MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 8, 1941 SOUTHAMPTON WATER AT THE SOLENT: 09:30 A.M. GMT OFF CALSHOT CASTLE
Aboard the anchored barge out on Southampton Water, Robbins-dressed
in R.A.F. flying togs-stood at the bottom of the boarding ladder,
leaning on the S.6b's float and listening to last-minute instructions
from Air Commodore Orlebar. The weather was slightly overcast,
but a fine breeze was blowing enough to produce white caps-and
the choppy water that was perfect for operating a seaplane. Robbins
noticed the amiable Air Commodore had become quite serious and
very much down to business. "From your taxi tests,"
he was saying, "I'm certain you are quite familiar with the
ship's tendency to swing left as power is added."
"You can say that again, Air Commodore," Robbins replied,
"--and I haven't even opened the throttle half way yet."
"Good you haven't," Orlebar said with a thoughtful nod.
"That swing will very easily become quite violent if you
open the throttle while the machine is still turning. Any yawing
at all must be stopped by very small bursts of engine power to
put her straight, before you give her full throttle. And
of course, hard right rudder must be on, too, before finally opening
up--and held on while the air rudder begins to take effect
from the gathering speed."
Robbins nodded while he went over the Commodore's words in his
mind.
"Okay," he said,
"once I've got her going straight with full power and the
speed's building. Then what?"
"Well, the stick must be back as well--from the very beginning
to prevent the noses of the floats coming down and starting to
porpoise at hump speed."
"Yes," Robbins said through tight lips. "I'd noticed
porpoising start on some of my faster runs; I stopped it by holding
the stick all the way back."
"A natural instinct by any good pilot," Orlebar observed,
"but worth mentioning anyway."
"Thanks," Robbins said, watching the two seventy-foot
Vosper MTBs slowly circle the barge, their Oerlikon and Vickers
AA guns manned and pointed skyward. "I think I'm doing okay."
"So you are," Orlebar granted. "And you will continue
to do that, Bart Robbins--so long as that stick is kept hard back.
With luck, the porpoising won't even start, and in nine cases
out of ten, it will damp out quickly if it does start."
"What next, Air Commodore?"
"Well, that gets the machine going properly on the water,
but at the moment of takeoff, the stick must still be all the
way back to help keep the nose of the floats out of the water,
otherwise porpoising will start again."
"Then...?"
"Then," Orlebar said, pointing a finger of emphasis
at Robbins' chest, "you must keep the stick back as
the airspeed rises through about one hundred, seventy-five miles
per hour; otherwise she'll fall back to the surface again, as
the S.6A did back in nineteen thirty-one, killing poor Jerry Brinton."
"I remember reading about the crash," Robbins said,
"--terrible thing."How'd it happen?"
"After all these years, we still can only guess," Orlebar
said with a shrug. "I was there timing things when it happened."
He shook his head sadly. "Jerry came off very smoothly; I
had stopped the stopwatch and was just starting to praise the
effort, when by the time he reached ten feet--only a second or
so elapsed--the tail went up a little and the machine sank back
and hit the water. My take is that he thought the ship had left
at too steep an angle, and having let his stick go forward to
correct, he was caught by the instability."
"The instability?"
"The ship was still hanging on its propeller, just below
the speed where the wings would begin to support it--somewhere
more than one hundred, sixty-six miles per hour. An additional
moment of acceleration with the nose up might have made all the
difference."
"But...?"
"The plane immediately jumped off the water again at a steeper
angle this time. I still hoped against hope he'd be able to keep
the nose up--there was no time for him to get the engine stopped.
With a little luck, it might have pulled him away clear. Of course,
it didn't."
"I imagine he'd lost too much speed in the bounce,"
Robbins conjectured as if he were watching the tragedy while it
happened.
"That's my take on it," Orlebar said, "especially
since the engine was still running fast all the time, and he may
have tried to hold her up. But she fell again. She hit very heavily
this time and bounced into the air for a third time--up about
thirty feet, as I remember. At that point, the nose fell right
down and she plunged into the water. It was all over terribly
quickly...in a few seconds. The floats tore off and floated away;
only the tail remained free. When we finally got the airplane
out--considerably later--Jerry was still strapped in the cockpit
with his neck broken. He'd died instantly."
"Anything else, Air Commodore?" Robbins asked.
Orlebar shook his head. "Only that you'll be tempted
to let the stick go forward, too," he said. "The nose-up
attitude is so utterly pronounced it'll be the most difficult
thing in the world to resist the instinct to let go forward. And
you must resist. Understand?"
"I understand," Robbins promised, glancing at his watch,
then up at the two Spitfire Vs that had been circling as a cover
air patrol.
"Then off you go, Lad," Orlebar said, indicating the
ladder. "It's time the old girl joins her two younger sisters
up there."
By Robbins' dripping wristwatch,
it was 11:16 a.m. by the time both he and the S.6b were ready
to take off. The little airplane was splashing through the chop
some twenty points off the eye of a northerly wind blowing down
Southampton Water. The takeoff area appeared to be clear; all
his instruments were reading what they ought to, and he was eager
to get on with things. Taking one final glance outside, he pressed
the right rudder pedal all the way to its stop, pulled the stick
back until it touched the seat, put his head well forward to avoid
the worst of the spray, and for the first time, gently opened
the throttle all the way.
As the rpms came on, the huge engine bellowed out like some awakened
monster. Robbins found himself brutally pushed into the seat back
while sheets of water and spray poured into the cockpit as if
someone were playing a fire hose against the windscreen. Blindly
tugging back on the stick with both hands and bracing the right
rudder pedal, he hung on almost in panic until--after what seemed
like years--the charging pontoons steadied onto their steps and
the air rudder took hold. Now he could get a sodden view ahead
by swinging the nose back and forth a little. At that juncture,
he pushed the throttle to full power, and the hurtling airplane
abruptly came off the water at the most frightening angle he could
imagine. Robbins had seldom felt any kind of fear in an airplane,
but this was something well past anything in his experience. For
an eternity, he battled reflexes that were now fairly screaming
to ease off on the stick. A newspaper picture of Jerry Brinton
he'd seen in 1931 passed his mind's eye, and he hung on in that
awful attitude for dear life until ...suddenly, the nose started
to come up with increasing speed. She was flying! He could
feel it in the seat of his pants. As the airspeed indicator passed
through one hundred, seventy-five mph, he gently leveled out and
eased off on the throttle. He'd made it! When he glanced at his
watch, the whole thing had taken some 36 seconds!
Clearing himself--the Spitfires had immediately tried flying formation
with him, then fell rapidly behind--he gently circled to port,
then to starboard, increasing his angle of bank each time until
the wings were nearly vertical. Straightening out, he tried level
flight and found the airplane so stable loafing along at a little
more than 3100 rpm--and an indicated 370.5 mph airspeed!--he could
fly with hands and feet off the controls. He tried a few stalls.
She broke cleanly at about 164 mph, then dropped her starboard
wing rather sharply, mandating a rapid recovery. For a few moments,
he looked down on Southampton Water below and thought upon the
late genius Reginald Mitchell, who, it seems, was simply incapable
of designing an airplane that didn't fly beautifully--once you
got it into the air, of course.
He checked his watch again ...twenty minutes had elapsed as if
they were seconds. Time to head for home! He throttled back so
the hard-working Spitfires could catch up, then led the little
formation on a pass over Calshot, the barge, and finally the faithful
Vosper MTBs before pulling up to about a thousand feet in preparation
for landing.
The S.6b's totally obstructed vision dead ahead forced him to
make his approach cross wind while he picked out a line into the
wind along cluttered Southampton Water that was clear of obstructions
and floating debris. Pursing his lips, he eased off on the rpms
and nudged the stick forward until he pegged the airspeed indicator
at 160 mph, then turned 90 degrees into the wind. As Orlebar promised,
the S.6b began a gentle, steady descent with Robbins tense and
anxious in spite of himself. Just above the surface, he leveled
out and allowed the airplane to "float" her own way
down--touching the surface nose-high and mushing the aft end of
the floats in first. He braced himself as she decelerated abruptly,
bobbed level, and glided to a stop. From habit, he gave the engine
a momentary burst of throttle to clear out surplus gasoline in
the supercharger, then switched off, unbuckled, and stood in the
cockpit with a tremendous feeling of elation while Spitfires roared
overhead in salute and the Chris-Craft raced in to take him under
tow. He'd done it! He'd actually done it!