Our squadron was in southern India at Yelahanka airfield near Bangalore to convert from the 7000 lb Hurricane IIc to the 15,000 lb P47B Thunderbolt known as the Razorback.
One morning my turn came for the first flight, and I climbed into a P47 on the flight line, started the engine, strapped in, and waited for warm-up temperatures to reach the green lines. The oil pressure gauge failed to perform as it should have done, so I shut off the engine and climbed out to ask for another aircraft.
This was provided, and the boarding procedure repeated.
This time the warm-up went according to the book, but magneto trouble gave results not conducive to safe flight.
So, again, shut the engine down and climb out!
By this time the CO, S/Leader Jim Cranstone, a Kiwi pilot, became aware of the situation and had the answer.
“Neil, take my aircraft, its not flown yet today”.
So, into P47 number 3.
All checks were OK, so, taxi out to the runway, cockpit drill completed, and trundle truck-like down the concrete airstrip waiting for the speed to build up to the 110 mph needed to rise into the air.
I turned my gaze from ahead to the cockpit panel, to the white needle of the airspeed indicator.
It hadn’t moved!
It was still quietly indicating zero speed!
A shock of horror!
Only a fortnight back a P47 had stalled on approach with a faulty ASI and arrived inverted on the mess hall, fortunately after the breakfast crowd had left.
The idea of taking 7 tons of unfamiliar metal skywards without an ASI, rate of climb, or altimeter was not to my liking, so, chop the throttle, stand on the brakes and prepare to ground-loop if the runway was too short (not having flown from it before).
The ground loop idea was given up when the speed was deemed to be too high.
The end of the runway loomed ahead so I decided to have the aircraft run off into the bush of low scrub timber until it stopped.
But suddenly, to each side of the aircraft, a tangle of Indian humanity burst into view, seemingly from underground. They were labourers digging a 20 ft wide ditch right across the runway end, for whatever reason I never learned.
As they sprinted for safety from the Juggernaut hurtling towards them, I realised the ditch could wipe off the wheels and invert the Thunderbolt.
So, a full burst of throttle, a haul back on the stick, and 2 feet before the ditch the aircraft jumped into the air, wheel marks landing 3 feet beyond the other side.
The small trees slowed the aircraft until one larger trunk aimed itself at the starboard wing almost tearing it in two.
The sudden change of direction this brought on having the effect of whiplashing off the empennage ahead of the tailplane.
The P47 came to rest and I bumped my forehead on the gunsight, clambered out, horrified, “My Gawd, it’s the CO’s plane. Or was it!”
An hour or so later I got into a Harvard with a check pilot, as a stress relief, and found flying as satisfying as ever, apart from a severe foot shake on the rudder pedals.
That afternoon, while resting in the accommodation area, the P47 crew chief called by to show me the pitot tube fitting from the crashed P47 aircraft.
It had a neat snug-fitting canvas cover, zippered in USA style, of khaki colour to match the P47 paint job.
The airframe fitter, in his unfamiliarity with the new plane had overlooked removing it at the start of the day!
Next day, a couple of dozen Thunderbolts on the station looked quite colourful, with 6 ft long coloured ribbons stitched, by the local Indian Tailor, to the pitot tube covers!
I calculated the airborne speed the P47 needed to rise under throttle and fly 20 feet, and entered a one quarter-second flight time in my pilot’s log-book. Amen!
