to me."

 

As we stopped on the apron a platoon of soldiers marched out. They were led by a young officer and halted by our wingtip. Pete slid the canopy back and stood up on the seat, "Buenos dias, senors." He shouted with a wave.

 

"Buenos dias." They chorused back. They were all smiling.

 

We went into the Airport Office and handed over the Gen Dec customs documents. Lots of stamping of papers.

 

"Documentaçion Seguros, per favor, " the officer asked. None of us spoke Spanish. We all shrugged our shoulders.

 

"I haven't got a clue what he wants." I said. Pete, the only one of us who had been to Spain before, spoke," I think he wants your insurance papers, Bill."

 

"I don't think I have them." I said. Then the game of bluff started. I offered my Flight Plan. It stated quite clearly in English, Spanish and French that it was a Flight Plan.

 

He refused this, "Documentaçion Seguros!" He said, with some irritation.

 

I rummaged in my flight bag. I pulled out the weather report from Biarritz. It was a document of numbers; the cloud-base levels, the freezing level, every known meteorological data of the day. In big letters were written the aircraft ident. G-AOKF.

 

There were a lot of indecipherable stamps. I offered him this with a beaming smile on my face.

 

"Buenos." He said, and then proceeded to add his stamps to the paper.

 

After paying our fifty pesetas landing fee we boarded the taxi for Pamplona. We were still chuckling as the taxi wound up the mountains.

 

Our stay in Pamplona was fascinating. The town was totally dedicated to the running of the bulls. All of the participants were wearing red scarves around their necks, all were drunk. We sat at the bar that Hemingway mentioned in one of his books and drank a very rough red wine. The party went on all night.

 

The following day we flew to Cannes via Biarritz. As we approached Mandelieu Airport a Piper Cub was attempting to drag off an advertising banner. This snagged and the Piper crashed into the woods at the end of the runway. I shut the throttle, dropped the flaps and let the Prentice roll to the end of the runway. I braked and shut the engine down. We dismounted and ran into the woods. The pilot was still in the wreckage. He had a broken back. We ensured that there was no fire, the switches were all off and the fuel was shut off. We waited until the Emergency services arrived.

 

That afternoon we found a street-side bar and spent the rest of the day drinking "formidables" (large beers).

After a couple of days we decided to head for home. We left Cannes and headed for Geneva. While flying up the Rhone Valley we inadvertently flew over the French Nuclear Research Facility. The French Air Force scrambled their jets. We looked in horror as we could see their shadows on the ground racing straight for us. They decided we were harmless and flew away.

 

Geneva is a large luxurious airport with the main runway running parallel to the French Alps to the west. We landed and were shepherded to the apron. We spent the rest of the day window-shopping. Prices were astronomic and none of us made any serious purchases.

 

The following day it was time to return to Biggin Hill. In perfect weather we climbed out of Geneva. At about 5,000 feet I became aware of a certain stiffening of the controls. I did not relish the idea of flying over the mountains in an aircraft I could not control and asked for clearance to return to Geneva. This was granted and we started a rapid descent back to the airport.

 

Back on the ground a careful inspection revealed nothing amiss. The elevators were moving freely and we speculated as to what might caused the strange stiffness. We decided to press on. Half way down the valley control called to say that we had not paid our landing fees for our second landing. I offered to send a cheque from London.

 

Control replied, "It is not a problem, don't come back!" We promised we would not, then flew over the mountains.

 

Three and a half hours later we touched down in the U.K. That night I visited my Swedish girlfriend and proposed to her.