Birdstrike
This article was a distinguished entry in the 2001 Naval Officers Club Literary Prize competition. Written and compiled from LEUT Tristram’s personal account of the incident to the author.
© Copyright 2001 This material must not be reproduced in any form without the written permission of the author.
by John Winslow
The cast of this remarkable story of skill and courage consists of an aircraft carrier, a fighter aircraft, two pilots and a bird, a large one!
The aircraft carrier was HMS Hermes, one of the Royal Navy’s light fleet carriers. The keel for this vessel was laid in 1944, towards the end of WWII, when it was much needed to replace losses at sea. However, before construction progressed far, the war ended and with it the need for another ship of war – the nation’s economy dictated that work was suspended on the vessel.
HMS Hermes (ex-Elephant), was a “heavy” light fleet carrier, displacing 22,500 tons. (This 1966 photo is by Dave Eagles.)
In the 1950s the defence planning called for several new aircraft carriers and so the project was revived. The shipyards of Vickers-Armstrongs at Barrow-in-Furness were a hive of activity as the complex structure gradually took shape. There were many modifications to be made to the original design since the original vessel had been planned for the relatively lightweight piston-engined aircraft of the 1940s. Now jet fighters were in service in the Royal Navy, heavier and faster than the wartime aircraft.
Completed in late 1959, after undergoing sea trials, she was accepted by the Royal Navy and commissioned. However it was just at this time that yet another generation of naval fighters was being developed and coming into squadron service. These latest aircraft were even bigger and heavier than their predecessors and they would test the capabilities of the light fleet carriers to the limit. The angled flight deck of the Hermes had been stretched to its maximum to give the longest landing area and angled at 6.5 degrees. It had the greatest angle of any carrier in the fleet.
Supermarine Scimitar
The Scimitar day fighter was a twin-engined brute designed to carry a large amount of weaponry as well as missiles. Capable of climbing to great altitudes in less than two minutes she was different to all other naval aircraft for landing. Most pilots likened landing the Scimitar to a ‘controlled crash’, often being somewhat ambivalent about the ‘controlled’ bit. To land it on an airfield the aircraft was not flared to soften the touch down; it was simply flown into the ground. Fortunately it is exactly this technique that is used for aircraft carrier landings. Pilots soon got used to the aircraft and found it a pleasure to fly.
The Supermarine Scimitar was a far cry from the beautiful and nimble Supermarine Spitfire of WW II fame. The Scimitar had two 11,250 lbs (5,103 kg) Rolls Royce Avon turbojet engines and weighed a whopping 40,000 lbs (18,144 kg) fully laden. It carried four 30 mm cannon but only 4,000 lbs (1,814 kg) of bombs or missiles. It was known as the ‘lead sled’ around the Pacific. After one combined SEATO exercise, a very senior USN Phantom pilot was overheard to say, late one night in the Cubi Point O Club bar, “Jeez, 22,500 pounds of thrust. Only the Limeys could make that subsonic.”
Carrier landing requires great skill and very accurate flying. If the aircraft is not on centreline, the arrester wires will pull out unevenly and the landing aircraft may go over the side. Too fast and the hydraulic jacks providing the stopping power of the arrester wires may bottom out, causing the aircraft hook to pull out. The aircraft then trickles off the front of the ship in most cases. Too low and you hit the round down and skittle down the deck in a fiery ball.
Corkscrews
The only safe error is to be too high and miss all the arrester wires, doing a bolter. This usually costs the pilot dearly at the wardroom bar later. When the weather is bad and there is a heavy swell running it toughens up the task considerably. The deck can be pitching up and down twenty feet or more and, in a cross swell, the whole ship corkscrews making the task of hitting the centreline a chancy business.
The British-developed mirror landing sight, which replaced the Landing Signals Officer or ‘batsman’, as he was popularly known, was a development that greatly assisted accurate landings. It could be adjusted to target a specific arrester wire and to vary the height of the approaching aircraft over the round down, very important when the ship was heaving. The magnitude of the achievement of LEUT Mike Tristram can be better judged with these facts in mind.
Eastern Med
It was 14 July 1962. HMS Hermes was conducting exercises with the army to the west of the Mediterranean island of Crete. The Scimitars of 803 Squadron were launching for another sortie, the second of that day. Parked in ranks on the flight deck, they started their engines on the command from Flyco. The ship heeled as it turned into wind and a violent shuddering was noticeable as the twin Parsons geared turbines powered the ship to maximum speed for the launch. Flag Foxtrot was run up the signal halyards – flying operations were now in progress.
The aircraft taxied forward to the twin steam catapults and were loaded on. The launch strop, which would fall away after take off, was fitted to the underside of each fighter. The launch officer waved his flag vigorously in a circular motion signalling the pilot to apply full power. The engine screamed and the crackling roar of the raw power could be felt throughout the body.
Having checked the engine instruments, the pilot briefly raised one hand showing he was ready for launch and then, with his right elbow jammed into his waist and this hand cupped behind the control column and the other hand behind the twin throttles, he quickly braced against his ejector seat. The flag dropped and, a brief second later, the catapult fired, accelerating the 17-tonne aircraft to flying speed in just over one second. It was spectacular to watch and an adrenalin rush for the pilot.
(Ed note: These postures aim to stop inadvertent backwards throttle or control column movements during the approximately 6G catapult stroke.)
Mike Tristram and his wingman SBLT Ben Bosworth safely launched and joined up in close formation to proceed to the exercise area over Crete. They were directed to their target by the Air Early Warning twin-engined Gannet aircraft which had been launched earlier and was already ‘on station’. They were to carry a simulated Bullpup missile strike on an airfield near the town of Timbakion. Ben Bosworth, whose Scimitar was also equipped for high speed aerial photography, would do a photographic run after the strike to record the damage for the intelligence officers back on the ship.
The airfields of Crete.
Both aircraft swept in, ‘fired’ their missiles and quickly cleared the area. Mike Tristram then stood off, orbiting at 3000 feet, while Ben streaked in with the cameras running and, the photographic run completed, turned to join up for the quick return to the ship. Mike, seeing him approach and realising that they were running a little late for their scheduled land on time, added power to increase their speed to 480 knots (890 kph).
Ben had not yet resumed close formation and Mike glanced back to ensure that his wingman would still be able to catch up – it was important that they travelled as one unit in close formation. As he turned once more to scan the horizon for the ship he had a fleeting impression of a large bird, believed to be an eagle, immediately in front of his aircraft.
The bird was probably a Sea Eagle, like this Haleucetus albica. Adults grow 69 to 91 cm long, have a 200 to 245 cm wingspan and weigh 4 to 9 kg.
That was the last thing he saw clearly before he was smashed into unconsciousness as the bird struck the front windscreen, passing right through nearly two inches of specially toughened glass and perspex. The shattered glass and remains of the bird struck his face and the full force of the 480 knot gale now coming straight at him threw him into a corner of the cockpit despite the tightly fastened safety harness.
Time unconscious?
It is not clear how long he was unconscious – no crewmembers to witness the incident close up and no cockpit recorders on this aircraft – but after a while he came round. He could not understand why he couldn’t see anything nor why he was in such a peculiar position, hunched in the right hand corner of the tiny cockpit, but he did remember seeing the bird and wondered if it had come through the windscreen.
Dismissing this as improbable since he would certainly have been killed in that event, he sat up straight to sort things out, a brief and very unsuccessful idea. He immediately felt the full force of the 480 knot windblast coming straight through his shattered front windscreen and was once again thrown violently backwards. It was then that he realised that the bird had come right through his front windscreen and decided that cowering to the side of the cockpit was a good idea.
He then set about trying to regain some vision. The cockpit was full of the remains of the bird, blood, guts and entrails, bone and so on; a revolting and bloody mess. He started to claw away at the debris but, as he thought at the time, he was not sure how much was bird and how much the remains of his face. The entrails felt ominous and, in his dazed state, he thought his skull had been split open and that his brains were now spilling down his face.
His efforts met with a small measure of success. He could now just distinguish between the relative dark of the inside of the cockpit and the bright Mediterranean sky outside. He waggled the wings of his aircraft to call his wingman up into close formation so he too could assess the damage and, having seen the problem, provide much needed assistance. He slowed the aircraft to reduce the terrifying battering from the windblast from which it was almost impossible to shelter.
Ben Bosworth crept slowly into close formation and saw something red splattered all over the remaining cockpit canopy. It looked like red hydraulic fluid, but what was hydraulic fluid doing in the cockpit? He knew his leader was in trouble but, unable to see the shattered front windscreen of Mike’s aircraft, he was totally mystified and, not yet knowing the severity of the emergency, merely stayed close to him, awaiting his call on the radio.
Radio calls
Mike was still clearing away the ghastly mess from his face, each time getting faint glimmers of light which immediately dimmed again as more blood flowed into his damaged eyes. He called his wingman on the radio to tell him the full extent of his predicament and to get assistance maintaining altitude and the heading for the ship.
His occasional and minimal vision did not extend to any sight of his vital instruments. The radio microphone, situated in the oxygen mask worn at all times during flight, had also sustained damage as it was struck by the implosion. Mike’s transmissions were mostly unreadable, although he was not aware of this. His reception of other radio calls, despite the incredible wind noise in the cockpit, was good and he could not understand why he was not getting the assistance he so desperately needed.
He finally managed to radio to his wingman that he was disabled and that he needed a running commentary to keep him from crashing into the sea and to get him back, at least near to the ship.
At this stage Mike had not even considered how he was going to get back on board. His initial thoughts were to get back close to the ship and eject, so that he could be quickly picked up by the rescue chopper, but he was uncertain whether the ejection seat had also been damaged and if it would function. The canopy could have also been damaged. Would it jettison, allowing him to eject? It was possible to eject through the canopy but although this was a commonplace emergency escape method in earlier aircraft, trials of such a desperate measure on the Scimitar were far from complete or satisfactory.
Bingo Crete?
The possibility of returning to Crete and landing on an airfield had passed his mind, but they had had no briefing of airfields that could accept them. The prospect of the longer flight to an unknown airfield and the uncertainty that immediate and expert medical care would be available was not inviting. He dismissed that alternative. He would be in good hands in the sickbay of HMS Hermes much sooner if he pressed on back to the ship.
Either the flow of blood was diminishing or his clearance technique was improving. LEUT Tristram could now get glimpses of major features and dimly see the horizon, but was totally reliant on his wingman for directions and advice on his aircraft’s performance. He still could not see a single instrument in his cockpit.
On board the ship they had become aware that one of their aircraft was in trouble, but no idea of the extent of the problem. They prepared for an emergency landing. However, the Commander Air seemed to be in full possession of the facts and decided that a blind landing back on board was far too dangerous. There was every chance that other aircraft on deck could be damaged and even if they cleared the flight deck of personnel there was no telling where or how the aircraft would arrive.
Many in the past in less traumatic circumstances have flown into the island, the multi-deck superstructure on the right hand side of the flight deck. He ordered Mike to eject but Mike cannot recollect ever receiving this order. In his traumatised state, coupled with the lingering doubts concerning the serviceability of his ejection seat, it is quite probably that he had developed selective hearing – Commander Air never fully believed that Mike had not heard this order. Other flight staff, apparently unaware of the order to eject, continued to prepare for the arrival of an aircraft in distress.
As his wingman shepherded him skillfully towards the carrier, Mike was able to make out the foaming white wake of the ship and decided that if he aimed just ahead of the wake he might see enough of the ship to pull off a successful landing. In the cold light of day this very inaccurate approximation of how the approach to the tiny deck was to be conducted is quite frightening, but if he missed all the wires there was still the option of adding full power, pulling up and attempting an ejection, hoping the seat would still do the job for which it was designed.
Charlie time
All was now nearly ready on the deck for the landing but, still unaware of what was taking place in the aircraft, they had not rigged the crash barrier. This was designed to stop rapidly any aircraft in an emergency, after missing all the wires or losing its hook. In the circumstances this was a serious omission.
A Scimitar landing aboard Hermes (above). Experts will note that the aircraft is on centreline, but dangerously low, “taxying up to one wire”. Mike Tristram’s shattered windscreen is below.
Mike had called and asked for a pilot to man the station at the mirror landing sight to give him a running commentary on his approach path. He needed a pilot’s view of the approach, not that of a technician. The mirror was still manned by a non-aviator as he started his approach. He regretted the fact that they no longer had an LSO (always a squadron pilot in the days before the mirror sight) who could provide a comforting and expert commentary on his approach.
Ben Bosworth, flying close on his wing, gave him the much needed commentary on his approach path, continually calling minute adjustments to his heading and rate of descent to keep him aimed directly at the arrester wires and on centreline. Mike was determined that he would catch a wire and bore on down, placing his trust in the advice he was receiving.
Dark shadow of ship
With only restricted and constantly varying vision he started to make out the dark shadow of the ship beyond the boiling white wake. He was getting close. The directions from his wingman were staccato and to the point. The mirror control officer interjected at intervals telling him the approach was good. His confidence built, but he had to keep it up until he felt the aircraft impact with the deck and the deceleration as the aircraft hook engaged an arrester wire. If there was no deceleration, he was left with no alternative. It had to be an ejection.
His wingman peeled off near the ship’s stern, leaving his leader with just a few feet of the approach to complete and less than a second from touch down. With an almighty thud Mike’s Scimitar hit the deck. The landing gear oleos compressed to their full extent, cushioning the impact, and he was immediately thrown forward against his harness as the aircraft came to a stop in under 100 feet. He had landed and caught a wire – virtually blind.
LEUT Tristram was awarded the Queen’s Commendation for Brave Conduct, a large step up from the more frequently awarded commendation For Services in the Air. He modestly feels that it was his desperate attempts to get quickly to the ship’s sickbay, rather than bravery, that convinced him to attempt the seemingly impossible.
The damage to his eyes was miraculously only superficial and he quickly recovered from his injuries. He flew again just four days later, albeit with suspect eyesight and stitches still in his face.
Written and compiled from LEUT Tristram’s personal account of the incident to the author.