Afghan Frontier

Flight Journal, Aug 2004 by Morley-Mower, Geoffrey

BIPLANE BATTLES WITH TERRAIN AND TERRORISTS

"WHAT AN UGLY BIRD," I thought, seeing my first Westland Wapiti as it stood on the narrow strip of tarmac outside "C" Flight hangar, 27 Squadron, Royal Air Force base at Kohat, near the southern border of Afghanistan. It was December 1938. A few squadrons of antique aircraft were helping the British army keep order in the ungovernable Northwest Frontier province, where, today, a fanatically loyal population is thought to be sheltering Osama bin Laden. I had joined the RAF in 1937 at the age of 19 and had learned to fly in aircraft that were comparatively modern. My first solo was in a Miles Magister-a monoplane equipped with wing flaps and wheel brakes. The WW I-era Wapiti biplane had no flaps and no brakes. For braking after landing, it had a heavy metal tailskid that bit into the turf and slowed the plane down. Clearly, I had taken a step back into the past.

There was no dual version of the Wapiti in India-or, for all I know, anywhere-and when I flew it, my total flying time was 135 hours and 35 minutes. In other words, I was an inexperienced "bograt," a very junior pilot and of no account. Before being permitted to solo, I was severely reprimanded by my flight commander for turning up the collar of my uniform greatcoat.

"Who do you think you are?" roared Johnny Darwen. "Are you trying to look like an advertisement for Russian cigarettes? just remember this: under no circumstances does an officer turn up the collar of his greatcoat."

When I taxied out for my first flight, I was aware of a row of senior pilots standing on the tarmac to witness my humiliation. Taxiing hadn't been a problem in the Magister, with its hand brake, or in the Hawker Hart, with its toe brakes. Taxiing them was as easy as driving a car. In the Wapiti, however, the pilot had to play the throttle against the rudder surfaces, and he had no other help at all.

I tentatively opened my throttle and made straight for my take-off point on the grass airfield. The Wapiti behaved itself for about 50 yards, and then it veered off to the left. I countered with opposite rudder and a burst of throttle, but the leftward movement simply gained momentum as the speed increased. I throttled back and the aircraft ground-looped, spinning like a top.

The proper technique, I discovered, is not to permit the nose of the aircraft to shift in the slightest degree from the chosen path. The tiniest drift must be checked at once or all is lost. Initiating a turn is easy; stopping it is difficult. The "monster" wants to ground loop, and you have to fight it every inch of the way, especially in a crosswind.

The Wapiti was not fast; its "normal" cruising speed was 85mph. I remember flying over Madras in a headwind and noticing that the traffic on the road below was gaining on me. Fully loaded with four 112-pound bombs, the cruising speed was a steady SOmph. The stated stall speed was 56mph, which was pretty close to my own estimation. I used to think that at 60mph, I was ready to brush the turf with my wheels. Landing was easy. It settled down well on three points and ran straight until the speed dropped off a little. Then the directional trouble began.

In 1936, Mullah Mirza Ali Khan, known as "the Fakir of Ipi," declared a jihad against the British that went on until the British left India in 1947. During that period, 900 soldiers were killed and 1,900 wounded. When I arrived, the Madda Khel Wazir tribesmen had descended from their mountain fastness to loot the provincial city of Bannu. They had captured two Hindu maidens from the bazaar, and an emissary of the Fakir had made it known that the girls had been converted to Islam and had no interest in returning to their parents.

The only punishment for this outrage that could be meted out by the British was to forbid animal grazing in certain areas.

Aircraft were sent out to drop leaflets that ordered all people and cattle out of the designated region. After a certain date, cattle would be killed, but not humans, because killing people was against the League of Nations rules with regard to Imperial subjects. As a punishment, it was ineffective-even laughable. The grazing areas were spread over the highest mountains in almost inaccessible valleys. As soon as the warning had been given, tribesmen moved their herds to an adjacent valley.

I was sent with "C" Flight, 27 Squadron to Miramshah, a fort near the Afghan frontier, and on March 8, 1939, I flew my first operational sortie. By this time, I had learned to control the aircraft on the ground. I took off and left a plume of yellow dust in my wake. The red bulk of the fort squatted below my port wing as I circled the field. It was constructed of mud and brick, like any fortified village in the region, and turreted like a Crusader castle. A hill overlooked the scene. At night, the local tribesmen would climb this eminence and fire shots into the fort. As darkness fell, all the aircraft were wheeled into the courtyard for protection, and the big metal gates were clanged shut.