I learnt about stress from that

Flying Safety, June, 2002

A Tale of a light Line Maniac

Courtesy Airclues (UK), 4/2001

Winter in the north of Scotland, and the weather is living up to a well-founded reputation for its ability to be dreadful. I am on Northern Quick Reaction Alert (QRA or Q) with a well-known F-4 squadron (yes, groundcrew do belong to squadrons as well) for the usual seven-day stint, and it is halfway through the duty. It is 1975, and the flying has been unusually intensive, with Q-birds now lined up outside (no hardened aircraft shelter in those halcyon days) on "the point" in the Siberia-like conditions, with howling winds and driving sleet and snow. The aircraft parked outside are two-tone, with one side covered in a thin veneer of blasted-on ice and snow, and the other in stark contrast, being in the lee of the weather.

To venture into the Q sheds in winter, even with the steel shuttered doors closed, is to invite exposure and goose pimples the size of eggs. The sounds of the storm echo through the dark tin structure of the sheds, even with the hulking presence of two fully-armed Phantoms lurking in the murk. Freezing water is trickling under the closed shutter doors forming puddles, and the doors are rattling and banging as the winds batter and tear at them. It is the fourth day of activity, and we ground-crew are all very tired, having been active for the past four days and through this night launching and recovering Q1 and 2. In addition, we have had to suffer the storms to get Q3 and 4 on line. This has entailed working in the teeth of the weather in darkness, as aircraft were armed with the standard complement of four Sparrow and four Sidewinder missiles, pre-flight maintenance carried out and engines run to check various systems and tune the missiles.

The rest of the crew, including the aircrew, are taking advantage of a lull in the flying to grab some eagerly sought-after hours of shallow sleep, and it is my turn to do the "gases." This is a four-hourly physical check of the various gaseous systems on the F-4, to top up as required and to carry out any minor maintenance required (this in the days when one man could be trusted to carry out aircraft maintenance across trade boundaries and often did so, hence the noble Flight Line Maniacs). I have just checked the left main wheel bay for any leaks, stumbling around in the dark and cold in the weak light from a fast-failing torch [flashlight] and notice that the tyre looks soft. So I dig a pressure gauge out and check the pressure. It is low, so I have to get the tyre inflation kit. No problems; the accumulator will be full and I will not need to drag the nitrogen kit to the aircraft.

Wrong. The kit accumulator is empty, so I now have to charge it via the main bottle set.

The crew room is in darkness and silent save for muffled snores from the main bedroom where my colleagues are asleep, and the crew room heat was welcome on my frozen face and fingers as I gathered the spanners [wrenches] and bottle key. The room smells of cigarettes and sweaty socks, the tables in the darkness covered with the large F700 maintenance documents for each of the four aircraft that are now part of the Q shed inventory. Various games are strewn on other tables, and coffee mugs stand ready for the morning.

Through the heavy steel blast door, being careful not to let it slam shut, down dark steps, through another steel door and into the echoing cavern of the Q1 shed, I duck under the left wing between the Fletcher fuel tank and the outboard Sidewinder, getting my cold weather jacket caught on the fins, ripping yet another ragged vent, struggling free I crouch beside the tyre. Blowing on my fingers for some heat, I connect the bottles up, charge the accumulator and connect the charging kit to the valve on the tyre. The wind continues its blasting, and fresh squalls of sleet are hissing against the tin roof and walls of the dark and cold shed. Wraiths of arctic air seep down my exposed neck, making me shiver. It's surprising how quickly an aircraft can cool down following a five-hour sortie, and the air in the shed must be at arctic levels--if not lower! I am feeling sorry for myself. As usual, some air escapes from the valve as I struggle to fit the damn thing, not helped by the fact that it is still "dark o'clo ck" hours, I am very tired, and my fingers are numb from the penetrating cold. My nose is running, my breath steams in clouds and my many layers of clothes both under and over my denims are not helping maintain my core body temperature. I am also kneeling in a fresh puddle of melted glacier that has flowed into the shed. from the conditions outside.

To my utter frustration, the inflation valve is now stuck on the tyre valve with the air escaping fast...

...And it was then that I did something that I have not been proud of over the intervening years. I panicked and lost my temper; a lethal and heady brew. I tried to pull the jammed valve off but my fingers slipped and I fell backward, catching my head on the way down on the undercarriage down-lock actuator and had the breath knocked out of me, landing in an undignified lump under the auxiliary air door. Struggling upright, I then caught my collarbone on the undercarriage door and landed on both knees, clutching my wounded shoulder and moaning gently whilst rocking slowly to and fro. The language would have shocked Lucifer himself.