Part 2
It was one morning in May, just before D-day when Buczulzki burst into my office. He was test flying a new fighter-bomber, which never did go into service, and I was in charge of the flight testing programme.
“Are you Beech?” he demanded.
I stood up and offered him my hand. “That’s right, Squadron Leader. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
He ignored my outstretched fingers. “I just wanted to meet the man who’s trying to kill me” he growled. “Today, you nearly succeeded.”
I was a bit of a hot-head in those days. The reply had passed my lips before I could stop myself.
“You’ve been trying to kill yourself for the last four years.” I snapped. “Eventually, you’ll succeed, like all the other hotshot pilots, so why should I have any reason to take any hand in the matter?”
I realised at once that I’d overstepped the mark, but Buczulzki, far from being annoyed, spread his mouth in a wide grin.
“Get your flying suit, Mr. Beech. I’m going to take you up.”
Now this was unusual. We all had full flying gear and often flew with other pilots as test observers, but one thing was accepted among us: you don’t fly with Buczulzki, he doesn’t take passengers. He always flies alone. Rumour had it that he had lost an observer just after joining the station because the man’s parachute failed to open in an emergency situation. True or false, no one could ever remember Buczulzki taking a passenger -- with the exception of Lubik, of course. Perhaps that was why I hesitated, gaping at him in astonishment.
“What’s the matter?” he demanded. “Are you afraid to put your own work to the test?”
Now I was really angry, but something put the thought of a second outburst aside. I had been accorded a great honour -- an experience that most people would have jumped at. To have flown with the great Buczulzki—that was worth a few drinks in any RAF mess.
“Not at all, Squadron Leader” I replied quietly. “If your nerves can stand it, then so can mine.”
We took off and climbed in a steady spiral. Below us, in the valley, the spire of Salisbury Cathedral pointed an accusing finger at us as if to say “What are you two doing up there? The Lord ordained that birds alone should fly. Come down at once, before you hurt yourselves.”
Buczulzki however, appeared not to notice that he was being spoken to. He levelled off at fifteen thousand feet and indicated the horizon ahead, where the cranes of Portsmouth dockyard were just visible. “Airspeed, two forty knots” he shouted. “Keep looking at that horizon. I’m going to increase speed.”
Two fifty, two sixty, two seventy. Suddenly the horizon started to tilt as the port wing dropped. Buczulzki pushed the stick hard over to the right and we straightened up. Then the wing started to drop again. He was applying maximum pressure and still the wing was dropping.
“Now, Mr. Beech” shouted Buczulzki “Get your slide rule out of your pocket and work out how I’m going to correct this roll, before we finish up on our backs.”
I was beginning to feel airsick, but I was determined not to show it.
“Increase speed.” I shouted.
He looked at me in surprise. Then he pushed the throttles full open. The wing ceased to drop. Then gradually it began to lift. At three hundred and twenty knots, we were flying straight and level again. My instruction had been out of defiance as much as common sense, but it had done the trick.
The sickness was getting worse.
“Take me down” I shouted “and I’ll tell you what it is.”
I didn’t feel the wheels touch the runway—Buczulzki was that good—but the rumbling of the undercarriage told me that we were down. As I jumped from the cockpit, my legs gave way under me and I felt like a squashed banana. Buczulzki helped me to my feet.
“Why did you tell me to increase speed?” he asked. “The logical thing to do was to throttle back. Was it because you were in a temper?”
“Partly,” I admitted “but there was another reason. I knew the rolling would stop if you reduced speed. I thought it might be interesting to see what effect opening the throttles would have.”
“And what if the aircraft had gone out of control?”
I pointed to the parachute, dangling behind me like soiled nappy.
“Well that’s what this is for, isn’t it?”
He roared with laughter and slapped me on the back, almost knocking me to the ground again. “We’ll make a test pilot of you yet, Mr. Beech. Now tell me, what’s wrong with the aircraft?”
I pointed to the wing tips. “You’re carrying dummy bombs, to simulate operational conditions.” I explained. “Unlike live bombs, they’re used time after time and nobody takes particular care in handling them. They’re only filled with sand anyway, so what does it matter if you drop one, so long as it doesn’t land on your foot?
Now, if you look at this one here, you’ll see that the fins are bent. Only slightly, admitted, but sufficient to set up a turbulence under the ailerons within a certain speed range.”
He eyed me with interest. “Of course,” he murmured “I should have thought of that myself. Thank you, Mr. Beech. I know now that you are not a fool. In future, I shall bring my problems to you.”
There was a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “Understand this, Mr. Beech. I would not have opened the throttles merely on your say-so. I had already discovered that an increase in speed would cure the trouble.”
He strode off, leaving me standing there with my mouth hanging open; gulping in the pure, fresh air.
I flew with him several times after that, to the envy of my colleagues, but I wouldn’t say that we became great friends. To tell the truth, I don’t believe that he really had any friends -- apart from Lubik, of course and I think he preferred it that way. The empty place at the breakfast table was an all too familiar sight in any RAF mess. It was best not to get involved with others too closely.
Buczulzki was on leave when Lubik `bought it’. The two of them had been involved in the rigorous testing programme of the RAF’s new jet fighters. The Germans, in desperation over their loss of air superiority, threw the ME 262 straight into battle and lost many gallant pilots as a result.
Our side was more cautious and any condition in which a plane could find itself was tested—and tested—and tested. So it was that Lubik put his aircraft into stall condition and failed to recover from the resulting spin. His funeral pyre was right in the middle of the runway.
Buczulzki returned from leave at once and, within an hour, was preparing himself to go aloft in an identical aircraft. I donned my flying suit and joined him out on the tarmac. He was obviously both surprised and pleased to see me, but he put his arm on my shoulder and shook his head. “No, Mr. Beech, not this time.
Lubik was flying solo. The test conditions must be the same.”
That wasn’t the only reason for his refusal and we both knew it, but I stepped back gratefully and joined the others as he prepared for take-off. He climbed to about ten thousand and pulled the aircraft up into a stall. The plane started to spin. Faster and faster it dropped. A flat spin—he couldn’t get the nose down to turn it into a spiral dive. Then, only inches from the ground, as it appeared to us, he’d done it and he was climbing again.
Five times he repeated that manoeuvre and five times he regained control at the last possible moment. Everybody watched. Everybody prayed, even the atheists among us and there were sighs of relief when he eventually dropped his gear and came in on finals. He strode across the tarmac to where we were all standing and, ignoring everyone else, addressed himself to me.
“The aircraft is tail-heavy, Mr. Beech. Had you come with me, there would have been no problem but, with only one man in the cockpit, it is not possible to recover that aircraft from a stall.”
“How can you say that?” I asked him. “Okay, the aircraft is tail-heavy if you say so, but recovery is not impossible. You did it. Six times you did it and we all saw you.”
Buczulzki shook his head slowly. “No, Mr. Beech. You did not see me do it.
My friend Lubik was up there with me. You saw him do it.”
He turned away abruptly and walked out to the middle of the airfield, where he stood alone; gazing upwards.
-- -- o o o -- --
When the war was over, the job of test pilot still had to be done and it was at the Farnborough Air Show in 1950 that I next saw Buczulzki. He was flying the RAF’s newest fighter in a display of low-level aerobatics and he held the spectators spellbound by his artistry.
It was strange, though, because I’m sure that no one else saw it and I suppose it was just a trick of the light, but I could swear to this day that, as the plane passed overhead, there were two men sitting in that cockpit.
It was one morning in May, just before D-day when Buczulzki burst into my office. He was test flying a new fighter-bomber, which never did go into service, and I was in charge of the flight testing programme.
“Are you Beech?” he demanded.
I stood up and offered him my hand. “That’s right, Squadron Leader. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
He ignored my outstretched fingers. “I just wanted to meet the man who’s trying to kill me” he growled. “Today, you nearly succeeded.”
I was a bit of a hot-head in those days. The reply had passed my lips before I could stop myself.
“You’ve been trying to kill yourself for the last four years.” I snapped. “Eventually, you’ll succeed, like all the other hotshot pilots, so why should I have any reason to take any hand in the matter?”
I realised at once that I’d overstepped the mark, but Buczulzki, far from being annoyed, spread his mouth in a wide grin.
“Get your flying suit, Mr. Beech. I’m going to take you up.”
Now this was unusual. We all had full flying gear and often flew with other pilots as test observers, but one thing was accepted among us: you don’t fly with Buczulzki, he doesn’t take passengers. He always flies alone. Rumour had it that he had lost an observer just after joining the station because the man’s parachute failed to open in an emergency situation. True or false, no one could ever remember Buczulzki taking a passenger -- with the exception of Lubik, of course. Perhaps that was why I hesitated, gaping at him in astonishment.
“What’s the matter?” he demanded. “Are you afraid to put your own work to the test?”
Now I was really angry, but something put the thought of a second outburst aside. I had been accorded a great honour -- an experience that most people would have jumped at. To have flown with the great Buczulzki—that was worth a few drinks in any RAF mess.
“Not at all, Squadron Leader” I replied quietly. “If your nerves can stand it, then so can mine.”
We took off and climbed in a steady spiral. Below us, in the valley, the spire of Salisbury Cathedral pointed an accusing finger at us as if to say “What are you two doing up there? The Lord ordained that birds alone should fly. Come down at once, before you hurt yourselves.”
Buczulzki however, appeared not to notice that he was being spoken to. He levelled off at fifteen thousand feet and indicated the horizon ahead, where the cranes of Portsmouth dockyard were just visible. “Airspeed, two forty knots” he shouted. “Keep looking at that horizon. I’m going to increase speed.”
Two fifty, two sixty, two seventy. Suddenly the horizon started to tilt as the port wing dropped. Buczulzki pushed the stick hard over to the right and we straightened up. Then the wing started to drop again. He was applying maximum pressure and still the wing was dropping.
“Now, Mr. Beech” shouted Buczulzki “Get your slide rule out of your pocket and work out how I’m going to correct this roll, before we finish up on our backs.”
I was beginning to feel airsick, but I was determined not to show it.
“Increase speed.” I shouted.
He looked at me in surprise. Then he pushed the throttles full open. The wing ceased to drop. Then gradually it began to lift. At three hundred and twenty knots, we were flying straight and level again. My instruction had been out of defiance as much as common sense, but it had done the trick.
The sickness was getting worse.
“Take me down” I shouted “and I’ll tell you what it is.”
I didn’t feel the wheels touch the runway—Buczulzki was that good—but the rumbling of the undercarriage told me that we were down. As I jumped from the cockpit, my legs gave way under me and I felt like a squashed banana. Buczulzki helped me to my feet.
“Why did you tell me to increase speed?” he asked. “The logical thing to do was to throttle back. Was it because you were in a temper?”
“Partly,” I admitted “but there was another reason. I knew the rolling would stop if you reduced speed. I thought it might be interesting to see what effect opening the throttles would have.”
“And what if the aircraft had gone out of control?”
I pointed to the parachute, dangling behind me like soiled nappy.
“Well that’s what this is for, isn’t it?”
He roared with laughter and slapped me on the back, almost knocking me to the ground again. “We’ll make a test pilot of you yet, Mr. Beech. Now tell me, what’s wrong with the aircraft?”
I pointed to the wing tips. “You’re carrying dummy bombs, to simulate operational conditions.” I explained. “Unlike live bombs, they’re used time after time and nobody takes particular care in handling them. They’re only filled with sand anyway, so what does it matter if you drop one, so long as it doesn’t land on your foot?
Now, if you look at this one here, you’ll see that the fins are bent. Only slightly, admitted, but sufficient to set up a turbulence under the ailerons within a certain speed range.”
He eyed me with interest. “Of course,” he murmured “I should have thought of that myself. Thank you, Mr. Beech. I know now that you are not a fool. In future, I shall bring my problems to you.”
There was a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “Understand this, Mr. Beech. I would not have opened the throttles merely on your say-so. I had already discovered that an increase in speed would cure the trouble.”
He strode off, leaving me standing there with my mouth hanging open; gulping in the pure, fresh air.
I flew with him several times after that, to the envy of my colleagues, but I wouldn’t say that we became great friends. To tell the truth, I don’t believe that he really had any friends -- apart from Lubik, of course and I think he preferred it that way. The empty place at the breakfast table was an all too familiar sight in any RAF mess. It was best not to get involved with others too closely.
Buczulzki was on leave when Lubik `bought it’. The two of them had been involved in the rigorous testing programme of the RAF’s new jet fighters. The Germans, in desperation over their loss of air superiority, threw the ME 262 straight into battle and lost many gallant pilots as a result.
Our side was more cautious and any condition in which a plane could find itself was tested—and tested—and tested. So it was that Lubik put his aircraft into stall condition and failed to recover from the resulting spin. His funeral pyre was right in the middle of the runway.
Buczulzki returned from leave at once and, within an hour, was preparing himself to go aloft in an identical aircraft. I donned my flying suit and joined him out on the tarmac. He was obviously both surprised and pleased to see me, but he put his arm on my shoulder and shook his head. “No, Mr. Beech, not this time.
Lubik was flying solo. The test conditions must be the same.”
That wasn’t the only reason for his refusal and we both knew it, but I stepped back gratefully and joined the others as he prepared for take-off. He climbed to about ten thousand and pulled the aircraft up into a stall. The plane started to spin. Faster and faster it dropped. A flat spin—he couldn’t get the nose down to turn it into a spiral dive. Then, only inches from the ground, as it appeared to us, he’d done it and he was climbing again.
Five times he repeated that manoeuvre and five times he regained control at the last possible moment. Everybody watched. Everybody prayed, even the atheists among us and there were sighs of relief when he eventually dropped his gear and came in on finals. He strode across the tarmac to where we were all standing and, ignoring everyone else, addressed himself to me.
“The aircraft is tail-heavy, Mr. Beech. Had you come with me, there would have been no problem but, with only one man in the cockpit, it is not possible to recover that aircraft from a stall.”
“How can you say that?” I asked him. “Okay, the aircraft is tail-heavy if you say so, but recovery is not impossible. You did it. Six times you did it and we all saw you.”
Buczulzki shook his head slowly. “No, Mr. Beech. You did not see me do it.
My friend Lubik was up there with me. You saw him do it.”
He turned away abruptly and walked out to the middle of the airfield, where he stood alone; gazing upwards.
-- -- o o o -- --
When the war was over, the job of test pilot still had to be done and it was at the Farnborough Air Show in 1950 that I next saw Buczulzki. He was flying the RAF’s newest fighter in a display of low-level aerobatics and he held the spectators spellbound by his artistry.
It was strange, though, because I’m sure that no one else saw it and I suppose it was just a trick of the light, but I could swear to this day that, as the plane passed overhead, there were two men sitting in that cockpit.
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