"Crowd Pleaser."

A RAAF CA-18 Mustang makes its final approach under the keen eyes of the growing crowd.

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It was thirty years since I’d last sat low in a Mustang’s cockpit. At eight years of age there were very few other ways to sit. My father had hoisted me into the cockpit of a now retired steed as it sat in the darkened confines of Syd Marshall’s Air Museum at Bankstown Airport in suburban Sydney, Australia. Ever since his RAAF days, the P-51D and its Aussie equivalent had been my father’s favourite. More than the Meteors he had flown in Korea, or the Super Connies in which he’d criss-crossed the globe, it was always the Mustang. Leaning in, he explained the numerous dials and switches with military thoroughness. The systems and limitations poured forth from a razor sharp memory that would still forget to pick up milk on the way home.

I grasped what I could, but found my imagination drifting elsewhere. My head revolving as it moved its gaze from the enormous cowling ahead back to ‘check my six’….just in case. Now I again found myself swiveling at the neck. It was an Airshow day at a regional aviation museum and the atmosphere was charged. Taking in the sights and sounds of this fantastic opportunity, I spotted my wife in the crowd. In conspiracy with a chap I’d known for years, Guy Bourke, she had secretly arranged the wedding anniversary gift of a lifetime. I had never seen my wife so keen for me to go to a fly-in and the reasoning was now becoming very apparent.

The flight was to be made up of two sections. The first involved an air-to-air photo shoot in company with another fighter, the Australian Boomerang, and a trainer of yesteryear, the North American Harvard. At the conclusion of this sortie, ‘Bourkey’ and I would break off and take the Mustang to the west for airwork on its own. This had been briefed thoroughly pre-flight and the Harvard now led the three ship formation out to the end of Runway 36. Checks complete, we now sat beneath the closed canopy awaiting our turn for take-off. Throughout the procedure, Guy had kept me briefed and ‘in the loop’ through the intercom that linked the world of the rear seat to the fore. The aft seat had a spartan instrument panel of altimeter and A.S.I. to the right. To the left, at about the same height, lies the throttle quadrant. Ahead, the control column and rudder pedals complete the picture.

As the pristine Boomerang cleared the perimeter, Guy announced the departure and smoothly increased the abundant power of the V12. I have been fortunate to fly a number of aircraft over the years, but the sounds, sensations and sinking into the seat of a Mustang take-off takes some beating. As rudder authority increased with airflow, the tail was raised to introduce a new world of enhanced visibility. The ground rush in the peripheral vision began to change in focus as the ground fell away and the gear was selected up. All clear for the turn, Bourkey rolled this fierce piece of North American design to the left in pursuit of the formation. Closing on the two specs at an impressive rate, one couldn’t help but imagine how many times this scene had been acted out in skies around the world in a very different time.

With the Harvard serving as the camera ship, we slotted in to right echelon on the Boomerang. Sitting tight on the little Aussie fighter, it was easy to see the immaculate quality of the restoration. After weaving across the skies in formation for a period, it was time to break right and head west on our own. The land surrounding the airfield is custom built for committing aviation. Golden fields of crops, uninterrupted by the rising terrain that so often can pose a problem. Should all go quiet ‘up front’, potential landing fields are numerous, offering a special type of peace to the single-engine pilot. It is little wonder that this site was chosen as an Elementary Flight Training School throughout the war years and was home to a flock of Tiger Moth biplanes. Set to this backdrop Guy climbed the Mustang to a safe height and set about demonstrating some rolls and loops. Even tucked into the back seat, the brilliant visibility afforded by the bubble canopy allows tremendous orientation throughout the manoeuvres. As sky passed earth and back to sky, a sense of balance and power pervaded the aircraft. It was in its realm and roared across the heavens with the freedom of its namesake. I gratefully accepted control on Guy’s call of, “Handing Over” and proceeded to experience that freedom first hand.

I exercised the controls and the Mustang responded crisply to the inputs. Seemingly unencumbered by adverse yaw to any degree, the rudder is used as a tuning fork rather than a backhoe. Scanning the horizon and the skies, the aircraft holds the attitude as if set in stone and I take in the view and the ambience. All too soon, the minutes have ticked over and Terra Firma calls. We set the airfield in the windscreen and call inbound for an ‘initial and pitch’ entry, Runway 36. Circuit-side and parallel, we zoom along the bitumen before pulling up and left to enter the circuit. Power steady, the energy is managed and the drag deployed to position the aircraft on left base. Final calls, final checks and the Mustang sets its sights on the touchdown point under Guys hand. Over the fence, powering back and the wide track of the main gear reunites Man and Mustang with Mother Earth. As the speed washes off, the tail slowly lowers and the back of Guy’s head again dominates my field of view.

The exhilaration as we taxied in was hard to harness. Mindful of wingtip clearance, we navigated through a tarmac littered with a gallery of aircraft that one can only admire. In position and checks complete, power is withdrawn from this great machine and the huge disc dissipates to again form four distinct blades. Becalmed, with ‘switches off’, the adventure is over. Out of the blue a childhood dream had been realised and it had lived up to all expectations. As I took in the moment, I was that eight year-old once again and looked back to ‘check my six’ one more time...…just in case.

At some point in my childhood, between converting Mum’s clothes-horse to a P-51 and sitting atop our garage with binoculars, I asked my father a fairly simple question, “What was a Tiger Moth like?”

Starry-eyed, I awaited the reply that would define the sheer essence of aviation and the pioneer spirit. “The Tiger?” he started, “It was cold, draughty, noisy and you’d end up with windburn, sunburn and goggle marks to prove it” He tapped his pipe empty on the verandah. Paused. Then continued, “…but it was blessed good trainer for its day. It taught you to use your feet. It taught you a lot of things.” That answer was about as extensive as Dad would ever venture when it came to reminiscences, however, if it was a technical question you’d be best advised to take a seat with a pen at the ready. Nevertheless, I think this is when the first seeds of owning an antique aeroplane were probably sown.

I was surrounded by aviation growing up. Dad had first started flying privately at Wagga Wagga NSW in 1948, whilst an apprentice mechanic in the RAAF. His early flying with Eric Condon lasted about six months before he was mustered for aircrew and posted to Point Cook. His subsequent career saw active service in Korea with 77 Squadron, the early days of the ‘Connie’ traversing the globe, primitive attempts at cloud-seeding, umpteen hours of instructing, testing and checking before winding up his career with the NSW Air Ambulance in 1986. Even after this he used to “do a bit” with Rebel Air and Schofields. As a youngster, I took every opportunity to tag along to the airport and not infrequently buckle up beside Dad. I vividly remember old Syd Marshall and his collection of aircraft at Bankstown and sitting in the Mustangs that Dad had flown at a previous time. Even today, I treasure an old Hurricane model Syd gave me. The older aircraft had always been of more interest to me. Their shape. Their character. Their history.

In 1994 I was fortunate to be given a relatively rewarding and seemingly secure job with Ansett, (enough said). I had no sooner “checked to line” than I noticed a Tiger Moth project for sale. I made the initial enquiries, but questions hovered over the completeness of the aircraft and the logistics of an interstate restoration daunted me. I let this opportunity slide; nevertheless, it was effectively the turning point for my childhood dream to start taking form. I started reading everything I could get my hands on and chasing up information from any source available, particularly the living, breathing kind. I found loitering around fly-ins to be particularly beneficial and the friendliness and generosity (i.e. free rides) of those involved with antique aviation bolstered my decision to go ahead if I could fund the project adequately. My wife agreed.

In 1996 my wife was fortunate to be given a relatively rewarding and secure job in aviation, (fingers-crossed).

Together we ventured to a place we had heard about and flown over numerous times in our days before turbines; Luskintyre. Nestled in the Hunter Valley, just west of Maitland, lies a facility busily putting long-forgotten deHavillands back in the air. My first memory of Ray Windred’s hangar was its’ similarity to Santa’s workshop. There were numerous tradesmen at different stations, each thoroughly engrossed in a task that seemed to call for patience as the primary tool. Access was gained by weaving between airframes, some standing proudly on their own undercart, others braced in jigs ready for covering. My wife and I did the “cook’s tour” of the restorations and the surrounding airfield. We subsequently retired to one of the vineyards for lunch, where we agreed no decisions would be made on grounds of diminished responsibility.

Time passed as we attended to other minor matters such as buying and selling a home, but as 1997 drew to a close we advised Ray Windred that we would purchase one of his old airframes and have him restore it to its previous glory. This was to be Ray’s 18th rebuild of the type. One of the factors that made purchasing an antique aircraft more attractive was the history that is attached to each of the aircraft of yesteryear. Accordingly, we set about finding the history of our airframe, construction No. 82358. In the process, we made contact with pilots that had flown in the aircraft in its war service and a number of these gentlemen kindly forwarded copies of their log books. Together with old RAAF documents and photos of the restoration taking place, my wife and I compiled a journal relating to our project. This exercise is one which I would highly recommend as it keeps the spirits up through those delays, trials and tribulations that are associated with the rebuild of an old aeroplane and on completion it serves to tell a fascinating tale. 

The aircraft had an interesting history. To the best of my knowledge, it was built at Hatfield, U.K, as part of the original order 0I758 that saw the British Air Ministry deliver 100 Tiger Moths to the RAAF. Arriving at RAAF Richmond in February 1940, it subsequently served with a variety EFTS units throughout the war, maintaining its British markings of N9257 throughout. “De-mobbed” at Cunderdin, W.A. in 1947, it began its’ civilian life under the markings VH-AKN, passing from private hands to an “air-ag” operation in April 1955. As was the way, the front cockpit was gutted and replaced with a hopper for spraying. This commercial chapter of 82358 was to be short-lived, crashing at Midland Junction, W.A. on June 13th 1955.

Almost 46 years to the day, on June 12th 2001, the Tiger again took to the air at Luskintyre. Restored in a civil scheme, with a new call-sign, I finally got my hands on my childhood dream shortly thereafter. The euphoria of the flight that followed very closely rivalled my first solo twenty years before………….it was great. The only regret?  That the old man wasn’t there to see it.

I did a number of hours at Luskintyre to consolidate my own familiarity with the type and monitor the engine and airframe for any gremlins that may surface. The aircraft performed without fault and after a “5 hour check-up” I prepared to ferry the aircraft to its’ new home. As I was delayed by early morning Hunter fog, my wife set out ahead in our car with the plan being to rendezvous outside the hangar at Mittagong. Late morning, I became airborne and armed with a P8 compass set course to the south. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky and I took every opportunity to sightsee as I visited lesson after lesson of navigating in an open cockpit. Midway I discovered that sitting on one’s charts was far more satisfactory than the clipboard I had earlier employed and that recovering one’s pencil from within the many layers of clothing was easier said than done. All this and no autopilot! I laughed at myself and took absolute pleasure in stumbling through the grassroots of aviation. As I trekked south into a very light headwind I calculated that the aircraft was making good time…….for a Tiger. Even so, freeway traffic seemed to be making a very comparable pace until the benefit of straight-line travel opened up a lead. My wife, having stopped to pick up to pick up my Mum, a former WAAAF radar operator, saw me pass overhead somewhere near Pheasants Nest, consequently on my arrival at Mittagong the welcoming party was yet to arrive. As you would expect, I took the opportunity to waste time over the beautiful Southern Highlands and the hamlet of Bowral, home of Sir Donald Bradman. It is a great privilege to be able to dawdle around the sky with no particular place to go and no specific time to be there.

The ground party finally caught up and I was all out of excuses to remain aloft. Touching down on 24, I rolled out to the hangar that is now to be home to this Tiger. An old Royal Aero Club mate and his wife were there so we took to the air for a quick hop, as you’re prone to do. Back on the ground, I was all out of excuses, so we pushed the aircraft in for the night. Armed with champagne we toasted the Tiger and even allowed a little to trickle down the prop. All in all, the flight had been cold, noisy and draughty and I did indeed bear windburn and goggle marks, but there was no doubt, this Tiger Moth was a blessed good aeroplane.