ADA-Journalist:June Callwood:The Day the Iroquois Flew
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Journalist:June Callwood:The Day the Iroquois Flew
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The Day the Iroquois Flew
Originally published February
1, 1958. This is the story of the first flight test of
the Iroquois engine, on it's B-47 flying testbed.
Republished with permission; June Callwood and thanks to Macleans
Magazine.
Perhaps it was already obsolete. But to
those who built it and to those who risked their loves
to test-fly it, the first flight of the world's most powerful
jet engine was the tense climax to four years of dreams
and drama.
HOW IT FLEW: Fastened
to the tail of a B-47 bomber, the Iroquois engine is test-flown
near Toronto. Some experts believe, full out, its scream
could kill.
By June Callwood
PHOTOGRAPHY BY JOHN SEBERT
        The
big plane hung low under listless cloud, a freak aircraft that
induced pity for its awkwardness. Basically it was still a
medium bomber, the B-47, with six jet engines streaming black
smoke, but aeronautical engineers had warped its shark outline.
Clamped to one side of its tail was a seventh engine, the two-ton
Iroquois, which has been called the most powerful jet engine
in the world. Canadian-designed and built, its four year development
program had cost at least thirty million dollars. On November
13 around noon on a day that threatened rain, the Iroquois
was lugged into the sky for the first time by the B-47 and
started. Some felt that the resultant roar was only simulated
life; with Sputniks racing overhead it may yet be decided that
the Iroquois was born dead.
       In spite of the sense of doom that rolled
around the horizon, few mechanical births have been so joyously received. The
Iroquois is being built by Orenda Engines Limited, a subsidiary of A. V. Roe
Canada Ltd., at Malton, near Toronto, and the company was anxious to see the
engine airborne in order to soothe government sponsors grown restive. The company
had taken only three years to put into production its first jet engine, called
the Orenda, now flying in Sabres and CF100s on four continents. The Iroquois
flight tests, however, had been notably laced with delays. For almost a year
before it was actually airborne the company periodically predicted that the engine
would fly "in a few weeks."
      While the company took four years to bring the
Iroquois from the drawing board to the moment of flight, its officials say the
performance was far from slow, considering the difficulties. Had it followed
the general practice of aircraft engine companies the next engine built after
the Orenda would have been only slightly more powerful. It was decided in 1953
to leap-frog this logical step, and the next, and build the strongest engine
in the world. The company was then just seven years old; some felt the project
was brave impudence.
      The hitches were just as massive as the dream.
Orenda needed a huge airplane to support its baby brute through flying tests.
Several were considered and the B-47, ninety-ton jet successor of the "Flying
Fortress;" was determined to be best. Torrential paper work ensued but eventually
the United Stales Air Force "lent" a B-47 to the Royal Canadian Air
Force, which "lent" it to Orenda. Canadair, an aircraft company near
'Montreal, needed more than a year to fit the plane with the lopsided pod that
houses the engine and equip it with almost twenty tons of ballast and instrumentation.
     The engine itself contains a great deal of a new
metal called titanium, as strong as steel with little more than half its weight.
Orenda had to pioneer in the use of titanium, a metal so tricky that it had to
be welded in a bubble chamber from which all oxygen has been removed. The inventors
discovered, when they placed their twenty-foot offspring on a test bed for the
first time that they had created simultaneously the worlds most powerful engine
and one of the worlds loudest noises. When the Iroquois is running full throttle
its noise is sufficient to deafen a man permanently; in fact, some even believe
it is possible the noise will kill a man standing a hundred feet away. New test
cells, two-story vaults where the engines can be mounted on concrete blocks and
run for days in order to test component parts, had to be built with extraordinary
sound-swallowing capabilities that cost about eight million dollars. The problem
of protecting the hearing of ground crews is a matter of continuing research
and will still be under study and refinement when the Iroquois is finally wedded
to Canada's fighter, the Arrow.
     As the summer of 1957 turned languidly into late-arriving
fall, the time was reached when the Iroquois had to be flown. The government
was impatient, critics had a satisfyingly large target for harpoons, one of the
payments on the RCAF contract was hanging on the event. The company itself was
suffering from a mass case of nerves. Tempers were waspish and irritation became
almost constant.
     Discussing the possibility of a titanium fire in
the engine, which can only be extinguished by smothering, an engineer one day
asked one of the test pilots what procedure he was considering.
     "Well," the pilot began lazily, "first
I'd jump out...."
     "THAT'S NOT FUNNY!" shouted the engineer,
furiously.
      On the morning of the flight the B-47 was
parked in a corner of Malton Airport, where airline captains, to the despair
of the control tower, veered from normal taxiing areas to trundle passengers
past for a closer look. The B-47 seemed dispirited. Its flexible wings, which
can flap as much as seventeen feet in storm flight, drooped. Its bands of fluorescent
red paint, required by experimental aircraft as a warning to curious sky sightseers,
had peeled and blistered. The USAF markings had been removed but the ghosts of
the letters showed through. The former bomber hadn't left the ground for five
months and to the casual observer had acquired a rooted look, as though geraniums
might soon be planted around the undercarriage and washing strung from the two-story-high
tail fin.
      A
small knot of men was gathered around its tail, huddled
in turned-up coat collars and peering with cautious faces
into the blackened tailpipe of the Iroquois. The inert
metal slug of an engine, which one day may have an estimated
hundred-thousand-dollar price tag, gave back no hint of
its present mood.
THE MEN WHO MADE IT READY
With co-pilot Len Hobbs peering over
their shoulders, ground crewman make a final inspection
of the Iroquois. The engine, which may sell at over a
hundred thousand dollars, will power Canada's new fighter-interceptor,
the Arrow.
      The
two pilots, in dull-blue flying suits, stood aside, glowering
indiscriminately at the thing they were asked to fly, at
representatives of a management that required them to fly
it and at the weather, which threatened to impede a flight
they didn't want to postpone again. They were no longer discussing
the issue of two days ago, when they had first expected to
test the engine. A snag had been discovered in the Iroquois.
with one and possibly two oil leaks. The inspection crew,
in spite of awareness of high-level urgency, had refused
to certify it ready for flight.       Nevertheless,
a compromise was reached. Changing engines with one of the
others available might have meant a month's delay, so it
was decided to test the engine anyway, but only at idling
speed.
      The inspection crew then described the plane suitable
for flight "under limited conditions" and the pilots agreed. It wasn't
the happiest arrangement, but it would have to do.
      Now, with apprehension pitched so high it was
inaudible, clouds rolled over the airfield and rain was forecast. No test flight
can be carried out until visibility is better than three miles. A light going
out at Malton's control tower would give the signal when conditions cleared.
The flying crew, two pilots and a flight engineer. watched the weak sun working
through the murk and waited. To avoid the subject at hand, they talked about
Wichita, Kansas.
      This crew, Michael Cooper-Slipper, chief test
pilot, Leonard Hobbs, the other test pilot, and John McLachlan, flight engineer,
had been the first civilians from an outside country to train on the USAF's B-47.
Exactly a year before, they had spent six weeks at the Strategic Air Command's
training base, McConnell, outside Wichita. Skipping only the lectures on bomb-aiming
and nuclear devices, they took the stiff SAC training that begins with 6-a.m.
briefings.
      They discovered what they had gloomily suspected,
since they have long maintained that modern pilots are no longer fliers, but
airplane drivers. The B-47, more so than any of the fifty planes Cooper-Slipper
and Hobbs have flown, is operated mathematically. Pilots carry a briefcase into
their cockpits and require a slide rule.    
     "The B-47," their instructor told them, "is
critical on fuel. In fact, the B-47 is critical all around."
       It is the fuel problem that makes the slide
rule necessary. The basic weight of the B-47 is about forty tons and it can take
on up to fifty tons more of bombs and fuel. Its varying weight, however, determines
its lake-off speed and its landing speed. Pilots must know, to the pound, how
much the plane weighs.
      "I've got a very funny idea," Hobbs
murmured dreamily one day. "I think I'll take an abacus into the cockpit.
Can't you see the instructor's face?"
       The calculations in the cockpit are continuous.
For example, the B-47 uses two pounds extra fuel per degree of a turn sharper
than thirty degrees. Nothing is casual---"The B-47 is a very unforgiving
aircraft," someone commented--- and each man sits at the centre of more
than a hundred dials and instruments. "Remembering that there is fuel all
around you, in the body, even under your seat, helps to keep your mind on your
work," observes Hobbs.
       The two pilots became celebrated members
of the officers' club at the Kansas base "Do you mean," asked a Texan
incredulously "that you little old Canadians have got the biggest engine
in the world? And you're going to put it in the tail of a B-47? Man, you're crazier
than we are."
       Strategic Air Command stopped buying B-47's
in 1956 and switched to the longer-range eight engine B-52s. By that time SAC
had about three thousand B-47's scattered all over the world. Every one of them
could carry a single bomb that had more explosive power than all the bombs dropped
by all the combatants in World War II, SAC made certain that this information
was general knowledge. Of its insignia, a mailed glove holding lightning and
an olive branch, its former chief once said. "You takes your pick."
      The USAF pilots training at Wichita were
under a strain, not only because they were aware they might be required to push
a bomb-release button some day, but because the course was ruthlessly tough and
many of the students were high ranking officers past youth who had known their
own commands. Much dignity was lost. "I saw a major with eighteen years
of flying experience being chewed out by a kid," Cooper-Slipper reported
one morning. Hobbs pointed, "Look over there, a full colonel is getting
it."
      The refuge was humor in the cocktail lounge
environment of the officers' club. They swapped shop talk. Korean veterans spoke
of jet-fighter dogfights with the Russian MIGs, considered by most pilots to
be the last dogfights war will know because modern fighters are so fast no flier
will see his enemy. They discovered that Cooper-Slipper, thirty-seven, a mild
green-eyed man, had fought Germans in Battle of Britain, in which he won a Distinguished
Flying Cross, and Japanese over Singapore, where he was briefly captured in a
jungle and escaped by Chinese river boat to India.
      Cooper-Slipper, now a Canadian citizen, received
his DFC for ramming a German bomber. The impact sent both planes screaming down
in flames and Cooper-Slipper recovered consciousness hanging from his parachute
with some of his fingernails ripped away.
      "Why
did you ram it?" someone asked.
      "I was out of ammunition."
      "I said, why did you ram it"
       Cooper-Slipper considered. "Everyone
to doing that sort of thing at the time. It seemed, well, stylish."
      "C'est la cotton-pickin' guerre," nodded
a southerner. "I remember one time I was taking off and I looked below and
saw this buddy who was right behind me go crashing into the end of the runway.
The student says to me, 'What'll I do?' and I said, 'Be quiet, I'm thinking.' "
       There was an uproarious laugh in which
the pilots' wives shared only thinly. "Well, there were flames everywhere
so I figured he had bought the farm. A few days later I saw him again. 'Not you!'
I said. 'Sure,' he says. 'That fighter isn't much of an aircraft, but they sure
build the cockpit strong!' " The men around table laughed again, but the
women were quiet.
       The B-47 bred its own jokes. " If
an engine starts to burn," an instructor said one day, "let it burn.
No sweat. You've got five more."
       Noticing trouble with an engine during
a flight, another instructor ordered his student, "Shut down Four!" "Sure," replied
the student cheerfully. "Which four?"
HE RAN IT IN THE AIR
Flight engineer was John McLachlan,
Idling the jet uses 600 gallons an hour.
       No
sweat," recalled Hobbs lightly, as he surveyed the B-47
waiting for him at Malton a year later. "If we lose an
engine Mike, we've got six more." Cooper-Slipper smiled
without mirth and Hobbs squinted in the direction of the control
tower. Hobbs, thirty-seven, is father of four small girls.
English-born, he spent most of the war impatiently instructing
in Canada and later saw action over Sumatra and Malaya. He
looked away from the tower and looked back again hastily, "Mike,
there's the light! We can go!"
      ''Where there had been apathy, there now
was hustling, ordered confusion. Ground crews pulled the covers off the six slender
engines and engineers stepped away from the humping bulk of the Iroquois. McLachlan,
the Scottish-born flight engineer, climbed the ladder into the plane first, edging
along the narrow aisle to the nose of the B-47, where he sat almost in darkness,
except for three small almost above him."The mole hole," crews call
the engineers cockpit. He checked over the extra instruments that would give
him readings on the behavior of the Iroquois.Many of the readings would be done
automatically, recorded on film and tape. Central Records Room, near the ponderous
earthound test cells, would also be receiving information, which could be fed
into an electronic computer, assayed and typed into a full report before the
aircraft landed. Aero-dynamicists have developed a cavalier attitude toward the
importance of human judgment. "The pilot is still useful," one of Orenda's
engineers explained benignly. "For example our instruments don't tell us
if the engine gets wet. A pilot can report back if it is raining."
       The pilots, at this point, were climbing
ito the B-47. The pre-flight check of two hundred bits of equipment and instruments,
which takes better than two hours, had been completed long before but some final
calculations and checks had to be made. They fastened their parachute harnesses,
cramped in the confines of a cockpit so narrow that they sit one behind the other.
They plugged in the cord for the wireless, settling gold plastic helmets on their
heads. The earphones are in the helmet and the speaker in the mouthpiece of the
oxygen mask. They connected their oxygen outlets but let the rubber smelling
masks hang free.
      Cooper-Slipper was rechecking his fuel. He had
started with thirty-six thousand pounds of good-grade kerosene, which jet engines
burn. Pounds are used as a fuel measure, rather than gallons, because they are
more reliable. A gallon of kerosene weighs about seven and a half pounds.
      The Iroquois engine had been run two days before
for a few minutes to determine whether the oil leak was still present-it was-and
in the process about four hundred pounds of fuel were used. It would take twenty-five
hundred pounds of fuel to start the six regular B-47 engines and taxi the aircraft
to the runway, and another six hundred pounds to get the plane into the air.
The Iroquois at idling speed would need about forty-five hundred pounds of fuel
an hour, better than six hundred gallons. Take-off speed, Cooper-Slipper computed,
would be a hundred and thirty-three knots. The plane began to move.
      "Do you smell fuel?" Cooper-Slipper
asked Hobbs over the intercom. Hobbs sniffed the fumes of kerosene seeping into
the cockpits, made a decision that it was unimportant and said firmly, "No."
      "We're off then," said Cooper-Slipper.
Lumbering with a sense of protest, the heavy plane lurched along the runway,
pivoted clumsily and paused, waiting for clearance from the tower to take off.
The six engines fouled the air behind with towering black smoke. Charles Grinyer,
engineering vice-president of Orenda who all but broke his health on the Iroquois
project, was startled the first time he saw the B-47 rolling by. For a moment
he thought it was on fire. Its capacity to create more smoke than a coal-run
locomotive is not considered the B-47's proudest achievement.
Burt
Avery, at thirty-five a deputy chief engineer and one
of Iroquois' principal designers, stepped out of his
office to watch the B-47. Designing jet engines is a
young industry, only fourteen years old, so Avery's youth
is not considered extraordinary at Orenda. With Harry
Keast, the chief engineer he had been present at the
moment the Iroquois ran for the first time in a test
cell and both men considered this the most exultant few
minutes of the entire project.
       When the first engine was put into
a test cell several years ago Charles Grinyer was there along with Keast and
the voluble, intense Polish-born Alex Muraszew, now a deputy chief engineer.
They worked through the day preparing for the first start, stayed in the factory
into the night. Around two or three in the morning they started the starting
motor to spin the Iroquois' compression blades. The Iroquois ran, with flames
pouring through its turbine, but quit when the starter motor quit. The men went
home too defeated to speak much and returned the next day.
       Grinyer had to catch a plane to Ottawa.
He waited as long as he could and then, throwing a few agonized suggestions over
his shoulder, hurriedly left for the airport. A few minutes later the Iroquois
ran by itself, without the support of the starting motor, and sucked a snowstorm
of insulation material out of the walls of the cell. The engineers hugged one
another and got the message to Grinyer just before he climbed in his plane. He
reported later he grinned all the way to Ottawa.
HE HELPED DESIGN IT
Tense and weary, Burt Avery waits it
out.
     "That
was the best moment, the first time it goes." recalls
Keast. "The best moment."
Avery agreed, but on the momentous day of the flight test he watched the B-47
just the same. Earlier in the test program, an Iroquois had partially exploded
in a test cell, spraying shrapnel-like pieces of metal all over the room, which
providentially now is sheathed in shrapnel. This had happened more than once
during tests and, in a sense, was to be expected. He was as certain as an engineer
can be that the Iroquois in the B-47 would not explode, but he nevertheless
was uneasy.
Copyright
June Callwood ©
FYI:
This engine is on display at the Canadian Warplane Heritage
Museum
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