Deliberately Flying Into The Back of Another Aircraft - Air to Air Refuelling
In 2002, in preparation for deployments to Afghanistan, the Nimrod crew I was on started a series of training events with the aim of becoming Combat Ready. I was lucky. The other pilot (and crew Captain) was already qualified in air-to-air refueling and I was going to be helping him as he practiced.
I remember in the hours prior to take-off that not a great deal had been said about the whole thing. Let’s not forget that we were about to fly a 180 ton aircraft at 300 mph up the back end of an even bigger aircraft, trying to put a probe on our roof into a basket, being dragged through the air. I expected something to be said, something formal in honour of this forthcoming stupidity but there was nothing.
“Oh Yeah, I forgot to say, when we have a good connection with the tanker, could you just watch the engine RPMs in case I go too high?”
“Um………Yep!”
Briefing complete, we were off.
In those days, the UK would have a tanker aircraft airborne almost all of the time. It was handy to have a petrol station in the sky. The tankers would sit on a race track pattern over the North Sea, ready to help out any RAF aircraft that fancied a top up. Each tanker had a specific radio frequency on which you would ask to join in formation on the tankers right wing and then negotiate an amount of fuel for it to offload to you….a bit like negotiating with your Dad for petrol money.
Before I could really prepare, we were sat in formation with a huge RAF tanker, close enough to see the faces of the pilots and every screw and rivet on its enormous fuselage. My job was to look brave, keep a straight face and don’t scream. There were a few conversations over the radio, a few nervous arm stretches and shoulder shrugs from my Captain and then, with a tiny correction of the throttles and the wings, we moved slowly rearwards, down and across to the left, to sit perfectly behind the tanker.
My brain was overwhelmed. The tanker blocked the sun. The tanker filled the entire windscreen and we still hadn’t reached the exciting bit. On the belly of the tanker were a set of traffic lights. They pretty much meant what you’d think they meant. As the tanker let out a basket on the end of what looked like a petrol pump hose, the lights went from red, to green.
“Ready mate?”
“….Yep!”
The throttles were advanced, our aircraft began to close in on the tanker. I really couldn’t feel anything but this amazing sense of fear and exhilaration as we crept ever closer. At some point, we got so close to the tanker that we started to hit the air off its fuselage and wings. The buffeting on the aircraft was very noticeable, so too were the additional inputs my Captain was having to put into the flying controls. We had gone from flying too close to another large aircraft to wrestling an hormonally enraged alligator far too close to another aircraft. In all my panic, I had completely forgotten everything.
As my Captain effortlessly ‘plugged us in’ to the basket and the fuel began to flow, crew members started to come up to the flight deck to see what all the fuss was about. Little did I know that we had the least alarming view. Ten feet further back, a member of our crew was able to look out of his window at the tail of the tanker looming above him.
It felt like the ultimate pilot adrenaline rush. We landed a few hours later and my brain had time to process what we had done.
The next day, I decided that I should learn to do this air-to-air refueling lark. I was still a co-pilot though, and new to the squadron but I didn’t really care for tradition. I walked up to the Squadron Commander’s office door and knocked.
“What?”
“It’s just me Sir. I was wondering if I could get on the next air-to-air refueling course?”
“Get out.”
“Yes Sir. Shall I close your door…….?”
He hadn’t said ‘no’. This was great news. I now needed a psychological operation to seal my victory.
My first port of call was the Squadron Commander’s wife. One quick phone call and it was done, Mrs Squadron Commander had promised me that she would speak to her husband that very evening about my progression onto this course I so dearly wanted.
The next morning, it was made very clear to me in very few words, at high volume that this approach had not been appropriate. The Squadron Commander was tired at night and had little excitement left for his wife telling him to put a cheeky pilot onto a course for which he was not qualified. I promised him that I would not phone his wife again.
A week later, armed with 30 copies of a poster, suggesting that I should be put onto an air-to-air refueling course, and a smiley photo, I visited Mrs Squadron Commander while her husband was working hard in his office.
“He’s going to kill you, you know that don’t you”, Mrs Squadron Commander said as I asked her just to place a few posters around the house, perhaps on the back of the bathroom door, and in his sock drawer.
Two months later, I was the youngest qualified air-to-air refueling pilot. I had broken traditions and cultural norms. I had also nearly broken my Squadron Commander. He had helped me fulfilled my dreams, albeit with a very red face and veins sticking out on his neck as he signed the approval paperwork.
I was the best person for the job, despite my age and cultural status.
