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During my three years as a Test Pilot with the Handling Squadron, the unexpected was sure to crop up now and then.
We were part of the Empire Flying School stationed at Hullavington, near the town of Chippenham, Wiltshire. We were, among other things, responsible for the flying information incorporated in the publication called "Pilots Notes". It was our job to cover the "Does and Don’ts" for all the types and marks of aircraft flown by R.A.F. Pilots.
In early March '45, I was given the task of checking the action required in a Meteor Jet Aircraft should an engine fail at high altitude. The weather that day was favourable - little wind, good visibility and a cloud base at 3,000 feet. I took off and started my climb, heading south. At about 4,000 feet I was clear of all clouds. It was wonderful up there, nothing but blue sky above and a blanket of white cloud below. Not another soul to be seen. I continued the steady climb south until I got to 35,000 feet, the desired altitude for the test.
Leveling out I throttled back, to keep the speed down. Much to my surprise, there was no response from either engine when I again opened the throttles. "Ha Ha" says I to myself, n0w's the time to try some "restarting" one at a time and one after the other. Dropping the nose to maintain a safe gliding speed, I pressed the port engine relight button. To my dismay, nothing happened. I tried again - still no joy. A similar attempt with the starboard engine brought the same result. I turned the aircraft onto a northerly course and called the Home Station for a Q.D.M. - a request for a course to reach the airfield. I also rapidly explained my predicament.
After a short while I heard a faint call of 350 something. I turned into 355 and had another attempt at restarting, to no avail. The batteries were flat. By this time I had lost several thousand feet. Just as well for the aircraft the radio was out of action I for I heard later that a message had been sent saying "Bail Out!"
It occurred to me during that long glide, that the Hullavington runways were a bit on the short side - those at Lyneham, a few miles to the right, were much longer. I duly turned a few extra degrees to starboard and put my trust in my Guardian Angel. The sea of cloud was below me. I didn't have much time to worry about what was below that. Into it at around 4000 feet and through it in maybe 20 seconds. To my surprise and joy, there was Lyneham stretched out ahead and slightly to the right. I could see a runway. Turning towards it, I reckoned I could reach it with ease. I lowered the undercarriage. I was still too high, so with full flaps down, I did a couple of sideslips and touched down safely.
I managed to bring the aircraft to a standstill at a respectable distance down the runway. There was nothing more I could do until someone came to my rescue. I remember pulling the canopy back and throwing off my helmet before taking some great gulps of air. The relief at finding oneself all in one piece after such a fright needs to be experienced to be believed.
I next saw a limousine, pennant streaming off the bonnet, heading across the airfield towards me, from the watch tower. Obviously a high-ranking officer! He drew alongside, looked up and said in a very cultured voice, "I say, Squadron Leader, is this the new Meteor I've heard so much about?" I replied, "Yes Sir", He said, "Do you know what surprised me the most? IT'S SO SILENT, ISN'T IT?"
I was left speechless, I think, which was just as well, as in a situation like that, Silence just had to be Golden.