HUNTER
STORIES
There is a place called Chivenor, it
is in England, in the County of Dev
on.
Chivenor is by the sea. A long, long sandy beach stretches out at low tide
into the Irish Sea. Large rolling sand dunes, tufted with grasses, tumble steeply
down to the high-tide line. If you climb far into these drifting hollows,
stand on a chosen spot, and look inland towards the East, you will notice
how the land flattens suddenly. Marshes and fields give way to black strips
of something man-made.
An airfield nestles on the edge of an estuary which has wound its way inland from the sea. Small dark shapes, on the edge of vision, move slowly into the mosaic of grass and concrete. Distant thunder rolls menacingly across the sunny meadows. Alien shapes grow in stature. Surrounded by rippling heat waves, the fighter aircraft streak towards the sandy hollows. They pass a few hundred feet above your head, their sound and fury crushing your senses. Spinning, you watch them climb effortlessly into the Blue. The sound of the sea and the rustling grasses replace the fading rumble; they are specks, lost in a glaring sun.
Over on the hard standing, an engine explodes into life as the starter fluid ignites. The Hunter's Rolls Royce Avon jet settles to a healthy whine as I quickly complete my checks and call my wingman on the radio. We wave our ground crew away and start taxiing towards Chivenors' main runway. Seen through my neat, curved canopy, the estuary and sand dunes dominate the scene as we make our way, single file, along the black asphalt.
I have lined up now, my Number 2 tucked neatly on my right wing. I signal a wind-up with my right forefinger and fix my eyes dead ahead on the 6000 foot runway surface. Far in the distance, I can see the rising banks of sand dunes shielding the airfield from the sea. I ease up the power, checking controls and swirl vanes. At almost full power, she dips her nose obediently. Glancing once again at the temperatures and pressures, I force my head back onto the headrest. I can see the thumbs up from my Number 2 in the mirror. Let's Go! I nod my head smartly forward, simultaneously releasing the brakes.
We surge forward, my eyes scanning acceleration points at the runway's edge. I can see the aircraft on my wing losing station; he needs a little more power to stay in close, so I throttle back a fraction. At 115 knots, I ease my stick rearwards and raise the nose wheel from the runway surface, almost immediately reversing to a push as the Hunter approaches 150 knots and leaves the runway. I nod my head almost imperceptibly as I brake the wheels and select the gear up. Flaps up. I glance out to see my Wingman sliding out into a battle position and catch a fleeting glimpse of someone on the sand dunes, flashing by a hundred feet below, his white face upturned towards us. We accelerate quickly over the beach, easing into the climb at 400 knots. I slide my visor down as we fly towards the sun.
Aviation history and the sea are closely bound. Man's desire to fly and slip the surly bonds of earth were forged long before this century. For millennia the ocean explorers sought the continents of the globe and watched in awe as the albatross defied the rolling waves, effortlessly circling the world. Yet no ancient mariner or intrepid aviator on the sands of Kittyhawk could have foreseen the extent of man's thrust to the stars before the end of this Millennium. Flight over oceans shrank our world and expanded our minds. Sadly, man's increasing abilities to soar above the dunes and to help conquer other shores is written into history with the blood of millions.
Royal Air Force Chivenor is a military flying base tasked to train young men in the art of airborne fighter weapons and aerial tactics. It's closeness to the sea is no coincidence. Fighter aircraft based all around the world hover on the edge of their nation's borders, ready to leap at an attacker; trained dogs of war on short leashes. The British Nation is a small island country, so the sea is never far away from her flying forces. RAF Chivenor was a home for the Hawker Hunter for many years. Starting in the1950's when Britain's first supersonic fighter took to the air, young pilots made Chivenor their home for a few months while sharpening their teeth on the Hunter. The Station has a proud WWII history and the wooden accommodation huts behind the Officer's Mess come from that era. The single rooms had great charm with their old potbelly stoves. The beautiful moorland and sparkling beaches of Devon attracted holiday makers in their thousands during the summer months, and the sand dunes were great places to test skills other than flying. So many young pilots, so many great memories.
