Preparing for NZ

 

Excerpt from " A Prentice Logbook"

 

By Bill Wilkinson

 

Preparation:

There is a saying in the Air Force, "When the weight of paper exceeds that of the all up weight of the aircraft then you are cleared to go. This truism applies equally to civilian flying especially when national borders are being crossed.

 

I was going to fulfil a long-standing dream of flying my Percival Prentice from the Channel Islands in the U.K to New Zealand.

 

In trying to decide on a departure date I had to look at the countries in conflict along the route. Would the Greeks and the Turks be at peace with each other? Would the Israelis and the Syrians be throwing things at each other? What about the Iraqis and Iranians? Would the Indians and Pakistanis be peaceable? Would the Malays and Indonesians be all smiles?

 

Looking at a map of the world at the Royal Aero Club in London two areas stood out like dog's you-know-whats. They were marked in Red and labelled "ADIZ" (Air Defence Identification Zones). This is a roundabout way of saying that there is a war in the area. These were in the Middle East and covered Israel, Lebanon and Syria and another over the borders between India and Pakistan.

 

I listed the countries I wished to fly over and sent them to the Royal Aero Club. This was passed on to the foreign office and within a couple of days a list of each countries requirements were given. Most places were happy with the filing of a flight plan,

 

Syria and Kuwait required 48 hours advance notice.

 

The paperwork battle had started.

 

The next consideration was the range of G-AOMF. It was fitted with left and right wing tanks and had a total capacity of 80 Imperial gallons. This gave a range of about 800 nautical miles. I thought this was a bit tight for some of the legs. There were two ways I could increase the range. The first was to approach an aircraft manufacturing company and get them to do it officially. It would have meant getting plans of the modification of the Certificate of Airworthiness, submitting them to the Civil Aviation Authority. The cost would be more than the plane was worth and the time involved years and not months.

 

I chose to modify the aircraft "unofficially". This entailed buying a 44-gallon drum, putting it into the rear cabin and piping the fuel into the right wing tank. To pump the fuel out of the tank a Bedford truck fuel pump seemed best. The only problem was that the polarity of the pump was the opposite of the aircraft electrics. It was therefore necessary to house the pump in an isolation box made of wood. The pump was sat in a bed of foam rubber inside the box. The necessary fuel lines were purchased at Halfords and the plumbing was installed.

 

The isolation box was placed on the floor of the rear cabin. The fuel line ran into the floor and down to the wing services hole in the fuselage. The hole was lined with a generous rubber grommet, which reduced the risk of chafing the fuel line to zero. Under the wing root fairing the plastic fuel line was connected to quarter inch copper piping. This emerged from the fairing and was run along the leading edge of the wing until it was opposite the fuel cap. It was then run directly up to the fuel cap and into the tank. The copper piping was anchored to the leading edge of the wing with nylon reinforced ducting tape. It ran for just over two feet on the leading edge and I hoped that this would not interfere with the airflow over the wing.

 

The fuel flow tests were satisfactory and it seemed that the fuel from the 44-gallon drum could be transferred into the wing tank in about twenty minutes. The test flight from Jersey over St Aubin's Bay showed that there were no changes in the aircraft handling. A couple of stalls were tried and the aircraft was as docile as ever.

 

All of the tank connections were anchored with Araldite and the tank was vented to the outside through a convenient hole in the fuselage. The tank was firmly anchored to the cabin support posts with nylon strapping. The only thing missing was the number eight fencing wire.

 

The total cost of the modifications was less than £100. No structural changes were imposed on the airframe. We were still legal, almost.

 

It was decided that it was entirely impractical for my wife to accompany me with our two small children. She happily elected to fly to New Zealand via the commercial airlines, but only after I had safely arrived. Peter Robinson, a ship's engineer who wanted to fly to Brisbane to join his ship, quickly took her place. He was not a pilot.

 

My pals at the Jersey Aero Club were following my preparations with a lot of scepticism and much amusement. They decided to organise a sweepstake as to how far I would get. The most money was on Elizabeth Castle, two hundred yards south of the Island. If I flew the whole distance then I would collect the stakes.

 

As I would be flying some distances over water a second hand rubber dinghy was added to the safety equipment I also managed to get hold of the latest in SARBE beacons, a miniature search and rescue beacon. A small revolver with a special license. Was purchased It was kept the control console.

 

Emergency funds, in the form of a handful of gold sovereigns wrapped in a plastic bag, were hidden under the radio beneath the floor in the rear cabin. Any searcher would have to almost dismantle the aircraft to find them.

 

The First Leg:

Everything was in place and there was nothing else we could think of to stop us from taking off.

 

On February 25th 1969, a rainy cold winters day the fuel was loaded, the flight plan was filed, our personal gear was loaded, and Pete had arrived with an enormous backpack with all of his possessions. A few emotional good-byes were said to our wives.

 

Our checks were completed, the engine started and we taxied out to take off on runway 27.

 

The end of the runway falls down to St. Ouens surfing beach. I held the aircraft down until we had a generous climbing speed and made one pass over our assembled rellies before setting course for Dinard in France.

 

Five hours and twenty minutes later we were landing at Nice airport. The Mistral was blowing in Nice and the temperature was a lot warmer than Jersey. That night we unrolled our sleeping bags and slept under the wings. We intended to make this journey as cheap as possible.

 

The next day we took off for Naples. The sun was shining as we flew down the west coast of Italy. There was a lot of activity at Rome Airport and we passed by well clear of their Control Zone. As we approached Naples we were warned that the Airport was closed due to a very vigorous thunderstorm. I reduced height as we flew across the Bay of Naples. The thunderstorm had diminished in intensity as we approached the runway and we were given landing clearance.

 

The arrival formalities seemed a big deal to the Italians. I was taken by the arm by an Italian policeman and walked what seemed miles to have the passports stamped and the landing fees paid. The cost of arriving in Naples was just £2.

 

Later in the afternoon we took off for Athens. We flew the direct route via Brindisi. Night had fallen by the time we had reached the Albanian coast. We followed the coastline around to Athens. To have taken the direct route would have meant flying over some fairly rugged looking mountains. Athens was well lit as we flew over it. The Acropolis stood out in the night sky.

 

We decided to treat ourselves to a two star hotel for the night and planned spend the following morning as tourists.

 

After a good night sleep and a hearty breakfast we walked up the hill to the Acropolis. We wandered around, taking photographs and looked at all of the sights. A taxi ride to the airport followed and we started the preparations for the next step of the journey. I went to the Shell office and organise the refuelling. As I came out of the office a not very tall man wearing a dark suit and a tie accosted me. He demanded an identity. I gave him my passport. He studied it for a moment, frisked me and took me by the arm up a flight of stairs to an office. This I assumed to be the secret police headquarters.

 

A more mature, portly, balding chap sat behind a desk. In passable English he asked me what I was doing here. I explained myself and he was satisfied that I was not up to anything nefarious and waved me on. Back at the plane Pete gave me the thumbs up to say that the refuelling had been accomplished.

 

The next thing was to collect the weather. The Met Office was very helpful and we could expect good weather on our way to Cyprus. As I emerged from the office another shortish gentleman in a suit and tie grabbed me by the arm and demanded to know who I was. The questions were asked in Greek. Another journey up the stairs to headquarters. A very loud conversation was conducted in Greek; I was still clutching my Met report and passport. I was dismissed from the office. My shorty friend looked quite crestfallen that he had not caught a major criminal.

 

Then off to the Flight Clearance Office to pay the landing fee and to file a flight plan. Sure enough I was grabbed by yet another little guy in a dark suit with a tie. Without saying a word I handed my passport and accompanied him up stairs. A vigorous shouting match started the moment we walked through the door. The boss waved me away mumbling something in Greek that sounded like an apology.

 

The Greek nervousness was understandable as a couple of weeks prior to our arrival some Palestinian terrorists had shot up the Departure lounge and had killed a few innocent passengers.

 

When I got back to the plane I said to Pete, "Let's get out of here before we wind up in jail."

 

It was a mid-afternoon take-off and we set course for Cyprus. Flying conditions were perfect. A friend of mine in Jersey, Harry, owned the Nicosia Hilton. He said that if I reached Cyprus he would treat us to a meal and a night's stay in the hotel. He thought his offer was safe, but we intended to keep him to his word.

 

Nicosia Airport was hard to find in the darkness and I almost landed at the RAF base at Akrotiri. We, eventually, landed at Nicosia and I immediately called Harry. He was as good as his word and treated us to a lavish meal. After dinner we were taken for a drive around the city. At that time Nicosia was divided into two zones, one Greek and the other Turkish. We drove through the border into the Turkish zone. As we came up to the border crossing I could see a half dozen rifles following our car. They were clearly identifiable as old Lee Enfield 303s. I felt uncomfortable in the Turkish zone and was very happy when our host took us back to the hotel.

 

The next morning we said our goodbyes and departed for Beirut. We were astonished at the sight that greeted us as we landed at Beirut Airport. A couple of weeks before Israeli commandos had raided the airport. They had shot the place up and had blown up a couple of airliners. Wreckage of aircraft were scattered everywhere. I said to Pete, "I don't think that the folks back home will believe this, let's get some photographs."

 

We took a few photos when from nowhere two soldiers appeared. Their rifles were levelled at our navels. They asked us in French, "what are you doing here?'

 

I replied that we were en route to New Zealand. This puzzled them. One of the soldiers kept us at gunpoint while the other went for help. I was resigned to having the film torn out of my camera. After a few minutes the first soldier returned with an officer. He was reasonably friendly but wanted to know all about us. We told him what little there was to tell. He looked inside the aeroplane. Satisfied that we were not hiding any terrorists or commandos and we did not have any weapons or bombs on board, he departed. Our films were intact!

 

The Flight Clearances Office was just under the control tower. A stairway up through the centre of the building was the only access to the office. Clearly, one of the visiting commandos had emptied his gun up the stairwell. There were chunks of concrete off the walls, bullet casings on the floor. The place was a shambles. The Flight Clearances people explained that we could not overfly Syria unless we prepaid an overflight fee of about $12. No they could not accept the money here, we would have to make "arrangements".

 

We did not know how we could make the payment and wandered back to the Airport reception for a cup of coffee. While having coffee I spotted a travel bureau, it was the Kanoo travel office. I asked them if they had an office in Damascus. They had and would accept payment for our overflying and forward it to the civil aviation authorities. While we stood there they telexed Damascus and confirmed the payment. They were very helpful.

 

The following morning we returned to the airport by taxi. There was a crowd of about 40-50 people at the fence looking towards the aircraft movement's area where the Prentice was parked. I was curious as to what they wanted. The gates to the area were guarded by a couple of soldiers with rifles. As we approached the guards swung the gates open.

 

Someone in the crowd shouted, "Where are you going?"

 

I shouted back, "New Zealand!" The crowd chorused back, "Take us with you!"

 

"Not enough room." I answered. What we did not know was that these were displaced people, probably without passports, trying to get out of Lebanon. Neither did we have any idea that the country would be racked by a civil war a few months later. They knew.

 

We prepared the aircraft for a long leg and loaded all of the tanks. When filing the flight plan we were given strict instructions to overfly Syria at not less than 10,000 feet. I promised I would.

The take off was laboured and the rate of climb was not spectacular. We were directed to fly out over the Mediterranean on a racetrack pattern until we had reached 10,000 feet. During the climb we were looking down into the Israeli port of Haifa.

 

We could almost feel their radar looking at us. I pointed down to Haifa and said to Pete, "I bet they are having a chuckle down there."

 

I looked at the altimeter and saw that we were at 7,500 feet. I called Beirut and lied that we were at 10,000 feet and set course for Damascus. The weight of the fuel was a serious impediment to the rate of climb.

 

We skimmed over the top of the Al Jabal Mountains separating Lebanon from Syria. The altitude was now 8,000 feet. I called Damascus and gave a position report, saying that we were at 10,000 feet and requested permission to enter their control zone. I was hoping that their radar was not sophisticated enough to tell exactly how high we were. Damascus radio came back requesting the religion of everyone on board. I quickly answered "Christian! " If I had said anything else I am sure that the SAMs would have been on their way in a matter of seconds.

 

We set course to intercept the Trans Arabian Pipeline.

 

As we passed over the Northeastern part of Damascus we looked down onto the Military Airfield. This was deserted, no aircraft could be seen. At the same time as the commandos were raiding Beirut, The Israeli Air Force were raiding the Military Airfield at Damascus. They destroyed the Syrian Air Force on the ground.

 

It was with tremendous relief that we left Damascus behind and settled down to flying the 700 miles across the desert. After picking up the pipeline we were confident with our navigation. I noticed that the oil pressure gauge looked a little bit strange. It was normally set on 80 lb/sq". The needle was now vibrating. I wondered if I had an oil leak. There was no sign of any oil leaks during the pre-flight inspection.

 

The first sign of Kuwait was the flames of the oil flares. These could be seen a considerable distance away. We called for clearance to enter their zone. As we turned onto our final approach I could see a string of Bofors anti aircraft guns were trained on us and were following our approach. I nudged Pete and pointed. We landed and taxied into the terminal.

 

We had heard that the hotels in Kuwait were the most expensive in the world and decided that we would camp under the aircraft that night. As we were getting our sleeping bags organised I noticed that two army sergeants nearby were looking quite agitated.

 

I went over to them and asked if our aircraft was parked in the right place. They only spoke Arabic but with sign language we quickly made ourselves understood. They were very relieved when we offered to move the Prentice further down the terminal line. We moved about a hundred yards along the line. No sooner had we done this than a 707 arrived with Saudia Airlines markings on it. About 20 Cadillacs also drove across the tarmac to receive the passengers.

 

This aircraft was bringing the Saudi Arabian Royal Family to receive the condolences of the Kuwaiti rulers on the recent death of King Saud. We watched in silence at the procession of elegantly clad men descending the stairs then climbing aboard the Cadillacs to be driven away. One of these large cars refused to start and the occupants had to get out and give it a push.

 

Pete and I cracked up.

 

The last to descend were the ladies. They were completely covered from head to toe in black. Their faces could not be seen.

 

……………………………….To be continued