'each man for himself' dog fight at over 40,000 feet. There were times when I was pulling almost 9 'G' in some of the turns and pull-outs. Being tall, I was at a disadvantage when it came to pulling 'G'; shorter individuals had a higher threshold than did I, but I had a reasonably short body and prided myself on being able to wear anyone's parachute without adjusting the straps - even that of the shortest pilot, little Roy Garthwaite, on the Squadron. This I was clearly able to turn to my advantage. But I digress. During this hectic dog fight I had to throttle back quickly to avoid running into the tail of the man in front who had put his air brakes out when I was only feet behind. That was OK and part of the game, but on opening the throttle again (slowly as one had to on jet engines) I had severe engine resonance and vibration. Throttle adjustment did not clear it, even on throttling back prior to throttling up again. The engine didn't respond, continued making rude noises, and flamed out.
All main services stopped with the engine. Cabin pressurisation was lost, as was demisting. Hydraulic pressure for flying controls became minimal and the 24 volt battery powering the 28 volt system wasn't going to last long. Fortunately I was in clear air and I knew that I was in the vicinity of Oldenburg. This was important because I couldn't see a thing as the whole inside of the canopy had at once misted and iced up. With no pressurisation I turned the oxygen full on and wheezed out a Mayday call stating that I would attempt a dead stick landing at Oldenburg. Frantically scraping ice away from the inside of the canopy while gliding like a pair of pliers, I was able to make gentle stick movements (to conserve hydraulic power and prevent my controls from locking solid) to position myself for a possible landing. Fortunately my engine was windmilling and provided a necessary minimum of hydraulic power, thus saving my battery from having to drive the auxiliary hydraulic pump. I had control and a few moments to consider my options. There were three. I could use the bang seat and call it a day, but with thin clothing, a slipstream of 200 knots, and a temperature of something very low and nasty, my instinct was to stick with it, at least for a while.4 The second and best option was to attempt a relight while setting up a landing at Oldenburg. Oldenburg called me and gave me clearance for an emergency landing. "Roger" was my brief reply to save my battery. Still scraping frantically at the ice I realised that another Sabre was formating loosely on me but didn't know who.5 Height was now the main factor. I couldn't relight above 15,000 feet because of lack of oxygen in the air. If I was to do a dead stick landing, to stand any chance of success, training told me that I had to be at the start of the down wind leg (or equivalent distance from the runway threshold) at no less than 10,000 feet, because the rate of descent would accelerate phenomenally as soon as I attempted to lower the undercart. If I couldn't do this, joining the Caterpillar Club was the only option. We had had it drilled into us never to attempt a wheels-up landing in open countryside because of the high number of drainage ditches which would cause an aircraft to break up. At 16,000 feet, a smidgeon high, and possibly a little fast, I attempted a relight. No dice. Using my speed I pulled the nose up to drain out the surplus fuel from the jet pipe and immediately made another attempt. No dice again. Height was getting critical. At the third attempt, now at nearly 9,000 feet, as I set up my approach for Oldenburg, I had success. It fired up. Levelling off from my glide, and with careful throttle movements to nurse a sick engine, I called Oldenburg, thanked them, and told them that, having re-lit, and now with sufficient power, I would return to Jever. This I did.
With my engine making grumpy and unusual noises I called for a straight-in approach, landed satisfactorily, taxied back to the hangar, and shut down. 50 minutes
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4 Bang seat = ejection seat. This was an American type, not of British Martin Baker design.
5 I never did find out who it was.
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