was the shared ‘novices-at-this-absurd-activity-together’ attitude of before. Nor, over the rest of the evening and the following day, did it return. Outwardly, he was the same as ever, good-humoured, friendly, affable. Only when it came to matters of aviation was his tone altered. It had acquired a didactic note. Where previously he had responded to a casually inane remark about the Thruster being like a tennis ball to land with a sympathetic nod, a murmur of agreement and, perhaps, a close shave that he had had that morning, now he responded seriously, taking the opportunity to dispense some advice that might help me deal with my difficulty. It wasn’t that I minded, or that I didn’t think it was justified—I was happy to receive all the help I could. But we were no longer equals and, for the first time, I felt the chilly draught of my inexperience and the catching up that had to be done.
Having passed the exam, Tuesday afternoon was scheduled for Richard’s qualifying cross-country flight in one of the club Cessnas. He had been checked out in the morning by one of the club instructors, and by the time we went to lunch his superiority had reached a peak. The Thruster and microlighting generally now sounded a very poor relation indeed alongside the ‘necessarily more rigorous’ disciplines of ‘general aviation’. As, after lunch, he prepared his route, drawing lines, measuring angles, confidently turning the dial of his flight calculator as he filled out his flight plan, his involved and excluding air of competence made me feel my inferiority keenly.
‘Good luck,’ I said, as I went off for my lesson.
‘See you later, Antony.’
It was about five o’clock, after an extended lesson with Sean, that I next saw Richard. As I entered the clubhouse, there was the sound of raised voices. ‘What the fuck did you think you were doing?’ one shouted angrily. ‘Think how this makes the club look. “Leave it,’ said another. ‘This is for the CAA.’ Three figures with epaulettes on their shoulders were taking it in turns to berate an unhappy-looking fourth person—Richard.
Piecing together what happened afterwards, it seemed that Richard had filed his flight plan and checked out for departure in accordance with standard procedures. Taking off, he struck north-west. Unfortunately, it seemed that he had omitted to check the club notice-board for information about local events, or, once airborne, to change his radio from the Barsham local frequency to the area frequency, Norwich Control or RAF Marham. Oblivious, he had entered the Marham Military Air Traffic Zone panhandle, crossing the approach to the main runway as a pair of Tornadoes were on final approach to land. The RAF, anxious to know who was trespassing in their air space without contacting them at such a time, put out calls on both their own frequency and the Norwich frequency. They were unable to raise Richard, who was by this time circling overhead at Sandringham, an opportunity, he told me, that seemed too good to miss—but unaware that, with the flag indicating royalty in residence, this was prohibited, purple air space. Tiring of this, and still oblivious to the now considerable ground-efforts to contact him, Richard continued round the coast towards Great Yarmouth.
Further trauma was to follow as he crossed the approach to the main runway of Norwich International Airport. Had he called, as he was supposed to, to check Temporary Restricted Airspace, he would have been aware of the Red Arrows coming over that afternoon. As it was, he was overhead as the famous jets, in close formation, were arriving at 1,000 feet across the North Sea. When their on-board radar indicated conflicting traffic, they aborted their approach, but, again, went unnoticed by Richard. Attempts to contact the unidentified Cessna from the ground now became something of an aviation priority in East Anglia, as Norwich air traffic control worked through all the likely frequencies without success. The Cessna’s markings were finally reported visually by another plane to Norwich. They identified the plane as belonging to the Norwich and East of England Aero Club, whom they contacted by phone.
Richard, meanwhile—well-pleased with how easily his cross-country was passing off—now turned west for his homeward leg. Unfortunately he opted to do so at 1,200 feet in the busy Cromer Helicopter Corridor to North Denes heliport, prohibited space for fixed-wing traffic. Breezing into the circuit overhead at Barsham Green, perhaps used to non-radio approaches in the Thruster, he neglected to call up the tower. As he could see no other planes in the circuit and the windsock indicated little or no wind, he decided to land as he pleased, forgetting to check the designated direction of take-off and landing displayed in the ground signals area in front of the clubhouse. Hurtling in downwind on the side of the airfield reserved exclusively for the gliding club, in front of a glider on the point of launch, he taxied briskly over to the apron, pulled up and got ready to report a successful flight. It was only then that he discovered that the effect of his actions, broadly speaking, had been like kicking an ants’ nest.
Richard’s confidence was dented by this incident, but dented less than I might have imagined. As I would discover with flying faux pas, so long as nothing and no one has got hurt, the fuss quickly dies down. By Wednesday lunchtime the pursed lips, shaking heads and mutterings of the club instructors had turned to wisecracks. Richard was told that, so long as he agreed to re-sit his radio-telephony exam, he would not be reported to the CAA and he might consider the matter closed. I received the incident with mixed feelings. On the one hand, it served Richard right; he had only got what he deserved. There was the strangely reassuring comfort of seeing a good friend in trouble, and the overall result was a return to the happy status quo of ‘us versus aviation’. On the other hand, if Richard, born administrator and high priest of procedures, could make this kind of cock-up, what hope was there for me?
My concerns, however, had no chance to get any further, as, later on Wednesday, there came a far more dramatic setback: one which brought all our flying to an abrupt halt.
It was about quarter to seven, on another perfect, cloudless summer evening. Richard, now officially checked out to fly the Thruster solo, had gone off on a local flight. Sean was in the hangar briefing a pupil. I was sprawled on the grass outside with a ring binder of loose-leaf pages I had come across in Sean’s office entitled Thrsuter (sic) Pilot’s and Operator’s Handbook. It was an interesting document. The down-stroke of the ‘A’ of the ‘Thruster Air Services’ company logo zoomed with a swoop, a steep climb and a flourish round and through the other words in a graphic representation of a vapour trail, culminating in what was equally unmistakably the silhouette of a jet fighter. It seemed an ambitious image for a company selling a flying machine which had, screwed to the centre of its instrument panel, a plate stating ‘ALL AEROBATIC MANOEUVRES STRICTLY FORBIDDEN’. A machine, moreover, which was, even in a brisk tailwind, unlikely to exceed a ground speed of 70 knots.
Anyway, the writing style was breezy, talking, as it did, of a return to the golden age of aviation, where pilots must rediscover the instincts of the seat of their pants rather than relying on fancy instruments. I could almost hear the Australian accent (the Thruster was an Australian design; used, someone had said, to shoot dingos and, fitted with klaxons, to herd sheep): ‘Stalls: this little baby has had many a pilot lying six foot under…’ when my reveries were interrupted by a flexwing speeding up to the hangar entrance. Leaving the engine still running, the passenger jumped out and rushed into the hangar yelling for Sean.
Something was clearly up. A strict rule of the club was never to have engines running near the open hangar door as it could whip up grit and sand which might damage the machines inside. I could not hear what was said, above the engine. But I saw Sean stiffen, drop what he was doing immediately, and, without bothering to put on his ozee suit or gloves, jump aboard the trike, take the controls from the pilot, and take off from where they were. They were airborne before they had even left the tarmac apron for the grass of the airfield.
I got up and walked over to the figure left behind. ‘What’s up?’
‘There’s a Thruster down in a cornfield. Looked like the one we’d seen round here.’
The sentence took a moment to sink in, as my mind searched furiously for ways to explain, parry, reject or somehow defuse the information it contained. A fearsome, disorientating dread washed over me, accompanied by a slightly sick nausea. This was joined, it must be said, by a pulse of pure excitement,