The horse of Phaëthon

It must have been towards the end of 1957 when it was announced that the auxiliary flying on the Meteor was over and done with. Although Pim Kroon was doing his best to save our flying club through some litigation, I didn't believe in it any more and thought it was time to fulfill a great desire of mine. Somewhat dragging my feet, on a nice flying day, I went to the room of the godhead on such matters, namely someone with the authority to determine our flying program, someone who had the right to “assign you” for a “sortie”. Basically that was our commandant of course, but probably on that day it may have been one of his much lower gods who were busy with filling our program for the day.

Whatever the case, my somewhat timid request was if it would be possible to get a special photo flight for a section of four Meteors to make aerial color photographs. That turned out to be no problem at all and the godhead appointed me on the spot as “bouncer” and he immediately assigned a foursome of Meteors VIII which was ordered to follow my photo-graphic instructions. And after some time the five of us were hanging in the air and the foursome submissively obeyed all my orders, low level echelon starboard with undercarriage down, over the coast in echelon port with undercarriage up, same thing against the light in close finger-four left, later again but higher up, with contrails, loose finger-four left, line astern and the nicest photo of all, the mates in close formation and I close behind, just below the eight fat contrails, like thin horse hair within reach of my gloved fingers: the picture on the front cover of this book. Unfortunately I do not remember all the names of the pilots that I was allowed to drive. But if on that day I was allowed to act as Phaëthon for a while and if I were allowed to give the pilots of the formation some first names from this book, the combination of the pilots and their horses (with their Greek / Latin names) would have to be indicated as: Jochem Pyrois (“the fiery one”), Guus Eous (“the one gleaming like the dawn”), Carl Aethon (“the glowing one”) and Lee Phlegon (“the ablaze one”).

The editor

Benjamin West: “Phaëthon asks his father Apollo for permission to drive the sunwagon”

The horse of Phaëthon

Memories of the Gloster Meteor in the Netherlands
1948 - 1959

Trappen - Toeren - Trimmen

Trample - Throttle - Trim

Colofon

Editor:
Aart van Wijk

Translation:
Gary Young (USA), John Robertson (UK) and Terry Middleton (UK)

Lay-out:
Aart van Wijk
Checked by Jopie Arends

Typing:
Gary Young and Kari-Anne van Wijk

Photographs:   Taken from “Alle paarden van Apollo” (2007, editor Aart van Wijk)

” Phaëthon (pp. 3 and 345): Tom Haartsen (paintings: Frans Halsmuseum, Haarlem)

Drawings:
Front cover;    Edo Brandt, all others by Hans ten Hagen

The English translation of Ovid’s Metamorphoses is by Frank Justus Miller (1921)

The poem on the last page of the book is by Vasalis (1940), translated by the editor

Operational Record Book (ORB) 222 Squadron RAF (Ref. PRO/Air 27/1373) and ORB 616 Squadron RAF (Ref. PRO/AIR 27/2127).

British Crown copyright material in the Public Record Office, reproduced by permission of the Controller of Her Brittanic Majesty’s Stastionary Office.

No part of this book may be translated, stored in a retrieval system or be reproduced in any form, by print, photoprint, microfilm or any electronic or mechanical or other means, without the prior written permission from the editor A.A. van Wijk.

ISBN 978 90 8954 364 6

Edition 2012:

Uitgeverij Elikser in cooperation with Eques Nubium Publisher (Uithoorn)
Copies can be ordered through the bookstore,

through Internet: www.elikser.nl

or from: Elikser B.V.

Ossekop 4

8911 LE Leeuwarden

The Netherlands

Tel. no: +31 58 2894857

FOREWORD

On 27 June, 1948, three Gloster Meteor landed at Twenthe Airbase, introducing the first jet fighters in the Netherlands air force. After a number of pilots had completed their training on these aircraft, the Nr. 1 Fighter Squadron was established on 15 November 1948 under the command of Captain-pilot J.L. Flinterman. This squadron established the foundation on which, as of 1949, the CLV (“Air Defence Command”) was built. The other CLV squadrons, which came into being around 1950, were at their creation also equipped with Gloster Meteors. In the early stages these were aircraft of the Mk IV type. Gradually, however, a transition was made to the more modern Mk VIII’s, which had been built under licence by the Netherlands Aircraft factory Fokker in Amsterdam. Additionally, at an early stage, the training of Meteor pilots was given on the Mk VII, the improved dual-seating version of the Meteor. Until quite far into the second half of the fifties, the Gloster Meteors of the dayfighter squadrons (the squadrons 322 -328) have to a high degree been representing the image of CLV. At the same time, this aircraft in particular put its mark on the beginning of the jet age in the Royal Netherlands Air Force, an initial stage in which a toll had to be paid for the rapid growth of the air forces in the light of the strained relation between East and West. It does not bear doubt that later generations of fighter pilots have drawn benefits from the experiences which since 1948 had been provided by the Meteor.

As I was able to observe in October 1996 during a reunion on Woensdrecht Airbase, the former air force personnel which has flown with the Meteor in the period 1948 - 1959, are treasuring their memories of that enervating time. In my judgement it has indeed been a good initiative of Aart van Wijk, himseld a former Meteor pilot, to invite his former colleagues to trust their stories to paper. The result of their endeavours is now laying in front of you.

In this publication the memories of the Meteor pilots have been arranged in a thematical order, by which means a particularly captivating and penetrating picture has arisen of the early years of fighter aviation with jet aircaft in our country.

I therefore gladly recommend this book for reading.

The Commander of the Royal Netherlands Air Force Lieutenant-General B.A.C. Droste

Table of contents

Consideration

Abbreviations

Dedication to those who lost their lives by or in a Gloster Meteor

Members of the virtual “329 squadron”

I Introduction

II The aircraft and the pilots

The Gloster Meteor

      general

      strength

The pilots

      general

      older pilots

      physical aspects

      on strike

      the day after the night before

Farewell

      to the aircraft

      to the pilots

Consideration

After the second reunion of Gloster Meteor pilots at Woensdrecht Air Force Base in the fall of 1996, the editor of this book requested them to put their memories to writing. For time flies, and within not too long a time it will no longer be possible to hunt down how in that time life in and around the Meteor was lived by those concerned. After having sent some 500 letters in December 1996, some 600 stories were received and these formed the backbone of “Het paard van Phaëthon” (“PHA”) which appeared in 1999.

In July 2004 I received an e-mail from Gerrit Jonkman, called Gary Young in the USA, requesting information about the crash of a Meteor in 1952. We started up a lively digital conversation and when he informed me that he had translated one of the PHA stories into English, I suggested that perhaps he could be found willing to translate all of that book. In May 2005 Gary agreed to translate some chapters and almost at once he mailed me that he was “having fun with it”. His first translated batch arrived in early June of that year.

As I was very busy with “Alle paarden van Apollo” (APVA) at that time, I did not have time to check or comment on Gary’s translation and I started looking for a reliable co-worker in this area. So I thought of John Robertson. John had approached me in 2004 with a request for information about RNAF Gloster Meteors and, to cut an amicable history short, he has provided me with the introductory language in APVA for all UK built RNAF Meteors. John mailed me that he would be very pleased to assist me in whatever manner I might wish. Almost immediately Gary and John worked closely together, taking into account my suggestion that their forthcoming effort “The horse of Phaëthon” (THOP) should preferably receive a strong UK accent because, after all, the Meteor was an English product. They did send me all their pages, at times intermixed with various kinds of coloured words, indicating their preferred wordings in those cases where the USA and the UK modes of thinking produced different results. After I had digested all their suggestions and had produced many nice black and white pages, I still felt the need to consult a final authority in the matter.

I was very fortunate to find my former IFALPA comrade in arms Terry Middleton willing to have a final look at the pages and Mrs. Jopie Arends - van der Wiel (after APVA) again agreed to keep an eye on the layout of THOP.

Also at this stage many thanks are due to the former Section Air Force History of the RNAF (now incorporated in the Netherlands Institute of Military History) and to the Central Bureau of Archives (CAD) of the Ministry of Defence for their cooperation during the research for the original Dutch version PHA.

.

Both in PHA and in the present THOP the original language of the contributors has been maintained as much as possible, even in those cases where perhaps rather awkward wording has been the result. In addition thereto, I have requested all three non-Dutch experts not to search for perfect wording, but to allow the present English version to reflect, if applicable, the Dutch origin of its translation.

In PHA only a few photographs were included because the stories should be able to present their own images. The drawings by former Meteor colleague Hans ten Hagen were added in order to enable the uninformed reader to visualise the Meteor. In the present THOP, however, the white spaces of PHA have been filled in with appropriate pictures in order to answer some criticism levelled against their earlier absence.

An observant or well-informed reader may notice serious discrepancies between various versions of one and the same incident, both as to the factual turn of events and the persons involved. No attempt has been made to reconcile all that; this book is only partly a history book and the stories submitted do not provide more than a subjective flashback of blurring and retreating images from the past.

The editor

Abbreviations

ATC | Air Traffic Control. Cf. also F/C: Flying Control
AVOT | Supplementary Training Twin Engined Aircraft
ABPC | Automatic Barometric Pressure Control (part of the engine)
ADF | Automatic Direction Finder
AFB | Air Force Base
BABOV | Bureau for the Planning, Building and Maintenance of Airfields
BVD | Domestic Safety Department (cf. FBI)
BAUFFP Brakes-Air | brakes-Undercarriage-Fuel-Flaps-Pressure ( = down-wind checklist for the Gloster Meteor)
CAD | Central Archives Depot
C-B-Q-low | An instruction for a Meteor flight (Close formation, Battle formation, QGH, low flying)
CB | Cumulonimbus (thunder) cloud
CLO | Flight Training Command
CLS | Chief of Air Force Staff
CLV | Air Defence Command (Containing the Gloster Meteor squadrons 322 - 328)
CTL | Tactical Air Force Command (Containing the Thunderjet squadrons - “natural enemies” of CLV)
DMLu | Directorate of Air Force Equipment/Material
EVO | Elementary Flight Training
FAI | Federation Aeronautique International (Cf. IFA)
FC | Flying Control. Cf. also ATC: Air Traffic Control
FCF | Functional Check Flight
GCI | Ground Controlled Interception (Cf. also PI: Practice Interception)
GCA | Ground Controlled Approach (“Talk down” under radar guidance)
HBB | “Huisje - Boompje - Beestje”. Navigation by objects on the ground: small houses - trees - animals.
HPC | High Pressure Cock (to close down the engine)
IF | Instrument Flying
IFF/SIF | Identification Fiend or Foe / Selective Identification Feature (Visible on radar screens)
ILSY | International Air Show Ypenburg
IP | Initial Point for joining the traffic circuit at an AFB
JPT | Jet Pipe Temperature
JVS / JVO | JVS, Fighter Flying School (Twenthe, in 1956 moved to Woensdrecht as “JVO”, Fighter Flying Training)
KLD | Ground Aircraft Observer Corps
KLu | Royal (Netherlands) Air Force. Before 11 March 1953: LSK
KNIL | Royal Netherlands Indies Army
LPC | Low Pressure Cock (to close down the engine)
LSK | Air Fighting Force. After 11 March 1953: KLu
LUVA | Air Force Women Division
LVD | Aviation Department
LW | Leeuwarden AFB
MLD | Navy Air Service / Dutch Naval Aviation
MP | Military Police
NL(R)L | Dutch Aviation (and Space) Laboratory
NSF | Dutch Signal (radio) Factory
OBN | Old Boys Network
ORB | Operational Record Book
OTU | Operational Training Unit
QDM | Magnetice Course to steer towards a place
QDR | Magnetice Course to steer away from a place
QGH | Procedure to descend through clouds (Cf. “Bob” van Oord on p. 32)
RLS | Civil Government Flying School
RT | Radio Telephony
RMWO | Knight Military William Order (Oldest and highest Dutch medal for valour during war time)
SB | Soesterberg AFB
S.E. | Single Engine (flying)
SVO | Selective Flight Training
TTT | Trample - Throttle - Trim. The S.E. litany for Meteor pilots, explained by Peter Wierikx at p. 124.
TDI | Technical Department Cf. also VLTD - Flight Technical Department
T/O | Take-off
TW | Twenthe AFB
U/S | Unserviceable
VCO | Traffic Control Pilot Officer
VHF/UHF-DF | Very High Frequency / Ultra Hight Frequency - Direction Finder
VK | Volkel Air Force Base
VLA | Assistant Traffic Control Officer
VLO | Traffic Control Officer
VLTD | Flight Technical Department.
VMC-air Minimum | Control Speed in the Air (during S.E. flying)
VVO | Advanced Flight Training
WUES | Western Union Examination Squadron (?)

Dedicated to the members of 329 Squadron

I received a perhaps very hard but for that reason not less instructive lesson shortly after I had joined 322 Squadron as a reserve-pilot. It was a nice sunny day for flying and we were just walking from the briefing towards the squadron, when I was addressed by our squadron leader Robbie Wijting. He invited me to walk with him and he took a non-standard route to the squadron building which brought us between the hangars where assorted crashed aircraft were laying together in pieces. Look, he told me, it is going to be a nice flying day again today, I only wanted to show you the remains of the crate of ... X and the stains which you see there near the cockpit are not quite rust stains. ..., I do hope you will understand what I intend to express with all that, for the rest I wish you a safe flying day. ....... It was an unforgettable lesson! In my thoughts I often recall the fallen colleagues, realizing that they have enjoyed flying the Meteor and that they would never have wanted to be without it.

(Will Burgstede)

B.G. de Ruyter | 6 February 1950
J. Bakker | 2 June 1950
D. Boer |
G.M.G. Noyons | 28 June 1950
J. van Leeuwen | 6 February 1951
E.B. Kraayo | 28 February 1951
J.J.C. Heeren | 5 March 1951
H.B. Boomkamp | 22 May 1951
H.A. Bastiaans |
A.G. Deibel | 12 June 1951
J.A.M. Prast | 5 October 1951
P. Hartzema | 25 October 1951
J. Nieuwenhuizen | 21 November 1951

H. Vrijenhoek | 29 November 1951
J.P.Ch. Sprenger | 24 January 1952
C.W. Köhler | 7 February 1952
P.C. Smaal | 20 February 1952
H. Stikvoort | 13 March 1952
L. Engelsman | 25 March 1952
J.H. Nagtegaal | 1 April 1952
G.R. Eecen | 23 May 1952
B. van den Berge | 23 May 1952
D. Pekel | 15 September 1952
A. Polman |
J.F. Stubbe | 16 September 1952
R.H. Mulder |

I. de Kat | 18 September 1952
H.C.J. Schmitz | 3 October 1952
W.R. van der Werve | 4 December 1952
S.I.J.M. Abel | 18 May 1953
F. Pöttger | 15 June 1953
J.G. Zautsen | 8 July 1953
C. Holm | 7 September 1953
L. Deibel | 17 October 1953
A. van Vliet | 16 December 1953
I.J.R. Sleper | 4 March 1954
F.P. van der Laag |
A.D. Moeke | 17 March 1954
B. Nieuwenhuis |

J. P. Talbot | 3 April 1954
H. Groot Hulze | 12 August 1954
E. Elshout | 20 August 1954
A.G. Kraayeveld | 16 November 1954
J.H.J. Tolido |
A. Wijgerse | 2 June 1955
B. Harmsen | 29 July 1955
W.J.C. van Baalen | 26 August 1955
J.A.M. van Vilsteren | 27 September 1955
J. Knoop | 26 March 1956
F.W. Hoogsteden | 2 May 1956
H.M.M. Bruggink | 28 February 1957
W. van Deutekom | 13 January 1958

I Introduction

The history of the Gloster Meteor’s introduction in the Netherlands has been written in a number of air force books and magazines. Therefore, in the framework of this book, it would be superfluous to once more go over all the details of this history. But it seems useful to provide a skeleton from this literature, so that the memories of the pilots included in this book are provided with a peg to hang them on.

The following may serve as such.

Because after the Second World War the Gloster works encountered serious competition from De Havilland with their “Vampire” jet fighter, the manufacturer of the Meteor started a promotional campaign for which they created a special demo Meteor. This crimson red painted Meteor IV, marked with civil registration G-AIDC landed on April 15th, 1947 at the then air force base Valkenburg. Next this first Meteor above Dutch territory was flown in front of interested authorities by Squadron Leader Digby Cotes-Preedy who, as was said, “really showed some superb demo flying”. Possibly partly because of that, on June 27th what was known in those days as the Netherlands Army Air Force placed an order for five (single seat) Meteors IV interceptor fighters at a price of H.Fl 15,000 a piece. It seems that in retrospect politicians in The Hague had some objections against this “extremely high price, after all it concerned aircraft without airscrews!”

In order to be able to fly the Meteor in Holland some pilots were re-trained in England and technical personnel were sent across the Channel in order to get schooled. “Schooled” is too big a word because theoretical schooling was not included. For most of them it was training on the job, meaning that they were immediately put to work with the RAF. Theory was only reserved for some thirty leading technicians of the Flight Technical Service (VLTD)

They already departed in January 1949 and were dispersed among various factories for a short stint in their own trade: hydraulic systems - jet engines - electronics - instruments-weaponry - the aircraft itself. After about six weeks they got together with the rest of the technical personnel on RAF base Horsham St.Faith for practical training with the four RAF squadrons that were posted there flying Meteors III but busy changing over to the Meteor IV.

On March 25, 1948 everyone returned to Holland to Twenthe air base. However there were no Meteors available there yet so that half the personnel were put to work with the Spitfires and the other half with the Oxfords. Furthermore some old Ansons were being dismantled. Jan Flinterman, at the time still RAF Flight Lieutenant, received the honor to become Holland’s first jet fighter pilot. Already on December 13, 1945, using the “old boys network” he managed to get on a Meteor course at RAF base Molesworth.

On Sunday June 27, 1948 the first three Dutch Meteors IV with registrations I-21, I-22 and I-24 arrived at Twenthe air base, after a fuel stop at Eindhoven air base. At Twenthe there still was almost nothing available. They literally started on a shoe and a slipper.

A further disadvantage for training the pilots was that in the beginning there were no dual Meteors VII.

The first Meteors of that type only came into service on February 24, 1949.

On top of this a belly landing on March 11 by “Johnny” Dekker put that aircraft away for repairs at Fokker till January 6, 1950.

Only on May 7 arrived I-2 but that one crashed after only eleven days and had to be written off.

The Meteors were concentrated at Twenthe around hangar 1 East. Under the leadership of J.L.Flinterman, meanwhile promoted to Major, instructors Wansink, Van Arkel, de Wolff, Van Oord, Aertsen and Dekker among others, trained the students to become jet fighter pilots. They were a separate part of the Fighter Flying School (JVS) which was equipped with Spitfires. In the beginning of December 1948 half of the technical staff went to Leeuwarden to prepare for the arrival of the Nr.1 Air Defense Squadron. This first post war Dutch fighter squadron was established on November 15, 1948 while still at Twenthe Air Force base. On January 28th, 1949, led by major Flinterman, a group of eight Meteors IV landed at Leeuwarden Air Force base. In Flinterman’s wake flew lieutenants Aertsen, Van Gelder and Linzel, Sergeant Major Van Oord and Sergeants Bakker, Van Mil and De Ruyter. On April 14, 1949 Nr.1 Squadron was renamed 323 Squadron and also from about that time 324 Squadron started to form at Leeuwarden, as a godchild of 323. In July 324 “had to take care of itself” under the leadership of the first Flight commandant of 323, Captain W. de Wolff, the official establishment date is set as May 1, 1949. The following Meteor Squadron - 325-, also grew up at 323 Squadron namely during the second half of 1949. On November 15th it was officially established under the leadership of Major J.N.Mulder RMWO.

There was not a lot of flying as there was only one Meteor IV available. In early 1950 the situation improved as the Meteors taken over from the RAF began streaming in. And in August they already participated, together with the other squadrons, in the international exercise “Cupola”. In May 323 was relocated to Twenthe to function there as gunnery school. The pilots supplied by the fighter training school (meanwhile with Major J.van Arkel as their commandant) next got their weaponry training with 323. Theory was taught at Twenthe in addition to gunnery practice with the gun camera. However for firing live ammunition the squadron went for two weeks in each course to Leeuwarden which was located closer to the range. That turned out to be impractical so that in April 1952, 323 moved back to Leeuwarden. At Twenthe 323 was replaced by another Meteor squadron: 326.

This squadron was officially formed on April 1,1950 but only on October 2nd the first commandant was appointed: Captain L.W. Hansen, with five pilots and eight Meteors IV to form the squadron at Leeuwarden. The student pilots destined for the fighter squadrons from then on, after their 4-hour Meteor training at the JVS, got an operational training at 326 Squadron. After that the gunnery training took place at 323.

As “gate closers” of the Meteor dayfighter squadrons 327 and 328 appeared. 327 Squadron began its existence on May 15, 1951. From October 1, 1951 the two squadrons were stationed at Soesterberg, after having been formed at Volkel. Meanwhile from January 1951, 324 Squadron was the first to be equipped with the new Meteor VIII. This Meteor type had a longer fuselage than the Meteor IV, a higher maximum speed and an ejection seat.

Furthermore, by installing an extra 100 gallon fuel tank, the internal fuel capacity of the “VIII” was increased to 425 gallons, which meant an important improvement in flight endurance and distance. There was also an electrical mechanism built in to retract the gyroscopic gun sight for the 20 mm cannon behind the instrument panel so that the pilots obtained an unrestricted view through the three panels of the windscreen. At the Air Force’s oldest squadron 322, the jet age only made its entrance in June 1952 when one flight of Meteors IV was added to the Spitfires with which 322 Squadron still operated. After about one year also 322 Squadron was equipped with Meteors VIII. After 1959 it was over for the Meteor with the Klu. Most of the first jet fighters of the Klu disappeared to the scrap heap, except for six Meteors VII which went to the MLD (Navy Air Service, which earlier had put four of those in service.

However, no stories about this last period of the Meteors in Holland have been received from the MLD (Navy) pilots.

N.B.: The above mentioned details do not in all instances match the contents of the written memories in this book; in particular it is interesting to read that not J.L.Flinterman (on December 13, 1945) but R.F. Van Daalen (“before the end of the war”) was the first Dutchman to fly a Gloster Meteor.

Data derived from:

Willem Helffrich: “De eerste straaljager van de Klu. De Gloster Meteor” in: “Onze luchtmacht”, October 1987 / February 1988.

Marcel Coenen / Nico Geldhof: “De Gloster Meteor F.Mk 4” Stichting Vrienden van het Militaire Luchtvaartmuseum (1991).

A less known squadron of the RNAF / Koninklijke Luchtmacht is 329 Squadron which, according to tradition, is made up of persons killed because of - or in - a Meteor jet fighter.

Gloster Meteor Mk IV

Gloster Meteor Mk VII

Gloster Meteor Mk VIII

Aart van Wijk near the Gloster Meteor

II The aircraft and the pilots

The Gloster Meteor-general

The step up from the Harvard to the Spitfire was a big one; so big, in my opinion, that I thought it a good idea to go and fly Oxfords instead. That was a lot more tranquil than those frivolous goings-on in such a tiny fighter; you took fewer risks and yet you were flying. I should immediately let my future superior know about my intentions. But I was transferred to fighter training and when, having arrived at Twenthe airbase, I came to confront the fighter school’s commandant and confided in him my ideas, he made a face as if I had given him a spoonful of cod liver oil. Now, this was a man who was deeply respected, if not greatly feared. I did not get a glimmer of a chance to discuss it. “Go and report yourself to Captain Dekker”. Protest would seem to be highly dangerous and so .... Spitfires! The crew room had everything in common with a Boy Scouts club house: “Nissen” hut, a floor of concrete paving stones, a potbelly stove, a scruffy old table with tired and damaged wooden office chairs and a number of very comfortable easy chairs, composed of birch legs rigged together with paper twine.The parachute locker could well have been a storage place for Boy Scout sticks and rope work. I could start at once. The hated checking in at the base was considered an activity that could be postponed until a day of bad weather. Cram the Pilots Notes for the Spitfire, a chat in the cockpit with Boeng Harms on the wing and, immediately after that, the H-35 and yours truly were sent into the air with Boeng as chase pilot, somewhere behind us. In the 35 minutes that followed, in somewhat grey February weather and not too far from the base, many things happened to me which I found amazing. After some unfamiliar searching for the necessary gizmos and clocks, fumbling with settings and speeds, finding the correct climb speed - she almost stood on her tail then - it suddenly all began to fall into place and any thought about those old Oxfords evaporated and suddenly I felt at ease; nothing was more fascinating than this! The Spitfire IX soon became my friend. In no time I had not only flown solo but was also relaxed in it. It was such a small aircraft; you didn’t climb into it, you put it on and the thing fitted me like my most prized sweater. You couldn’t twist or turn in it; for example, I never managed to close that little hinged door; the Crew Chief had to do that. The gigantic nose, which only bothered you on the taxi strip or while landing, housed a confi-dence-building growling Merlin, which effortlessly provided you with, in my opinion, formidable power.

And the Meteor? Totally different. Terribly large, not a frolicking little Spit; no engine in front of you, just the office all the way out on the nose, and the view, which was supposed to be so good, was spoiled by a gyro sight. No twelve-cylinder growling to put you at ease but creepy vacuum cleaner sounds from two lazy engines left and right behind you. And it was heavy on the controls! But it sure was fascinating, and above all, it looked pretty cool if you could tell them at home that you were flying jet fighters. Jet fighter pilots were admired individuals in those days. Karel Nort and Pierre Blanchard made their movie “Wings guarding over Holland” about it, Piet Bakker wrote a series of articles about it, entitled “Jet fighter youth”, illustrated by Eppo Doeve and, sometime later, children who would drink a lot of milk, could get their picture taken with a jet fighter pilot and get in the newspaper that way.

My children reacted to this with much disdain. They didn’t have to drink milk for that, but they never made it into the papers either. After a few “dual” trips with Bob van Oord, I went “solo”! ... but was not yet confident. That would still take some time because, in that first solo half hour, I was busily searching for my comfort zone, for my sweater, but I couldn’t find it and I really wasn’t through it yet. However, I was through my fuel; with 40-40 on the dials I saw Rheine in the distance with a runway full of bomb craters and I didn’t find that a particularly pleasant sight. How far was Twenthe really? And what could you still do with 80 gallons? Not yet in a panic, although with tight buttocks, I flew post-haste westward. It all turned out OK, but I definitely still didn’t feel at ease. Happily, we were flying daily; every morning tie and collar into the locker (we still wore loose collars with those collar buttons that most of the time got lost and then were replaced with paperclips), wearing sloppy overalls and the unavoidable scarf (very fancy, blue with white dots and as grimy as it could be). Actually, we looked like hell and the scarf was the only thing that we had to lift up the ensemble a bit, particularly as the long, up-to-your-elbows gloves also had little elegance. Fortunately we didn’t have to join the marriage market dressed up like that. If you thought it necessary, our “service dress”, at the time still with stars instead of stripes, worked a lot better. But when our hero of the skies stepped out of his operetta costume and into the cockpit of a Meteor IV, it was from the beginning without any sense of overconfidence, because the many flying hours I had accumulated meant that I felt just as much at home in a Meteor as I did in my car. When later, as instructor in the dual Meteor, I got to sit behind a student who didn’t have the Spitfire experience between the Harvard and the Meteor in their neat logbooks, I could understand their lack of confidence. You had to get them solo within a certain number of hours and that succeeded by far in most cases, but I knew that they were not yet experienced enough and you hoped then that nothing bad would befall them.

When I spoke to some of them, most confessed that they definitely didn’t feel at ease at the beginning but, once their confidence grew, they felt that flying a Meteor was a great job. A pressurized cabin, a better oxygen system, central heating, a greater ceiling, practically no leg work ( unles …. but I’ll get to that) and a good view in spite of the gun sight, made flying it an unexpected pleasure. The cockpit was not roomy, but large enough; you could reach everything effortlessly and the instrument panel was not complicated. Added to that, the Meteor had good characteristics; it had no dirty tricks up its sleeve - it warned you clearly before a stall and also after a high speed stall in severe turns; you didn’t have to be afraid that it would do a flick roll or that you would fall into a spin, provided you had your "boots in the right spot". For that matter, a spin was no problem at all.

When at Moreton-Valence, the Gloster Aircraft airfield, we heard from their test pilot, Jan Zurakowski, how you could do a “cartwheel”, but we never managed it and when it failed you inevitably ended up in a spin (and also if you succeeded, for that matter !). You then lost a perplexing amount of height and you could only afford to do such a stunt at high altitude. If you then did what you were taught, the Meteor immediately started to respond again and even if you did absolutely nothing at all, everything happened normally, only a bit lower (I must add that I never tried to do it, so I have it only on hearsay). At some 30,000 feet, the controls of the Meteor became very sloppy and much less effective, yet somehow more manageable. The force needed to move them at lower altitude and at the customary high speeds, was considerable and I always saw this as a good feature. A student who kicked on the wrong side when he closed the throttle of one engine was faced with the need for a very quick reaction and that almost certainly resulted in aching muscles and strong language! It happened to me more often than I cared for; Serge Stone even dedicated a drawing about this in his book “Squadron”. But also “normal” asymmetric flying was top sport until the moment you had your rudder trim organized in an orderly manner.

Also, the trim changed with every variation in speed or engine setting. And the elevator was so heavy to handle that it turned out that I was not the only one who continuously searched for help from the big trim wheel; in a Spit or later in a Hunter you did that seldom (for that matter the latter had no trim wheels at all, but a clever little button on the stick). But this should not give the impression that flying the Meteor was disagreeably hard work. It was a nice aircraft that really didn’t fail you, as long as you kept to the rules of the game. Unfortunately, in spite of that, quite a few accidents happened and we lost many of our comrades that way. Discussion about the causes would surely lead to many controversies and do not belong here. Almost seven years of flying around in a Meteor has been an enormous pleasure for me with the exception of a couple of bad days, a couple of mishaps and the couple of hours between going solo and gaining confidence.

I wouldn’t mind another chance….but it’s not to be, alas! (F.W. Vonk)

Flying the Meteor brought amazement that there existed other aircraft that were worth the effort after a 215 hour love affair with the Spitfire. Noticeable was the unreal quietness in the cockpit compared with my so dearly beloved Spit, the fact that you did not need to kick your right leg out of its joint in order to stay on the runway at take-off, or that you could now recognize your voice over the intercom at 40 - 50,000 feet and you could enjoy the panorama of Western Europe at that altitude. (H. van Gorkum)

In the first place I recall that the cockpit of the Meteor was so tight that you had to squeeze yourself into it. I had just completed training in America on the Mustang, with a relatively roomy and comfortable cockpit, and the difference was remarkable. A confirmation of the opinion that the Brits first designed an aeroplane and then had to improvise a spot for the pilot. (G. van Dijk)

Although I have only flown 38 hours in total on the Meteor, it was a special experience for someone used to American aircraft. Our Meteors were hand-me-downs from other squadrons; the tails were bent and were a number of degrees out of plumb. Also the high- and low-pressure cocks were completely new and, in our opinion, “from the dark ages”. One of the greatest pluses was that the Meteor could fly on its back, something that could be done with few, if not very few, others. We did this especially to show off. This also made us “rich” with screw drivers, pencils and other stuff (especially dust), which then lay in the canopy. One of the minuses was the rotten radio, I believe a Philips; we, who made many bad-weather flights, were bothered a lot by that. It became a gamble when we tried, without a radio, to get below the cloud cover of 300 feet. The helmet and the oxygen mask were also from or before the Second World War. (J. Vermeulen)

As far as looks went, the Gloster Meteor IV was attractive and inviting. Equipped with two jet engines this aircraft made me a feel safe again. After a few flights I got used to it quickly and went solo. I was very well aware of the enormous acceleration power and speed and was surprised by the braking effect when using the dive brakes. This aircraft met my expectations! It had a simple stall with a quick and easy recovery. Single-engine flying and going around, if flown correctly, caused no problem (keeping in mind my experience on the B-25 at the time). One had a very good all-round view from the cockpit but it was, like all English fighter planes, quite narrow. (L.W. Hansen)

In 1955/56 the Meteor had clearly aged and even in 1952 I was overtaken in the climb at altitude. However, the aircraft was of enormous importance for the gradual transfer to more modern jet aircraft, from a technical, as well as a tactical, point of view. (H.J. Folmer)

As far as I am concerned, in spite of the forty pilots that we lost in the Meteor period, my experience was that the Meteor as a swell aircraft in which you felt at home. (P.H.A. Schmidt Crans)

For more than three years, from September 1954 to October 1957, I flew Meteors IV, VII (dual) and VIII from the bases at Twenthe and Soesterberg. Because of my flight training in America in 1951, followed by being operational with 311 and 313 squadrons on T-33 and F-84G, I was used to what I had accepted as normal, namely adequate flying gear (G-suits, flying helmets, proper oxygen masks), ejection seat, heated pressurized cockpit, power steering, defrosters, and so on. At the beginning of 1954 I was selected to follow a flight instructors course on the T-33 with the USAF in Germany and, with my American background, I was very surprised when I was transferred on September 1, 1954 to the fighter school (JVS) at Twenthe, destined to be a flight instructor on the English Meteor VII. The transition from the “sophisticated" T-33 to the twin-engine, primitive, barren Meteor VII hit me like a complete culture shock. Having to fly again with a leather helmet, goggles and fur-lined boots, as in the Tiger Moth, I didn't believe it was possible. In the unheated cockpits, without ejection seats, wiring, cables for direct steering and hydraulic lines were openly visible; a lost knee pad between the wires was not an especially healthy prospect.

The cockpit hood of the VII had, from front to end, small windows with broad frames. The view was miserable. The inwardly-protruding screw heads could cause nasty head wounds in a crashlanding.

The so-called “clear vision panels" (in the left “front windscreen" and in the back to the left side of the instructor) were meant to be flipped open in case of a frosted-over windscreen and cockpit roof, so that in the landing one could look at the runway through these open slits. The panels could be opened by turning the knobs of the screw pins out of their seats and to flip up the panel (10 x 20 cm in the back and a little smaller in the front). On the ground this proved to be possible, provided you had gloves and strong hands. No pressurized cockpit meant that on our practice flights above 30,000 feet we suffered a bloated gut, farts, and fear that the out-of-date oxygen system would refuse to work. Because of the low-pressure, radio communication became an unintelligible babble. In spite of all the discomforts, from the first introduction I felt safe in the Meteor. With the direct steering the aircraft was still reasonably manoeuverable up to M.0.82 and almost all manoeuvres were possible, especially “stall turns”, but spins were not to be recommended. Actually in its simplicity, little could go wrong. The “radial” Derwent engines were practically trouble-free and indestructible. The simplest of all fuel systems consisted of, beside a belly tank, a large kerosene container behind the cockpit divided into two compartments, one half for the left engine and the other half for the one on the right. It was even possible, while flying on one engine, to let fuel flow from the front compartment to the rear compartment by means of pulling open a so-called “balance cock,” a valve in the partition. For this it was essential to know which engine was fed by the rear compartment. Namely if the still remaining engine pulled fuel from this compartment, you had to climb to let the fuel flow from the one in front to the rear compartment and, naturally, in the reverse, descend to get the fuel to the front compartment. Taxiing was very peculiar and required getting used to. With a “handle” on the stick you could provide brake pressure to the main wheels. With the left foot and brake pressure on the handle you went left and the other way, right. Adding power left or right was a handy way to increase the turning circle a bit. It was amusing that students at the “after landing check” and “pulling the stop cocks” often forgot to turn both engines off!

Finally, something about the IV and the VII. The IV had no ejection seat but it did have a pressurized cockpit and heating. The only problem was that at altitude the canopy often spontaneously slid open or burst open. I was to experience it twice, accompanied by explosive decompression. The VIII on the other hand was a revelation with good cockpit pressurization, heating, defroster, excellent Martin Baker ejection seat, good visibility, better steering and more thrust. We even flew with RAF flying helmets and an improved oxygen system. Looking back, I would not like having missed the Meteor experience. What is still amazing is that later on, at the end of ’56 and the beginning of ’57, I was current, all at the same time, on three variants of the Meteor, as well as the T-33, S-14, F-86K and the Harvard. That has become impossible under the present rules. (Z.A. van Soest)

During interceptions and exercises we quite often had the RAF Canberra as targets. What I remember well about that is that the Meteor just couldn’t catch them. I still recall that when we attempted to intercept a Canberra, we ended up in a quite aimless tail chase. It flew just a bit faster and after having hung behind it for a minute or so, you just broke off….

We operated the Meteor at its limits, also because our RAF colleagues mostly flew at high altitude during this kind of exercise. Then I was p..... off most of the time. (C.J. Ponte )

After my education at the R.L.S. I learned real flying in the air force on the Meteor and developed self-confidence. I thus never experienced any thrills in the aircraft, because I felt so much at home in it, and so I never had any problems in that thing.

Naturally, I had a couple of close shaves on occasions, but that was part of flying fighters. When I learned to fly in the Air Force, and afterwards, it was a cosy flying club with a pleasant atmosphere. The things I found most fascinating were low flying and, at great height, trying to intercept American bombers and practice cine-gun. Difficult, you know.

My favorite pastime: solo aerobatics and formation flying. (F.H.J. Schoof)

My time on the Meteor started at the JVO Course 44b at Woensdrecht airbase. After ground school I made my first flight in Meteor VII “I-310” on August 29, 1957 with Captain Wierikx. The first solo was on October 4, also in a Meteor VII, “I-240”. I didn’t have much of a feeling that I was flying in a jet fighter because in America I already had flown the T-33. Still, it means something to you, for sure, if you are solo for the first time on a new type. I remember well that I was singing on the downwind leg.

As far as the Meteor goes I always found it a very trustworthy machine and of strong construction. It was pleasant to fly and even on one engine it was no problem but as it was the first twin-engined aircraft I flew, I had to get used to it. I always found taxiing very easy, especially compared with the Hunter which I flew later on. (H.P. van der Maas)

In the first place I must say that names such as “flying coffin” and “widow maker”, which were applied to the Meteor, were not justified. Indeed, quite a few accidents happened, but was the aircraft to be blamed for this? In those days many pilots went straight from the Harvard to the Meteor with a total flight time of around 250 hours. Also, the technical service had to get used to the age of the jet fighter. In his article about the Meteor in 1996, Wim Kroese writes that the Rolls Royce engines were unreliable. Nothing is farther from the truth. One could chase a flock of seagulls through the engine without any detrimental result except for the stench. And should an engine be lost because of bad engine handling, there still was no problem because the Meteor flew excellently on one. (W.J.P. Heijnen)

It took a bit of getting used to the instrumentation of the Meteor, because this aircraft didn’t possess a single navigation system. The Meteor was only equipped with a not-too-good and unreliable radio. This meant that in bad weather you were completely dependent on, and had to trust, the QDM’s and QGH’s from the very good traffic controllers. With regard to the blind flying instruments (turn & bank indicators) it was a switch from the needle and ball system (USA) to the two needle system (UK). With the latter system I could, after a some practice, turn more tightly and precisely and, in addition, get out of a difficult situation faster when “under the hood”. (L.W. Hansen)

Compared to the Spitfire the big difference was the view from the cockpit, the two engines and the greater speed; I found it a robust aeroplane with the feel of a light bomber. Up to 30,000 feet the climb was not better than a Spitfire’s but above that the jet engines won. I didn’t find asymmetric flying difficult, but what I didn’t enjoy was flying a single-engined circuit. Considering the tardy reaction of the Derwent engine this was asking for trouble. For the rest, a pleasant aircraft, a bit heavy on the steering, especially at high speeds and during aerobatics, but the Meteor VIII was a bit better than the IV/VII. (H.J. Folmer)

Concerning my experiences with the Meteor, I have nothing but praise, an aircraft with very “benign” flight characteristics, which never failed me; it was equipped with two particularly reliable Rolls Royce Derwent engines which, in my case, never “called it a day”.

I received my training in EVO/VVO 5 at Woensdrecht in 1948 and after that at Gilze-Rijen and Twenthe from the end of 1948 to 1951 in 324 Squadron at Leeuwarden. (G.W. Flach)

I have learned to appreciate the Meteor as a trustworthy aircraft. Its Rolls Royce Derwent was, at that time, one of the best jet engines, which, because of its simplicity and minimal sensitivity to foreign objects damage, was certainly an important factor in the aircraft's reliability. This aircraft never disappointed me, notwithstanding that in the squadron we often performed flying manoeuvres of which we now say: “What were we thinking of ?!” The “good old Meteor” accepted it all. If you demanded more from it than it should do, it didn’t punish you but always gave you the opportunity to reach your home station.

The sensational cry launched in a much-read morning paper, that the Meteor was a “widow-maker”, doesn’t make sense. The reason why, in the early years, we had to bid good-bye to colleagues was not because of the Meteor but the inexperience of the young squadron pilots who often had too much overconfidence. I have had it with anyone who maintains that the Meteor was a rotten aircraft. (D.G.W. Dijxhoorn)

After completing training in Canada with the T-33, the Meteor seemed a ramshackle aircraft which one should treat with great caution. It was my instructor, Mr. Blaauw, who helped me to see and feel what I could really do with it, without being affected by the horror stories that had flown ahead to reach us while we were still in Canada. (G.E. Casimiri)

Looking back at the Meteor period, I believe that the number of accidents, which was always too high of course, was mainly due to errors by the pilots and their overconfidence and not merely to the technical shortcomings of the Meteor. Compared with, for example, those who flew the Thunderjet, fitted with American jet engines with axial compression, the pilot often had no chance when the engine disintegrated and the compressor blades flew like projectiles through the aircraft. (W.B. Burgstede)

Flying the Meteor was a pleasure. As becomes an English aircraft, one puts it on, so to speak. The cockpit was small and everything was within reach. Also, it had great technical reliability - because operating the controls, flaps, dive brakes, etc., was accomplished via mechanical transmission, so there was little chance of trouble, while the Derwent engine, with its radial compression was not very prone to trouble. During some thousand hours over four years I only experienced three occasions of technical trouble, of which only one was worrisome. Thanks to this I built up a lot of self confidence, which, of course, made flying the aircraft so much easier. (W.B. Burgstede)

After flying the Spitfire at the JVS, I flew the Meteor there (the VII and the IV) from May 23, 1950 until the end of July, after which I went to gunnery instructor training with 325 Squadron until April 1951. Next I was transferred to Nellis Air Force Base for further schooling as weapons instructor. Considering my short time on the Meteor, I didn’t have the opportunity to obtain long-term experience. But I found it a fine aircraft, easy to fly and I never encountered problems with single-engine flying (and landing).

It was a pleasant time at Twenthe, unfortunately with few flying hours due to the lack of spare parts at that time. (Y. Baanstra)

The Meteor had a parachute with a dinghy pack which was placed in the cockpit seat and on which the pilot sat. In practice, it transpired that a few accidents happened with deadly results, due to faulty construction of the dinghy pack. The air bottle in this pack, which inflated the rubber boat in case of a landing at sea, had a weak spot in the neck, under the valve, which could easily break with the continual movement in and out of the seat. As a result, the dinghy could suffer a spontaneous and explosive inflation and, because the pilot sat on top of it, the dinghy could only go in one direction and that was forward - and that was where the stick was, pushing it forward with a force the pilot could not overcome. The result of this doesn’t need further explanation, especially if it happened at heights below 5,000 feet. When this was finally discovered, a knife was mounted in the cockpit so that the pilot could immediately stab a hole in the inflating dinghy. But he had to act very fast!! (J. van Arkel)

My Meteor experience began mid-1954 when our class, which had been trained in the USA, was transferred to Twenthe. After experience there on the T-33 and the F-84E Thunderjet, I was introduced to the Meteor and I was really not enthused about it - no ejection seat, electric trim or warning lights. But after flying in it for a couple of hours, appreciation for the Meteor grew and I enjoyed doing dog-fights. Only single-engine flying was, with my height being only 1.65m, a special trick. But fortunately small pillows in my back gave some relief. (H.G. van der Wilk)

In the beginning. . . . . England created the Meteor IV with all its growing pains (no ejection seat, no good brakes, no automatic fuel control, and so on). Nevertheless, it was the first jet fighter in Holland. Quite a few minor accidents happened with that first version. For example, the word going around was that, once on finals, you should not increase engine power or you would “blow out” the engines, the proverbial “flame outs”. The result was either landings just short of the runway, where the ground was covered with only perforated metal sheets, or too far along it, which resulted in damaged undercarriages, blown tyres and burnt brakes. One modification after the other rolled into the Technical Service (T.D.). Single-engine flying did give most fighter pilots some difficulty, quite naturally, as up until then we had only flown on single-engine machines. In retrospect, instruction on the subject fell somewhat short, which during that time cost a few lives. It occasionally happened that with an actual engine out, or a simulation, that one came in short (approaching too low) or long (approaching too high). In these cases it was difficult to recover the situation. (G.H. Determeijer)

Concerning the flight characteristics of the Meteor, I can only say that it was one of the most docile aircraft that I have flown. I cannot imagine a single flying situation from which recovery was not possible, except adding too much power below the critical single-engine speed. (W.J.P. Heijnen)

Actually, I never expected anything from the Meteor that could not be accomplished, although… during our P.I. (practice interception) and after much toiling, we finally sat behind a Canberra and tried to get closer, but often didn’t succeed because the Meteor had already begun to shudder and pitch at Mach 0.8 (at about 30-40,000 feet) and then dropped away over one wing. No, super-fast it was not, but for that time it made do. (H.J. Zwaga)

Oh, yes, the Meteor. Antique beast from times past. . . But yet in its time an exponent of the early jet force in Holland. Still unknown and therefore thrilling. Also a bit threatening with its two “whoppers” of engines, the small cramped cockpit (the smell and the closed-in feeling will always stay with me) and the undercarriage’s jolly little balloon tyres which actually did not completely belong in the jet age. As a matter of fact neither did the rudder; the typical “elephant’s ear” made one think of many things, except a jet fighter part. But let’s be honest: aren’t those the typical characteristics of the things that make anyone who has flown it get a dreamy look in his eyes? Something like: “Ah, yes, that old trusty little IV ... ”. (R. de Vries)

The Gloster Meteor - strength.

The undercarriage was mighty sturdy in the landing direction. I still recall an occasion sometime in 1957, when, as quality control boss, I had to do the air test of a Meteor VIII, and I got a high temperature on one of the engines during the take-off run. I braked and 'kicked' the aircraft off the runway in order not to end up in the barrier. They were able to just pull it out with the tractor, without any damage. (P.D.D. van Waardhuizen)

The whole squadron departed to Leeuwarden for a month for air-to-ground and air-to-air target practice. That happened twice a year and caused quite a bit of inconvenience for the local citizenry. But that went precisely with the culture, so not to worry. We had finished air-to-ground with four aircraft led by Jan Reffeltrath who asked the Vliehorst tower permission for a low pass. This was approved immediately because those guys were bored stiff during the off season at the beach. We did it perfectly: from the tower they looked down at us as we rushed past in close battle formation. Naturally nobody had any intentions to gain height after this, so we partied on over the Waddenzee. I was number 2 and suddenly I saw a flock of gulls in our path. We were going so fast that we could do nothing about it. Jan hit a number of birds, but apparently everything was in order so we flew on, although with the speed reduced a bit. Back at the base it turned out that a heavy cartridge ejector had been knocked off his aircraft, while inside the right engine cruelty to animals was clearly present in the form of gull remains. You think then that cleaning up a bit is all that’s needed. Not so, the main spar was bent and the aircraft was written off! Imagine getting something like that through your cockpit! (C.A. van der Mast)

I recall one tall story about my now-departed friend, Bill de Vries, who, it was said, once managed to perform an outside 360 degrees steep turn at tower level. They said that after the landing it turned out that a great number of rivets in the fuselage and the wing had been pulled through the metal skin. (R.W. Mes)

Jan Niens and I had to go to Twenthe at the end of August 1954 to pick up or exchange Meteors. The weather was very good as far as the visibility was concerned but there were heavy tropical showers with cumulonimbus reaching great heights. At Twenthe the Meteor that was to be picked up was not yet ready; no problem, we had enough friends there to talk with. Anyway, the showers with hail became more frequent in the afternoon. At about four-thirty the aircraft were ready. The weather at Leeuwarden was good, but there was a trough moving in. Jan was a good instrument and formation flyer and we decided to go. We took off in formation and in light rain. At 12,000 feet we entered cu-nim, with heavy rain and a good amount of turbulence and hail. I imagined myself in the Pacific again; this was just like a tropical storm. Yet the Meteor could be kept well under control. We got to see some lightning flashes.

Jan remained steady, next to me, and in spite of the rough conditions he didn’t leave his leader. Navigation lights on, it was quite dark and after fifteen minutes we requested QDM’s and a QGH from Leeuwarden who were also suffering with heavy rainfall. We maintained 12,000 feet and then made a let-down followed by a full stop landing. I tip my hat to Jan, a “ten” for his formation flying. Alas, both aircraft were damaged pretty much by the hail. There were even holes in the wings with similar damage on the nose. I compliment the aircraft for its tolerance to punishment in that intensely bad weather. (L.W. Hansen)

After a fatal RAF Canberra crash in Germany, I was asked to go to Leeuwarden to listen to the ATC radio recording of the last transmission by the Canberra pilot, to see if I could understand his last words. The recording could not be definitely transcribed. On the flight back to Woensdrecht in a Mark IV Meteor, thunderstorms were forecast. I could not avoid them, so on the way up and in descent, severe hail was experienced and the radio aerial iced up. On landing I was very surprised when the ground crew engineers drew my attention to all the leading surfaces of the aircraft; not only was all the paint stripped off but the metal was so badly pitted that the aircraft never flew again. (G.R. Wilson)

When the radio did work, descending through the clouds was no problem. You then flew a QGH with which the ground could pinpoint your position and give courses to steer to get you over the field. After that you started to descend and you flew some distance out, then turned in and descended further until you then had to come out at about the right altitude, in front of the runway. The disadvantage was that this was only done with pinpoint map-reading and not with radar, so that it happened sometimes that I was steered inbound as well as outbound through the same cu-nim, as we ourselves didn’t have radar either. It was a rumbling and rattling flight and after the landing it looked as if the front of the crate had been sandblasted, as if they had been smashing big rocks against it. (P. van Oord)

One summer in the fifties my friend and I met some anti-aircraft gunners over a beer in the officers’ mess at Tangmere airfield. They asked us to do simulated attacks on their Bofors gun which was on the airfield. They said the gun could not be elevated above 80 degrees.

It followed that if an aircraft was in the 80 degree cone above the gun, it would be safe. The next day my friend Mike and I decided to try this out. It was a nice summer’s day, but a little bumpy. We dived at the gun in our two Meteor VIII's at the maximum speed of around 515 knots. Mike was formating on me and over the gun I pulled into a vertical climb to make our get-away. A day or so later, pilots flying these two Meteors complained that they were out of trim. Engineers discovered that both aircraft had a buckled fuselage and they had to be written off as scrap. A while later the maximum permitted airspeed on the Meteor was reduced by about 100 knots. (M. Evans)

It is all so long ago now, not much has stayed with me; something is coming back now I open my old logbooks. No, the Meteor never inflicted anything unpleasant on me: I probably have to take responsibility for more unfair acts on it. I remember now that on two occasions I tried to dive through the sound barrier. Apart from a great deal of serious buffeting, the stick could not be moved anymore (rock solid) and next the Meteor buzzed in a left dive to lower regions, the speed diminished and we chugged on normally. The ground crew could not discover any detrimental results, but Wansink was not exactly very proud of me. (H. van Gorkum)

I had great admiration for the super-strong engines and the sturdiness of the cockpit. I recall two cases where the pilot, after a crash, stepped out of the cockpit unharmed. That was the only piece of the aeroplane that was still intact; the rest had been torn from it between the trees. (Jack de Vries and Lou van Dieten at Twenthe). (G. van Dijk)

The Meteor was a formidable machine, with a tremendously strong body which may be evident from the following. In the early fifties Fred Vonk once had problems with his undercarriage: it didn’t want to come down and thus it was decided to make a belly landing at Leeuwarden airbase, on the grass field in front of the hangar (lately used as a light aircraft strip). The landing itself was successful but shortly after touchdown the aircraft started to turn, cartwheeled, and broke into, what they sometimes say, a hundred thousand pieces. The last moving piece was a large mud ball of Friesian clay which rolled along the field. And what did the bystanders see? The clay ball opened up at the top and an unharmed Fred Vonk stepped out of the ball. The Meteor’s cockpit was of an unimaginably strong construction. (W.P.M. Fleuren)

This story is from before my time and I don’t know the name of the pilot involved, but I do know that he was a robust figure. After an air-to-ground mission at the Vliehors, this pilot requested a low pass which, naturally, was approved. At high speed he approached the island from the Wadden Sea side and began to pull back hard on the stick over the border between the sea and the beach to make the whole thing look more spectacular. But both wings were ripped off the machine and the fuselage sailed over the island and disappeared in the North Sea. Of course, this involved an “ejection-seat-less” example. (I wouldn’t like to know how many people fell victim to the purchase of surplus English equipment). Reconstruction of the accident showed a probability that the built-in trap of an air bump where the cold sea met the warm beach, coupled with the pilot’s physical strength were responsible for this crash. (C.A. van der Mast)

The pilots-general

From February 1, 1947, I was attached as a weapon instructor to the Fighter School at Twenthe, charged with weapon instruction on the Spitfire. On September 10, 1948, I made my first flight (in Holland) with the Meteor and after that I flew a bit every now and then to maintain my currency on that type. On May 1st, 1950, I was given command of 323 (Meteor) Squadron in order to start the weapon instruction programme with them for Meteor fighter pilots of the Air Defense Command. The first two years of this was done from Twenthe and after that 323 departed for good to Leeuwarden.

In 1953 I lost the squadron to Major P. Verspoor and I myself was promoted to lieutenant-colonel with the position of Commandant Fighter Group Leeuwarden. It remained that way until June 1956 with my departure to Soesterberg, where I was again charged with a similar task. In 1959 I was transferred to Germany and thus I made my last flight in the Meteor on December 5, 1958, which brought my total hours on the Meteor IV, VII and VIII to 878.

Perhaps this doesn’t seem very much, but as squadron commandant with twenty pilots and eighty men ground personnel and after that commandant Fighter Group with sixty pilots and the necessary ground personnel, one has a few other things to do besides just flying.

(J. van Arkel)

After having taken an instructors course, I ended up after the war at the 'ferry flight' which flew all kinds of aircraft from England to Holland. Next I was made instructor on the Spitfire at the Fighter Flight School at Twenthe. Following that I went with the first operational Meteor pilots to Leeuwarden on January 28, 1949, to establish 323 Squadron there. After a year I returned again to Twenthe as instructor at the Fighter School. With a few buddies I then signed up to fly in Korea and therefore we were transferred to Volkel to fly the F-84 Thunderjet. In the end that did not happen and we went back to Twenthe again.

Then a good buddy of mine became commander of a squadron with F-84G’s and he asked me to come to Eindhoven. So I did. After that 323 Squadron at Soesterberg received Meteors and I became a Meteor instructor there again (and also on the Spitfire); then I went once more to the “tactical” unit at Volkel and after that I left the service to search for a job in civil aviation. (P. van Oord)

Immediately after the war, when the air force had been established again under the initial LSK, all the pre-war figures, just released from their time as POW's, were promoted and called the shots again. They didn’t know “their ass from their elbow” as, naturally, they had not evolved along with the rapid developments during five years of war. They also still had the same pre-war mentality.

However, their service time is what counted. The war pilots, many of higher though temporary ranks were demoted, mostly to second or first lieutenant. That very good fighter pilot, the late M.L. (“Kid”) Jansen (172 war missions including six downed V-1’s), was even reduced in rank from second lieutenant to his original non-commissioned rank and moved from the officers’ mess to the sergeants’ mess.

That was a god-awful scandal. (J. Linzel)

At the beginning of 1950 I was posted by the air force to become a fighter pilot. Because of my operational experience, obtained during the second world war in the Pacific on the B-25 Mitchell bomber and on the P-40 and P-51 (Mustang) during the police actions after the war, and in consideration of my instructor qualifications, a direct transfer to the Fighter School at Twenthe followed in May 1950. This appointment was “the pick of the litter”, a high point, as I still didn’t have any experience on jet aircraft. (L.W. Hansen)

Not all pilots are good ones! A number of people that I have known would still be alive if they had recognized their limitations. Seldom, however, do you find someone who is honest about his flying capabilities. I met three of those.. The first one was an adjutant gunnery instructor with 323 Squadron. He also had flown many missions with the Spitfire in the second world war. Certainly no small fry like me. He told me that during that entire period he never had been able to hit anything, not even stopped a locomotive. What’s worse, in every squadron that existed at that time, scores were made by only four or five people, while the rest only served as air filler! The second one was during a gunnery period with 327 Squadron at Leeuwarden. This sergeant pilot already noticed, early on, that I always had a Flight Commander, Captain B., as my number two during air-to-air. I had the nasty habit of always shooting the flag loose which then neatly fell into the North Sea. A glorious sight, especially if the counterweights burst into pieces! I always managed to convince everyone that this was not done with wilful intention, which it was, in order to get more trips that way. Later on my flight commander confessed that he didn’t pair up with me to check on me but because he could not shoot and this way that was pretty much covered up. The third one I met during our (1996) reunion at Woensdrecht when T.M. entrusted with me the belief that he always had been just a mediocre pilot. To those persons mentioned I tip my hat! (C.A. van der Mast)

If there was one pilot in my squadron who has supplied exciting and surprising moments, it surely was “dirty Piet”. He managed to acquire this nickname in little time with his inexhaustible supply of sexy jokes and like remarks. Also his adoration of the “weaker” sex often led to hilarity. Thus when the film star Jayne Mansfield visited the American 32nd Squadron, he managed to express his doubts, during a pleasant chat at the bar, that her full bosoms were real and finally dare her to prove they were… Altogether he contributed to the good spirit of my squadron. On the other hand, his happy-go-lucky ways were the cause of less pleasant surprises and which caused him to have two spectacular accidents to his name.

Accident number one happened when he found it necessary to show off his talents to the members of the squadron. One can easily stunt with a Meteor as long as one doesn’t imagine it to be a Spitfire. When Piet didn’t consider this, he pulled his plane into a spin and it soon became advisable to bail out. Fortunately, he was still just at high enough altitude and he came into possession of his silkworm pin while still in good health. But he did get the nickname “swimming pool disturber” owing to the fact that his Meteor had scared the wits out of the pool guests of the swimming pool “De Brandenburg” in The Bilt, when they saw his tumbling Meteor coming towards them. Fortunately, the aircraft was satisfied with a dive into the relief pond.

The second accident was an emergency landing near Durgerdam which earned him the nick- name “sheep killer” and earned me a reprimand! I was asked to allow a dutiful private to make a flight in a Meteor as a token of appreciation before his demobilization. However, for that, approval from higher-up was required and that was not easy to obtain. Starting from the supposition that a dual aircraft could easily take a passenger along unnoticed, I decided to short-circuit the case with my unauthorized approval … and then everything went wrong.

It would have to be Piet who got the honour to act as tour leader and present the conscripted private H. Lindeboom with an impressive flight, including a successful emergency landing in a meadow with sheep in it. Result: big headlines in “De Telegraaf” complete with name of pilot and passenger! And .... mention of the number of dead sheep… And then to realize that this happened with a full belly tank - stupidly because careless Piet had not sufficiently studied his “pilots notes” and could not find the transfer valve for the belly tank! But a nice day for private Lindeboom. Flown for the first time in his life and that in a jet fighter, followed by a successful emergency landing and publicity in the newspaper. For me, the Squadron Commandant, there was a second reprimand and a good lesson to not be so fast to play “Sinterklaas”, especially if you have a “black Pete” in your squadron. (F.G.B. Droste)

Note: Piet Schmidt Crans († 2005) did not agree with this text and a proper rectification was made in “Alle paarden van Apollo”.

Short and quick memo. Woensdrecht: Tiger Moth 1946. Gilze-Rijen: Harvard + flying certificate 1948. Twenthe-Spitfire 1948-1949, end of 1949 to The Netherlands Indies, short stint on Mustang and P-40, end of 1950 already back and left the service, reserve pilot on Spits, early 1952 back in the service (with dragging feet), Meteor training at Twenthe and to 328 Squadron at Soesterberg, end of 1954 to instructors course at Gilze-Rijen on the Harvard and instructed there for two years. In 1957 (September) transferred to the RLS in Eelde where I instructed until September 1974; after that came my pension. After that I never bothered with aviation again. (G.H. Determeijer)

In the fall of 1954 six of our RLS class went to the air force. First to play soldier in Nijmegen and in the beginning of December to the Harvard advanced course at Gilze-Rijen followed by three months officers school in Breda and finally at the beginning of July 1955 to the Fighter Flying School in Twenthe where we began our training on the first jet fighter, the Gloster Meteor VII. In November 1955 we were given our military pilots licence and mid-December the gunnery school (323 Squadron) at Leeuwarden became our place of work. It was a cold winter with an eleven-town skating event which then still ended in the center of Leeuwarden. 326 Squadron became my first operational squadron. One could earn twelve guilders per flight hour but you immediately noticed that the newcomers were getting less flight time. Standby weekend duty at the base was part of this new life. At the beginning of August 1956 I was informed that Aler, then KLM’s director, had determined with the air force staff that I had to report with KLM on August 16th. On August 15th I made my last flight with “326” and on September 9 I began reserve flying with 322 Squadron. That lasted till June 24, 1957, the day of my last two sorties on the Meteor. The Hunter came to replace the Meteor and the rest of my five year reserve flying contract was cancelled by the Ministry of Defence. They could do that then. The end of two years of Meteor flying. (D.C. Hoving)

First something about myself: the wish to become a fighter pilot entered my mind because my two elder brothers already were fighter pilots. At the JVO I was in the last Meteor course. I obtained my licence in November 1958 at the age of twenty. I may have been the youngest pilot. (H.E. Meijer)

Meeting again. The then predominant colleagueship. The direct involvement of the girl, the girl friend, the fiancée, the wife (“mothers”). The bond with your buddies. To see them all together again and talk. The very first ones. Those, who had to learn single engine flying on their own. In 1986 we began with the first Meteor reunion: October 31, 1987 at Twenthe air “Home base” of the Fighter Flying School (JVS). On popular request a second reunion on October 11, 1996 at Woensdrecht air force base and the promise (weather and health permitting) for the third and last reunion in the year 2000. (A.Mesman)

After the JVS at Twenthe we finally got to fly the Meteor VIII, complete with a Martin Baker ejection seat, at Leeuwarden with 323 Squadron. The squadron was pleasant, the aircraft well maintained, we flew a lot, finally had a somewhat less distant contact with our instructors, lodging was better, the weather was nice and my non-flying confraters had obtained better manners. In short, I was happy. We did a lot of formation flying, close and loose battle, of which especially the latter was not everyone’s cup of tea. After you have heard someone else’s howling engine in your cockpit, such an exercise tends to distract you from the actual task at hand. And the little group continued to shrink. After having flown a total of 55 hours my flying was judged to be satisfactory and the gunnery art started with the same squadron. Also here I have enjoyed myself, although that may not have been the same for a lonely beach walker. I also had a hair-raising experience but in any case I can boast having made the lowest persevered air-to-ground attack at the Vliehors and be alive to tell the tale, as relayed else-where in this book. On November 1, 1956 Jan Witman and I were transferred to 327 Squadron at Soesterberg. Jan Hoogendoorn was posted with 326 at Woensdrecht where after some time he was relieved because of mental problems. Ted van Heerde already had been washed out at Leeuwarden and ended up with the base flight at Soesterberg. Some months later Jan Witman was involuntarily shot out of his aircraft and therefore at the first opportunity became an instructor. I now was the only operational pilot left over from our little Canadian group. (C.A. van der Mast)

What else have I done besides flying ? A lot of standby, duty in the ops room, air traffic control tower, officer of the guard, internal inquiries about disappeared wings, engines, once again chopping (ice) on the runway (this time as platoon commander, don’t you forget it!) and more of this kind of nonsense. However most of my time was occupied by being annoyed about my superiors. Once you have reached the age of reason, you discover that your superiors are not better than you, only older! The latter means that the intellectual level, developed at the schools attended by everyone, over time had come down somewhat and that studies for the flying profession not necessarily guarantee an increase of this level. This still is visible these days when I look at little incidents in the air force that recently still made it to the newspaper. Anything exciting or funny to add? Only the time that I came back in a Hunter without brakes and ended up in the barrier. That I would like to do over again sometime. Furthermore I can give military pilots the following advice:

a) Enjoy yourself, b) Use it, c) Get out of there! (C.A. van der Mast)

Now that I am living in my mind and in the past I realize that the JVS was the scary period of my flying days, switching from the Harvard was an enormous step and we were so young, so enthused, so inexperienced, so wanton and we did so many stupid things. (A. van der Sijde)

During my time (1950-1951) there were two instructors named Bakker, Jochem and Piet. Jochem stuttered. When he picked up the telephone he said: “This is Ba-ba-ba-kker”.

Then the other side said: “Hi there, Jochem”. (Y. Baanstra) My stories are not so spectacular. There are people, including pilots, who have experienced real spectacular events but they often cannot tell about it anymore and that is actually a real shame and also often their own fault; they are the overconfident ones, let’s say, those who took more risks than the average type. Now I place myself in the square of the average type. There were pilots who flew into the centre of the ground target (target fix), who wanted to fly “too-close formation”, who came too close to the target flag during air-to-air, etc. (Anon.)

The pilots – older pilots

I started at Twenthe, first with flying the twin-engine Beechcraft, but my thoughts went out to the jet fighter. I wanted, in spite of my advanced age, to give an example to the young pilots and show that even an old pilot didn’t have to back off from the risk of the jet fighter, even if it was in a Gloster Meteor. I had noticed that to the young pilots, flying with the Meteor was a scary business. Just the sight of the cockpit produced the reaction from some was “I absolutely won’t fly in such a coffin”. And in order to support these young pilots and to be an example, I found it absolutely necessary that I too had to learn to fly this jet fighter. I reported to Lt. General Aler, the then Chief of the Air Force Staff and asked permission to join a course on the Meteor; I obtained permission and Captain Frits Vullers became my instructor. After the usual number of lessons I went solo in the two-seater and in the old-style single seater, which wasn’t yet equipped with an ejection seat. After the publication of a number of incidents during a total of about six hundred flying hours on the Meteor (as mentioned elsewhere in this book) the older pilot remarked: I would say that there are always risks of a very different nature. One could drop dead but you could also damage your aircraft, expensive aircraft, paid for with tax payers’ money. But for me, there is still something else, something more personal, of which nobody thinks right away. And that is, being Commandant of Twenthe Air Force Base, I am close to fifty years old. The younger fighter pilots naturally have much less experience. All things being considered equal, there remains an additional risk for the “old man”. He is not allowed to make a mistake.Whether it is a reproachable mistake or not, the outsiders consider another element for their performance review. I’ll give you an example. The landing gear of a fighter plane has high pressure tyres and upon touching down on the runway during a landing there is always the possibility that such a tyre will burst. The result could be that you cannot keep the aircraft on the runway, you slide off it, then a wheel strut breaks off against a bump next to the runway, the aircraft comes to an abrupt halt, and maybe also a low hanging wing tip hits the ground. And what will they say? “A blown tyre, a young fighter pilot couldn’t help that….., but the “old man” ….? What is that old guy doing in that plane? Must have been a bad landing, or he drifted and didn’t keep it straight.” That is a little small example, but one could come up with ten or twenty possible situations, all of which would lead to the same criticism.

As an older pilot one doesn’t only sit in a jet fighter - and who would do such a thing at that age? - but you sit behind four windows where everyone can see you, and is waiting for something to happen. These same Officers of high and still higher rank, who stopped flying long ago and are now in charge with the brains trust at headquarters, feel somehow that “the legs of their chair are being sawed off” by a colleague of their age who still has the guts to fly in a jet fighter. That causes bad feelings which are never expressed as long as everything goes well. On one hand their thoughts are based on a kind of jealousy, on the other hand on more or less strong criticism.

I won’t elaborate on this in this context but it even includes persons who get pleasure out of someone making a mistake. It would go too far to go into details, but the general phenomenon is clearly evident. I was very much aware during all these six hundred flying hours that nothing should happen to me for more than the obvious reason. That’s how vulnerable the “old man” feels sitting in a Gloster Meteor, compared to the fighter pilots of the JVS. I have been lucky and I made it. And that’s the greatest thing a pilot can say when all his life he has earned his living in aviation, be it as an instructor, or as a test pilot, or as a pilot who continuously experimented with the advance of technology, or as a low-flying air show pilot, or as captain of a large aircraft during flights over all the oceans of the world with countless numbers of passengers, in difficult weather and thereby always having to make decisions: continue or turn around or divert to another destination. And if you then make it to 20,000 hours with all those different aircraft, spread out over so many territories, each with its own risks, then you can count yourself lucky, because without luck you will NOT make it. (R.W.C.G.A. Wittert van Hoogland)

Lt. Hartkamp taught us about flying (and especially about “weeding out”) on the Fokker S-11; he was really a very old hand at his trade and also a bit advanced in age. Almost on his way out, he was still allowed to do 80 hours of jet time and thus become eligible for the 6 guilders per hour on the S-11 and the Harvard. So Hartkamp did our introductions (including mine) on the Meteor VII. A classmate told the following story: After his first introductory flight they were going coming in to land but the wheels stayed up and Hartkamp also made no preparations to let them down. At the last moment the student said: “Lieutenant, the wheels!” Hartkamp went around, flew the circuit again and landed.

Naturally, nothing was said again about this incident. (H.E. Meijer)

With the quick-forming formation of our postwar air force it happened that an inspecting Commandant Air Defence, attending an exercise, astonished asked the squadron commander, who was showing him around, if he shouldn't quickly join his pilots so that he could lead the formation at the next scramble .... thus showing that he was not completely up to speed with the new operational methods. Realizing that this was not a fitting calling card for someone in his position he familiarized himself quickly after that and thereafter proved himself to be an enthusiastic Meteor pilot. I am not sure if he also soloed but it seems that he soon felt at ease with the Meteor, just as we all experienced. (F.G.B. Droste)

Something crazy in between. What about that “big shot” who zig-zagged with his Meteor on the taxi strip in front of the tower and when the VCO (Traffic Control Pilot Officer, adviser to the VLO on duty) asked why he was doing that, he replied: “We had to do that on the Harvard”. (J. Michielsen)

Coming back from the East Indies after four years flying the famous B-25 Mitchell, I walked into the arms of Jan Bach, my commandant and friend from our pre-war time at Soesterberg. He exclaimed: “As an old fighter pilot we need you badly for building the Meteor squadrons”. I was astonished. Upon my return I had already asked myself if there was still to be any active flying for me, being thirty-four years old and with that the prospect of being “chair-borne” instead of “airborne”.

Now I was suddenly being placed back into fighter-pilot training! Certainly a change from the sedate flying of a bomber to the hurried, speedy fighter plane! Having to execute everything on your own again, in record time as opposed to relaxed flying with a complete crew (co-pilot, radio operator and flight engineer).

I had my doubts but I found it an honour to be considered worthy again. So ... on to the JVS at Twenthe, soon let loose under Piet Bakker's good guidance. And then suddenly came the moment of truth. While taxiing back to the JVS I asked myself: shall I get out or go through with this nerve-wrecking business of fast climbs, finding the target, attack and back before the fuel is gone. Certainly an attack on one's nerves ...

Well, for now, continue thinking “we shall see!” So continuing it was ... even till age fifty-three. As I got to know the Meteor's qualities and began to get used to the rush of fighter plane flying, I got completely back into my old Soesterberg mentality of way back on the Fokker D-XXI and Fokker G-1. Also executing aerobatics as a team, followed by debriefing with much hand-and-foot work and causing a lot of adrenaline to flow into one's bloodstream, made me realise what I would have missed if I hadn't gone through with it that one day in March 1950. ( F.G.B. Droste)

In June 1950 we were in training on the Gloster Meteor at Twenthe, when our base commander had seen that an English colleague of his age still flew the Meteor and so he began his training. During one of his first lessons, with doing touch-and-goes, he retracted the wheels instead of the flaps and thus “our” Meteor VII slid on its belly along the runway. As a result we experienced a long delay with our lessons and, because of guilt feelings and to make up, he invited us for drinks in his quarters. We were welcomed by him and his drooling boxer with a word of regret and were offered a drink (beer). At a certain moment he said that he had a strong craving for fish because he felt a bit faint. When we saw his fish tank (with a little fish net beside it) we caught some fishes for him, put them in a pan, fried them and served them on a plate together with another drink. He ate them with gusto. The next day there was trouble .... a very upset colonel called, put us on his carpet and asked us what had happened to the fish from his nice fish tank. “But Sir, last night you suddenly had such a strong craving for fish with your drink ... and seeing the fish in your fish tank we thought that those were the fish you meant. We caught a couple of them, fried them and you enjoyed eating them”. Now I think that those appetizers may have been the most expensive fish he ever ate. (J. Klarenberg)

As an appreciation for my part in organizing the 40th anniversary of the KLU at Soesterberg, the then Commandant Air Defence, the Commodore Reijnierse allowed me to join a course on the Meteor at the JVS at Twenthe. At the end of November 1953 I soloed and when I was about to make my second flight in the Meteor IV that afternoon we were fogged in. That lasted about a week. In the meantime I was called in to the Commandant, who informed me that as per from January 1, 1954 I would become Commandant at Appingendam. My urgent request for a few months delay, so that I could finish my operational training at Vlieland was turned down because as “a 38 year-old veteran” I could no longer be considered operationally available anyway. Off with you, finished. (R. van den Heuvel)

The pilots-physical aspects

During a trip at high altitude over England I had a big problem when most of my cabin pressure conked out. We were flying with two aircraft in a spread-out formation with orders to test the English air defence which would give me the opportunity to intercept. For one reason or another we did not make radio contact with the RAF fighter command involved. After some time had elapsed I felt a nasty pain in my left knee coming up which was quickly followed by the same pain symptoms in my right knee. Initially I didn't pay much attention to it until this phenomenon also appeared in my wrists and elbows. In addition I began to feel cold which suddenly drew my attention to the fact that the cockpit pressure and the heating were not functioning correctly.

The pain got worse fast and spread to the other joints at which point I informed my colleague, at one hundred metres to my side, what the matter was with me. He obviously was a bit better informed about the possible symptoms of so-called altitude sickness and he decided to go down as fast as possible.

We were flying at about 32,000 feet above solid cloud cover about 2,000 feet below us.

Because of the lack of radio contact with the English ground station, it was, however, not possible to simply commence an unauthorized descent. Our flight plan from and back to Soesterberg had been based, as far as fuel consumption was concerned, on high altitude and consequently without radio contact it was not possible to make a fuel stop at an English base. This meant that I would have to stick it out for a while and we set course for Soesterberg hoping to find some clearance break in the cloud below us over the North Sea, which had been the case on the way out, and be able to make a high-speed descent. The pain and paralysis symptoms had increased to such an extent that I began to feel gloomy and I was encouraged continuously by my colleague, who meanwhile had come into close formation.

Fortunately it turned out that the situation above the North Sea had remained the same as it was on the way out and I believe Dutchmill cleared us for a fast descent towards Soesterberg. At about 10,000 feet I began to feel a lessening of the pain and I slowly regained control over my hands and legs. It was a real relief to be functioning reasonably normal at lesser altitudes! After the landing at Soesterberg contact was made with the Aviation Medical Centre at the Kampweg and an appointment was made for a medical check up and an extra test in the pressure chamber. Previously I had experienced such a test several times, including an explosive decompression, but there had never been any problem.

Also this time nothing special was revealed and the only conclusion which I was able to draw at that time was that yet there was a difference between simulation in the pressure chamber and the actual circumstances. (W.B. Burgstede)

On a Sunday evening I was invited by the friendly and hospitable aviation physician, who lived close to the rear gate of the Prins Bernard Camp, to join him for the much acclaimed Indonesian dinner (Rijsttafel), of which he and his wife (I have forgotten her name) were experts. And it certainly was delicious.

And the sambal (hot peppers) still seem to afterburn nów. On Monday there was my routine exercise with the Meteor I-62, which was always kept ready for me. While climbing to altitude I got a belly ache and not just a little bit. It continually got worse as I gained altitude. I wanted to turn back, but a “fast descent” had to be commenced at 20,000 feet, and I had yet to reach that height before I could get permission from the tower for my “fast descent”.

I thought I'd burst!

The pain became unbearable. I just about reached 20,000 feet, got clearance for fast descent and there we went .... with an explosion in my intestines and the whole stream of diarrhoea in my pants. What a relief and what chaos. Indescribable. After landing I still sat in my I-62 on the tarmac in front of the JVS with a deadly pale face and the Chief Mechanic noticed that and came to asked me if something was wrong ....

I got out very carefully and felt everything slither away. My staff car was waiting with the corporal driver. He received orders to set course to the little hospital in the Westkamp. I reported to the doctor and got a chance to wash off in one of the available shower stalls. There I stripped off all my upper and under garments and left the whole heap on the floor, with the aviation doctor's permission. After that, restrictions for certain types of food for fighter pilots were tightened! (R.W.C.G.A. Wittert van Hoogland )

We were going to practise cine-gun. Ted Veldhuyzen and I. G-5 if I remember correctly. Level 90 degree turn, a kind of “S” figure. We were flying at 15,000 ft. Ted was target and I was to attack. So we did but I sat too close to him! No problem, pull hard and perhaps you still make it .... Sure, the next thing I realized was that I “awoke” from something like a dream. I heard a soft humming of quietly turning engines and through a haze I saw a lot of gauges and needles in front of me. In the background, far away, I heard a somewhat frightened voice: “Popsey Red One. Where are you? Do you hear me?” .... A couple of seconds later again: “Popsey Red One. Do you read me?” Meanwhile I started to get “back down to earth” again and was able to read the instruments correctly. I was flying straight and level at about 8,000 ft, almost the old heading of the target aircraft. Yes, I had pulled so hard that I had blacked out and recovered when I wasn't pulling g's any longer ...

The radio conversation between Ted and me that followed doesn't matter very much. What is important is that, before you start this kind of exercise, the aircraft is properly trimmed. That I had done and it probably saved my life. (C.J. Ponte)

The great Van Dale's English-Dutch dictionary lists under “vertigo” among others: dizziness, bewilderment and disorientation. There is not a single pilot who never heard of vertigo. There are only a few pilots who haven't at least once experienced this perplexing spatial disorientation themselves. Certainly if they have also been fighter pilots. It was the flight before the last one. The last of the flying days for the auxiliary Meteor pilots. Clouds from 300 to 30,000 ft. I was wingman on the right wing of the formation leader. An endless climb, exerting as always in such cloud cover, but for the rest no problem. Once on top I felt the usual relief and slid a bit farther from the leader. It became an easy sortie, some turns, some line astern. Just playing a bit with a Meteor on this last day. But this somewhat melancholy feeling, brought on by these thoughts, disappeared like magic when commencing the QGH which had to guide us back to base again. For a moment there still was the exhilarating experience of flashing close to the top of the cloud cover and then the fun was over. It seemed to me that I had somewhat anticipated that precisely now this had to happen to me. The feeling of hanging at a 90 degree angle from the leader. The frightening illusion that he was hanging wrongly, not I. Vertigo. I quickly glanced at the instruments (matter over mind instead of the other way around), perfectly level. I shook my head forcefully. Everything seemed normal again. But again that 90 degree angle, this time the other way. Again a shake of the head, semi-circle shaped canals, snail shell, how again was that, don't side track, fly by instruments and continue that way, almost 30,000 vertical feet long. In the end, wings level, right in front of the runway. The landing seemed to offer some consolation after this highly unpleasant QGH, because after arrival at the dispersal the bewilderment, as well as the butterflies in the stomach, were as good as gone.

Walking back to the crew room we encountered the flight commander who entered into a conversation whereby he every now and then looked at me inquisitively. “Only one more sortie, gentlemen” he said finally, “then the party is over”. When we wanted to continue walking he stopped me with the words: “come to think of it, for you the party is over already. Go refresh yourself, then we'll have a beer later on for your farewell”. I remember my mixed reaction to his order: disappointment, certainly, but also relief. “He must have a sixth sense” I considered, while I stepped out of my light grey overalls. That is when I saw that these overalls were no longer light grey but, especially on the back, almost black. Exertion? Fear? “Whatever, he doesn't miss a trick”, I said to myself while I stepped into the shower stall. My last flight on the Meteor. I didn't make it.

Nevertheless it still became a pleasant, relaxing squadron day, one of which I can, after forty years, think back on with much pleasure. (R.W. Filet)

And then that artificial horizon, which easily toppled, so that only the needle and ball still were available. I recall a flight in a hazy layer in which the sun was reflected and where I, at a certain moment, didn't know anymore which was the right sun. Flying with the seat of my pants and being under the influence of vertigo, brought me tumbling into a layer with good visibility and fortunately high enough to get things under control again. (G. van Dijk )

One of the less pleasant after-effects that still bother me today was the result of a fierce dogfight between a formation of Meteors and Sea Furies. I believe it was during the exercise “Carte Blanche” that, during the joint briefing, I got introduced to a number of Navy pilots who would be our opponents with their Sea Furies during this great exercise. Some of those pilots I had gotten to know during pilot training on the Harvard at Gilze Rijen. Even then there existed a great rivalry between the Navy and Air Force, which was strengthened by the arrogant conduct displayed by some of them. They looked down their noses at us because they were products of “The Institute”.

We were flying with four Meteors in battle formation south of Utrecht when one of us reported "Bogeys six o'clock”. They turned out to be Sea Furies and of course it would hurt our sense of honour if they got on our tails. We split into two pairs and began a dogfight, hoping to bring home some nice film. It developed into as wild and sharp a dogfight as I had ever experienced before. The Sea Fury was known at the time as the fastest propeller fighter plane in the world and it also had an enormous manoeuvrability, of which the gentlemen made good use. For a quarter of an hour long we were fighting using all kinds of tricks and much g-force. On my return to Soesterberg, I was asked by a member of the technical service, after I opened the hood, if the Meteor had displayed any faults or if it was serviceable.

When I wanted to reply, it turned out that my jaw was locked which, strangely enough, I hadn't noticed. After leaving the aircraft I hurried to the medical service where it was established that my jaw had popped out of its joint on the right side, probably because of the great g-forces during the dog- fight. A contributing factor may have been that I work my jaw and jaw muscles whenever I am doing something strenuous. Years later the children still had some fun with it at the table; for example, when once again I bumped a spoonful of soup against my closed teeth because the joint was out again and my soup streamed into my lap. (W.B. Burgstede)

25 May 1951, exercise “Umbrella” from Gilze-Rijen. Besides all the Meteor squadrons there were also Danes participating with Vampires, those very manoeuvrable little aircraft. We are just relieved from standby at the head of the runway and the four of us are standing lined up peeing in the touch down direction; nobody looks anyway, so what, we are all guys. A section of Vampires comes in to land, number three gets in the slip stream, just before the runway, banks sharp right in front of number four, that just went right, he goes around, at that moment all four of our “streams” began to flow again after having stopped simultaneously. (P.C. Wierikx)

Being a reserve pilot on the Meteor (with 322 Squadron at Soesterberg) and KLM pilot (Dakota/Convair) I had the dubious honour of being a “green card” holder which meant “also flying in bad weather”. The weather briefing at Soesterberg told us cloud cover at 500 ft and visibility 2000 metres, so green card holders are requested to make a solo trip above the cloud cover. That way the weather service would get to know where the tops of the clouds were. After take-off I dive into the clouds at about 500 feet. At about 8000 feet I am unexpectedly jumped by the claustrophobia phenomenon, if I can call it that. I feel short of breath and am gasping for air. I have to force myself not to take off the mask and open the canopy. I perspire heavily and have great trouble keeping concentrated on the instruments. I yell course, altitude and speed as loudly as I can in an effort to overcome that feeling, that fear. Finally at 25,000 feet I get above the clouds and the problem falls away immediately. Right besides me, a bit lower, another Meteor pops out of the clouds. It is Leo van den Broek. He waves at me and gestures that he is going back. I would like to do that also, but I give myself ten minutes to prepare myself for a possible similar experience. With a QGH I get back on the runway and the phobia did not reveal itself again. I never before had claustrophobia or other phobia and after this I never had it again. That experience came to me at a very inconvenient moment and I shall never shrug it off if somebody else struggles with such a problem. (R.G.H. Moederzoon)

The only negative recollection about that time is of my wife whom I married in 1953. We had rented furnished rooms close to Twenthe Air Force base. One day she bicycled to the flight to look things over. She expected quite a lot because in those days it meant something to be married to a jet fighter pilot. She saw her brand new spouse climb out of a real Meteor and the disappointment was enormous: a little fellow, in a dirty old overall drenched in sweat, grimy scarf around his neck, life preserver, parachute, dagger, oxygen mask, leather helmet and frayed gloves. (J.A.A. van Diessen)

If possible, always, but for certain during international exercises, Boss Aertsen would only fly if Sergeant Joop Willemsen was his number two. He trusted no one more than Joop during formations. All those years at the squadron it remained that way. Joop was his second pair of eyes. Joop always saw the first aircraft and reported that to the boss, long before any of us had seen anything. (W.A. Blaauw)

Exercise “Ombrelle” at Gilze-Rijen (1951)

Because of the regularly-occurring accidents the pilots sometimes got a bit restless. Rumour had it that the Air Force would start paying for flying hours. Some voices were heard calling it quits. Anyway, on a certain day at Leeuwarden it was decided not to fly. The word strike was not used.

The pilots-on strike

This seems to have caused quite an uproar in the Air Force but we couldn't see that from our position down at the flight. That afternoon all pilots at Leeuwarden were sent home for the rest of the week. That, it seems to me, was a wise decision, because by separating us no conspiracies or whatever could be organized in that way. On the Monday, back at the squadron, we heard that retroactively we would get eight guilders per hour, which at that time was a nice sum. I still remember what my first salary was as sergeant pilot in 1950: about two hundred guilders per month. (W.A. Blaauw)

At the beginning of 1952 tension among the Meteor pilots rose to a high level. The loss of numerous aircraft and pilots caused increasing unrest. The pilots wanted, besides the regular “licence allowance”, an additional (risk) allowance in the form of an hourly flight payment. When on March 25 of that year the popular Lee Deibel perished at Vlieland, it was the straw that broke the camel's back. “We are going on strike”, threatened the pilots of 324 and 325, with the commandants walking in front. It did not get to an actual strike then because “The Hague” unexpectedly quickly came up with an allowance of eight guilders per flying hour (activated in June 1952). Having just arrived from the JVS at Leeuwarden (323 - target school) I still remember that our class was very indignant that we were not allowed to participate in a possible strike. Later on we understood that they wanted to protect us against possible consequences. They didn't happen, as far as I know, because both commandants remained at their post. (H. Brunt)

I was still at the JVS at Twenthe and it was soon after Co'tje Heeren and the Bastiaans / Boomkamp's crashes, so it must have been in the summer of 1951. We found that it was getting too much and we called for a meeting to present our grievances. The meeting was organized in Zuidkamp Twenthe, so it must have been in the enlisted personnel's canteen. It was a fairly large room and the attendance was large. When about everyone was present Colonel Zeegers entered.

His cap crooked on his head. Promptly everyone began to shout: “Hat, Hat”, at which the man, almost embarrassed, took off his hat and after that General Aler came in.

The introduction was done from a stage. There were speakers but I don't remember who they were anymore. In our opinion, the point was made that there were just too many accidents and that there were all kinds of things wrong with the Meteor. The aircraft had an instrument panel that dated from the Spitfire days. If you were in a bank of more than 30 degrees, you lost the artificial horizon and the compass was nothing more than an ordinary gyro compass which you had to adjust every now and then.

All in all, flying in the clouds was dangerous and because of this accidents had happened. Also there were many complaints about the oxygen system and we demanded a risk allowance and more training for single-engine flying.

The result of the meeting was that we were promised an electrical horizon and compass and a flying allowance of eight guilders per hour and that we would also receive the requested additional training. (P. Jansen)

A story from before my time. We find ourselves in the period 1950-1951. The squadron's accommodation still consisted of tents! It was also the period during which accidents happened continuously, that is to say with a lull of a few weeks in between. Naturally the squadrons were being burdened with staff types who came to do some flying for the licence allowance. A first lieutenant also received this honour so they could form a pair. Having returned to the circuit, and in full view of everyone, both Meteors slammed into each other with disastrous results. When that evening everyone, depressed, wanted to go home, one coat remained hanging which apparently belonged to the squadron buddy. In the pocket there was a letter addressed to his wife with the note: “In case I do not return from this flight...”

That was the drop and the pilots refused further duty. Naturally the Air Force staff in The Hague was quickly informed. The higher-ups had a ready-made response: Throw the rabble-rousers in jail! Yes, but, ah, ah, it concerns two squadrons. That changed the situation completely. Being good Dutchmen they found the solution in the form of a flying allowance of 8 guilders per jet fighter hour. Thanks to these “mutineers” many later pilots have enjoyed this allowance. (C.A. van der Mast)

Friday the thirteenth, runway one-three in use in front of the hangar. The two boys I signed off are suddenly superstitious and refuse to go. I first think that they are playing games, but no, they mean it; that cannot be, of course, but if I insist it becomes refusal of an order and a court martial... Now 13 happens to be my good luck number, that has to do with love.

I command that they watch my landings and take-offs and I go fly myself, first to 40,000 feet so that most of the fuel is out of the belly tank, make a nice series of short circuits with touch-and-goes, and at the same time I can do a few on single engine. “Well, Wim, how many did I do?” “Thirteen, I believe, what a job, you got that right, boy, now, there are your crates”; and there they went, fortunately with no coincidental unpleasantness much to my relief. Actually, it would have been even funnier if “7E-13” had been parked on the line. (P.C. Wierikx)

The pilots - the day after the night before

A short time after joining 324 squadron at Leeuwarden, a large NATO exercise is being held. The exercise will last five days. During that time we may not leave the base. The aircraft are spread out at the head of the runway where the technical service have also set up accommodation. The squadron building had been changed into a dormitory, and because the officers mess is outside the base we are eating in the sergeants mess. There is tense anticipation but there's hardly any flying going on. There is a lot of card-playing and one sits for hours in the aircraft on standby. Because not much sleep is obtained either, the exercise becomes a tiresome waste of time. On the fourth evening came the liberating call: “324 Squadron as of 18:00 hours stand-down for 24 hours”. On fleeting feet en-masse to the mess where the party continued until 04:00. At 06:00 there was heavy banging on the door of our sleeping quarters. Major Dekker himself, with a somewhat swollen tongue: “324 immediately stand-by” (he also had been in the mess). It took some effort to convince everyone, but half an hour later we were strapped into our aircraft, still quite a bit intoxicated. There was nobody to stop us because all present had participated in the party. And sure enough, after ten minutes: SCRAMBLE ! The sun had just come up. It was cloudless with no wind and unlimited visibility. Actually a beautiful day. My formation was ordered to patrol at low level over the North Sea, along the coast.

When we woke up again hours later, towards noon, some did not remember the flight, others thought they had dreamed and one had managed to fly the whole mission with the pitot cover on, without noticing it. Flying seemed easier than walking. (R.G.H. Moederzoon)

It is 1952 and we are part of one of the Meteor squadrons at Leeuwarden Air Force Base, “experts” in air defence. During big international exercises we were operating in larger formations, sometimes as defenders and at other times as attackers. In order to be available at all times, we “lived” during such an exercise in the squadron building/crew room, where we had bunk beds available. To us “day fighters”, the day was just as long as what we now call the “uniform daylight period” which, in June, was quite long. Work and rest period regulations did not exist or were not applied. After a long tiring day with many sorties (we never got enough of it !) our squadron commander had arranged with the “higher-ups” that our squadron would not be called upon the next morning and so we had an evening off with the prospect of sleeping in. Guess three times how the evening was spent; naturally, besides the bunk beds, beer had been provided. A person has got to live, right? Because of a vague premonition, our squadron commander, Servaas Aertsen, sent us to bed shortly after midnight despite vehement protests. Most of us couldn't speak so clearly anymore or walk straight! Who could describe our surprise, fury, disbelief, etc., when at four o'clock we were awakened by the call: “Get up immediately and go to your planes: SCRAMBLE”. For all that, with drowsy eyes and half-dressed, in vans to the aircraft. Also, the ground crew had been rounded up that way and in a similar condition. Into the planes, strapping in and starting up.

As number four in a section of four I taxied behind number three, Frans Beerling, and I noticed that the crew chief made wild gestures. Considering our “condition” I interpreted this as waving good-bye and paid no further attention (I already had enough trouble trying to do all the checks and taxi carefully). Neatly lined up at number three's right wing, full throttle and “Go”. During the take-off roll there was something strange that I could not figure out. My number three began to look around wildly and make gestures to me (I thought). A quick scan in the cockpit signalled that all was OK. Let me look again (we were doing almost 100 kts by now) and then I discovered what was wrong: my number three still had the cover on the pitot tube! Therefore no air speed indicator or altimeter! Now I understood his gestures: as he had no speed indication he wanted me to take over and he to continue on my wing. Aborting take-off was no longer possible; speed too high and too many aircraft behind us on the take-off run. Therefore, I continued with him on my wing which was managed without problems, after which I searched for the sections that had taken off before us and started to fly “battle formation”. My number three, now number four, naturally stayed in close formation on my wing. The squadron commander who was leading the formation was obviously not completely clear in his head as over the Frisian landscape we saw, intermittently, small and large cows as we bobbed up and down between about 300 feet and 3000 feet!

After half an hour we returned to base. After deliberation (the radio actually worked!) we decided that we (that's me with Frans on my wing) would land as the last ones in the formation. If I ever flew a precise circuit, it was then, knowing that my wingman had no indication of speed or altitude and thus was 100% dependent on me and could not do a go-around by himself. The landing worked out well and the relief of the ground crew was great as we taxied in! They had seen at the last minute that the cover was still on the pitot tube and they had tried to warn us, hence those gestures when we taxied out.

Our training in formation take-offs and landings had paid off, and also the warning (and now rightfully a prohibition) about consuming alcohol within a certain number of hours before flight. Back to the crew room and yet again back to bed. When hours later we slowly awoke and went to consume the bacon and eggs breakfast that had been arranged the previous day, one of our flight commanders, Lee Deibel, made the priceless remark: “You know what I dreamed? That we were flying last night!” He was serious and it took much effort to convince him of the reality! (F.L. Nieuwenhoven)

In the early fifties, new accommodation was provided for 324 and 325 Squadrons. The new building had only just been put into use when a large NATO exercise was held. It was mid-summer and daylight saving time didn't exist yet. Both squadrons participated in this exercise. As the pilots were not permitted to leave the base during this exercise, they slept in the building, each squadron in its own section. 325 squadron, call sign “Darling”, slept on the right side, 324 squadron, call sign “Nylon”, on the left.

There was a lot of flying and fortunately the weather was good.

During a particularly busy day the Commandant of 325 was told by the Commandant Fighter Group during the afternoon that his squadron was to be at stand-by the next day at dawn, and therefore was relieved of duty for the rest of the day. The Commandant of 324 was told that his squadron had afternoon and evening duty and that 324 was therefore free of flying duty until 12:00 noon the next day. That evening the 325 pilots left the mess early to go to sleep, which lead to great hilarity among the 324 pilots. They, the 324 pilots, went off “to paint the town” that night. At about 2:00 am, 324, merrily, noisily and under influence came back into the squadron building. They were kind enough to wake up their colleagues and wish them a good flight before diving into bed with a lot of noise. Their well meant wishes were not exactly appreciated. The 325 pilots, as they were awake now, got up and dressed. Still before sunrise, the entire 325 squadron was put on stand-by and almost immediately afterwards scrambled to intercept a bomber formation somewhere west of the Netherlands. After 45 minutes the squadron was ordered to return to Leeuwarden by Fighter Control. After 325 switched to Leeuwarden's radio frequency they heard to their great surprise the call-sign “Nylon”. From the conversations it appeared that the entire 324 squadron was also airborne. After 325 had landed the pilots ran to the squadron building to find out why their 324 colleagues had also scrambled.

It turned out that they had been rounded up by the Commandant Fighter Group, the same one who had given them time off until noon, to go flying nevertheless. Even though he was reminded of this fact and the use of alcohol by all pilots, he stood firm. To the great relief of the 325 pilots, 324 got back safely. After they got out of their aircraft they were beleaguered with questions. All of them said that they had had hardly any sleep or none at all and that they had yielded to the threats by the Commandant Fighter Group. Naturally their mental condition at that time had not guaranteed a healthy decision. Some stories were hilarious. One of the pilots told of dreaming that he was flying under the influence and was shocked to awake from his dream after he had landed. Another one had the greatest trouble getting lined up in front of the runway, etc, etc. After all the commotion, the Commandants of 324 and 325 went to get an explanation from the Commandant Fighter Group. Both were deeply indignant about the affair. The Commandant Fighter Group referred to the order he had received from higher up, stating that he could do nothing about it.

When both commanders pointed out that 324 should have never been allowed to fly because they had drank too much, he said that they themselves were responsible. There was no talking to the man. Fortunately for him nothing serious had happened, but the little respect that the Leeuwarden pilots had for him then sank to zero. (P. Verspoor)

On Monday, February 5, I returned an aircraft that was left with us, to Twenthe. Henk Rouwerdink was talked into flying me back to Volkel in a dual Spitfire. That succeeded splendidly, ending the with shortest landing in history: Henk had forgotten about the wheels. This was only the beginning of the celebrations. After duty, four of us (to the best of my recollection), Willie Heynen, Kick Volgers, Joop van Es and myself, went to Venlo for a good Limburg carnival ... That worked out well and at about 04:30 we rolled into our sleeping bags at our guest house - and woke up too late. Wansink was quite saddened when we, somewhat dishevelled, showed up at about 11:00 and he immediately arranged a low-level interception exer-cise. We were promptly scrambled, in two pairs, and an hour or so later we had, more or less, landed. All very carefully and without mishaps and without having seen each other, not even from afar. The radar plots however showed that at least twice we had been within a mile from each other. (H.J. Folmer)

On October 25, 1956 I was designated to fly from Soesterberg to Jever in Germany, and back. The reason for it escapes me now, but I do remember that I was told with emphasis that I should make sure to bring back all kinds of liquor. This seemed to me an absolutely natural order so that, seen in retrospect, this must have been an improved form of duty-free shopping. And so I did. In the mess at Jever I indeed bought all kinds of booze, but on returning to the aircraft it turned out that the Meteor did not have easily accessible storage space and to start opening all kinds of completely unfamiliar little panels didn't seem a good idea and I found it silly to ask the ground crew. I'd rather play the stalwart, unconcerned daredevil. It turned out that there was room in the cockpit, but you had to be certain beforehand that you wouldn't have to make use of the ejection seat on the return flight. That was a risk that I dared to take and so I stowed the bottles left and right behind the seat. Because that seat could, during an eventual ejection, slide upwards along nice shiny guide rods, between those rods and the rear partition of the cockpit was a nice little spot to stow a number of bottles, standing upright, on top of each other. That's what I did and after an uneventful flight the cargo was safely delivered back to Soesterberg. (A.A. van Wijk )

Squadron rotations, like, for example, to Horsham St. Faith, near Norwich, successful exercise, great and wild going-away party in the mess, under direction of the Air Commodore himself. The morning after, May 27, 1955, the twelve of us, a low farewell pass and heading for Soesterberg. The English weather forecast was such that, for a change, we could fly back pleasantly at more or less 5000 feet, with ground and sea view, halfway over the North Sea the cloud base began to go drop, drop a bit with it, the sea became greyer, I had signed off with the English Sector (I forgot its name) and I couldn’t (yet) get hold of Stovepipe, the Dutch counterpart, “prepare snake climb ten seconds”, “don’t do it, Peet, my head”, I hear a well-known voice say “Schoolmate formation snake climb - GO”, 25,000 feet, on top, I pick up Stovepipe with a heading for Soesterberg with conditions deteriorating, Leeuwarden and Twenthe bad, standard QGH with remarkably short calls from the guys, ground view at 3-400 feet, in the dispersal, standing in my seat, I saw the last pair land, while the drizzle started in earnest. A weight lifted from my chest, because I hate to think of what would happened if we had stayed below that cloud base. (P.C. Wierikx)

And then that time at Beauvechain (just South East of Brussels). We were stationed there because of a station rotation. In the evening we went into Brussels and enjoyed the nightlife. At dawn we stumbled into the base, straight to the briefing room to be signed-off on a P.I. That good old Meteor also had the facility to get us in reasonable shape again.

The oxygen system on "emergency", provided 100% O-2 for a while and you were all set again. Nevertheless when at about 25,000 feet we saw a gigantic thunderstorm hanging there, the section leader very carefully started a “rate one” turn, to keep us far away from that cumulus nimbus. (H.J. Zwaga)

Farewell - to the aircraft

How was the Meteor period at Woensdrecht concluded? With a lot of heartache. We VLO's (Air Traffic Control Officer), the technical guys and all who worked with, for and on the aircraft, sometimes saw Meteors which had just been overhauled, taxy under their own power, immediately after landing, to the old grass field at Woensdrecht to be scrapped that same afternoon! The overhaul programme had to be maintained by Fokker until the last day of judgment because of NATO obligations. As a result of that the delivery date [from overhaul] and the phasing-out dates sometimes coincided. But it sure hurt! This scrap-affair gave Harry Materman the idea to collect (with permission, of course) such a condemned Meteor at Schiphol for delivery to Woensdrecht and then to land not on the runway but directly on the grass field. According to Harry one should be able to land on the grass (with or without wheels down) in such a way that enough speed was maintained to stop close to the scrap heap. To everyone this idea seemed too crazy and the various landing techniques were the main topic of the conversations. Only the “higher ups” would not support delivering a Meteor, plus maybe a pilot, in this unique manner. Not only the Meteor VIII, but also the VII, ended their fruitful lives under the hammers and axes of the demolition workers. That many souvenir hunters (me included) found an El Dorado here is clear. Everyone, I mean everyone, from the highest boss to the most “common” private and all civilians, were scrapping in their spare time. Everything was, after modification, usable at home. There must still be cars riding around with indestructible exhaust pipes that are shaped a bit like a pitot tube and many a home central heating system may, here and there, contain a Meteor part such as a handy little fuel pump. Maybe there are home heating systems that are fed from a Meteor fuel tank, buried in the backyard! In short a tremendous time for the “do-it-yourselvers”.

That this souvenir hunting instinct went too far sometimes is evident from the following story. A beautiful Meteor VII, just overhauled, was flown in from Fokker-Schiphol around lunch time and taxied to the old field. There the aircraft was received by the Technical Service and parked in front of one of the hangars. This VII gem was destined for the Netherlands Royal Navy, to serve as a flight instruction aircraft for the Sea Hawk pilots, as there existed no dual version of the Sea Hawk. It was lunch time. Sure, for the Technical Service but not for the souvenir hunters who were of the opinion that after lunch this aircraft would be towed to the scrap heap. They would like to add their two cents to the demolition process during the lunch hour. When the Technical Service at 13:00 wanted to prepare the aircraft for handing it over to the Navy, they saw to their bewilderment a completely stripped Meteor VII. Even both instrument panels had been “professionally” cut out. The search for the perpetrators did not result in delivering any of the guilty because not a single witness could be found. However, the Air Force Security Guards asked everyone at the gate, when leaving the base, if they had Meteor parts on them. Every now and then you even had to let them inspect your car boot. Thus, I experienced the absolute, very end of the Meteor period at Woensdrecht and, because of the way this happened, it was a very sad phase in the history of the Air Force. (J. Michielsen)

In 1959 the Meteor was being phased out at the JVO as well. The original plan was to sell the aircraft to another country but, for political reasons, that did not happen and the aircraft that were already out of circulation were completely scrapped on the old field at Woensdrecht. It was sad that, once in a while, we still had to pick up a Meteor at Fokker, where the aircraft had just undergone a complete overhaul, and deliver it to Woensdrecht - the flight was then also the last one because the machine would never fly again, as it was to be scrapped. (W.A. Blaauw)

In mid-May 1958 I was transferred to 326 squadron at Woensdrecht where I made my last operational flight in the Meteor, Mk.VIII “9I-15”. The conversion to the Hunter Mk IV started and on July 10th I made my first flight in one. Woensdrecht became the Meteor scrap heap. They were sold in pieces as old metal. The Meteor VII was still being used for instrument training. One day a Meteor arrived and was due to depart to its own base the next day. But when the pilot was ready to depart, he discovered that the instrument panel had been removed from the aircraft. Obviously someone had wanted to save it as a souvenir.

An investigation was made with little result. If I am right, the instrument panel was found lying in the cockpit a couple of days later. (H.P. van der Maas)

At that time it was also possible to get a so-called “scrap flight”. Mostly on Fridays. An old bent little Mk.IV had to be delivered to Fokker at Schiphol. And, as it was the weekend, one could go straight home from there. So it was party time! This meant I had the opportunity of arranging to meet with a few buddies - usually old hands - at a certain time above a specific location and then fight a dogfight all the way down to grass blade height. I realized that I, as a young rookie, in equivalent aircraft against old timers who were well versed in tactics, technique, insight and experience, would probably get beaten. However, not if I used the aircraft at and beyond its limits! This resulted in a dogfight up to and beyond all limits; where “g” was pulled in accordance with one's physical condition (pressure pants weren’t part of the wardrobe). For the “old guard” this was a welcome opportunity to show, in spite of their g-limits handicap, who really was boss here. Well, no need to mention that thanks to multiple “grey”- and “black”-outs it remained undecided who was on who’s tail. Until, precisely during a “near zero g recovery”, after a heavy-g-pull-out, in the top of the ballistic curve, after a slight shudder, two ominous red lights stared me in the face. Those turned out to be the landing gear lights. So that was “end of exercise” for the fellows who as a last service to me reported that the main gear hung halfway down... I cruised, as if it were a chinaware flight, direction Schiphol and, with a little prayer, selected “wheels down” over Naarden. That succeeded. “Down and locked” complete with green lights. Probably for the last time in the life of the old crate... The landing at Schiphol was of course a daisy cutter. And no sideways g during taxiing. I remarked to the Fokker ground crew that “in the past it happened on occasion that the wheels came down spontaneously”... “Doesn't matter, Lieutenant, she's going to the chopping block anyway”. Relieved I went into my weekend. (R. de Vries)

Farewell-to the pilots

In November 1949 Jan Flinterman left the service and I became commander of 323 Squadron on November 15. I filled this function until May 15, 1950, when the squadron was transferred to Twenthe and Jan van Arkel became its commander. Jochem Bakker and I were selected for a course on Thunderjets in America. And now we had to wait for the course. There wasn't much flying in the Meteor anymore, because every time I had to borrow one from one of the squadrons and I found they weren't overflowing with aircraft that were ready to fly either. I sat a lot at Vlieland which became busier all the time, doing the target shooting thing. Meanwhile Jochem Bakker had perished and the opportunity to fly on Meteors continued to diminish. By 1951, still waiting, I had turned 36 which was a bit old for a fighter pilot, I thought. I then gave up flying fighter planes and I devoted myself to the task of target-shooting at Vlieland instead. (J. Linzel)

On June 9, 1954, I bade farewell to my faithful Gloster Meteor Mk VIII '9I-16' of 326 squadron, after having flown 1000 hours on Gloster Meteors! A farewell, with fantastic memories. Homage would be in order. The reason for my departure was my transfer to Welschap, Eindhoven air base, as commander of the 2nd Tactical Fighter Group (CVD or Commandant Vlieg Dienst / Commandant Flight Service). (L.W. Hansen)

Interrupted only by the Harvard period, I had almost nine years of Meteor flying under my belt before starting afresh on the Hunter. (W.A.Blaauw)

Looking back forty years, my tour with the Royal Netherlands Air Force was the happiest and most satisfying time of my life; in all aspects, flying and socially, in the mess and off stations. (G.R. Wilson)

JVS Twenthe, target school at Leeuwarden and hardly three weeks with a squadron at Soesterberg, scarcely provide incidents that would be interesting to others. Also there was no such thing as reserve flying at the time I went to KLM in October 1953. However, in the short time it lasted, it was fantastic to fly the Meteor, and I really had tears in my eyes after the last sortie. The government probably had them as well, because after the expensive training there followed not a single return on their investment. (J.A.A. van Diessen)

After I once ran off the runway at Twenthe because the brakes had failed, I later had to go to The Hague to see (Navy man) Mister Schuiling (former head of Flight Service at Gilze Rijen) who again assured me that I was completely absolved of all blame for the accident. That, of course, came with strings attached, because I was promptly asked what my plans were from there on. My reply was negative, naturally. I said that I would call it quits, because just a few weeks before the end of my contract I did not want to take any further risks. I had already experienced enough unpleasantness. Although he managed to show his understanding, my reaction was not received kindly. (W. van der Laan )

And so it continued until I sometimes asked myself: You today - me tomorrow? By the end of 1953 the roll of honour affected my feelings as I taxied out onto the runway making me think, do you shove the throttle open or not ? That feeling started to spook me. After all, I had become a kind of “old” survivor. Also my wedding was coming up. Psychological testing followed. I didn't want any more.

I made my last Meteor flight with one of my best buddies - “Amber formation” it was called. The colour, the amber or ochre, I shall never forget. And the Meteors continued to fly until 1958. The honour roll followed and the honour roll became longer... (J.A.H.M. Thüring)

Besides the permanent staff of 322 Squadron, the daily revolving group of pilots consisted of ex-air force members who were now studying, or test pilots at Fokker, or KLM pilots, or others who had found another position in the community. By itself a very interesting group of people but the bond between them naturally decreased continually. Ultimately, with a reducing maintenance capability, the Meteor was phased out and this was probably the cause of reserve flying on jet aircraft being phased out. (W.B. Burgstede)

I bid farewell, check out, hand in everything, helmet, overalls, flying boots, jackets, coats, uniform, etcetera. An unpleasant feeling falls over me! Is everything over now? But no, it was not over and it isn't over now. Witness the many reunions in the past years. For this I am very grateful. (A.J.J. de Jong)

I did not actually make my last flight in the Meteor, because it was meant to take place on Saturday December 21, 1957. The minister had decided that the Meteor really was no longer suitable as an operational intercept fighter and with that I could not disagree; most “enemy” bombers were faster than we and the only way I could shoot a film now and then was to let myself be passed and then quickly get behind him and fire (with the camera) before he disappeared again at the horizon. And with a real enemy you naturally wouldn't get that far. As a suitable farewell to the reserve flying, it had been planned that we with those present, would fly a circuit over Holland in a large formation. The weather, however, was below all standards and the only flight 322 made that day was a weather flight which came out negative. This flight was performed by Helmuth van Soest with Frans Schoof as wingman who, on purpose, touched down second so that he could claim the last reserve flying landing of 322. There remained nothing else than to have a picture taken. For the record, the following were the would-be last reserve Meteor flyers of 322: Keimpe Bloemhof, A. Durieux, Jan Elberse, Ron Filet, Rudi Goedkoop, Willy Heuts, Sake Hoekstra, André de Jong, H. Kuper, Frans Schoof, Siem Snip, Helmuth van Soest, Henk Zwaga and the undersigned who, fortunately, during the three preceding days had the pleasure to make nine flights in the Meteor for a total of 8.5 hours. (A.A. van Wijk ) Cf. picture on p. 266.

The rest of the time on the Meteor was uneventful, actually, except for the time when I almost functioned as a target for the anti-aircraft batteries at Den Helder. On April 26, 1961, I made my first flight on the Hunter. As there were no two-seaters of this type, we did hold back a number of Meteors Mk. VII for instrument flying. Adieu Meteor. You were getting quite long in the teeth but, after all, one should learn to ride on an old bicycle. I got rid of my wild years with you and I began to become a professional: I even became bored every now and then. Adieu youth. (C.A. van der Mast )

I did not fly more than once in I-1, but it was a memorable flight in an important aircraft that deserves to be standing in a museum now. The export potential for the Meteor was enormous in 1947 and the Gloster works decided to display their wares. A standard “four” from the assembly line was relieved of its armament and ammunition container, equipped with an extra tank and spray-painted in a beautiful scarlet red colour.

Because this concerned a private venture by Gloster, the aircraft used the civil registration G-AIDC. They made a demonstration tour through north-west Europe with much success until a Belgian had the misfortune to break the machine. After technical difficulties in the air and a failed landing it came to a standstill with bent wings, destroyed undercarriage, a broken tail and damaged engine nacelles. The factory decided to build a two-seater, not only because dual instruction had also proven to be useful for experienced propeller pilots, but also because there appeared to be an extensive market for it. The bent scarlet heap was completely patched up, relieved of the forward fuselage and equipped with a newly designed, much longer and now so familiar in our eyes, cockpit section. The scarlet colour was retained and the registration became G-AKPK. Bill Waterton, the idol of many boys at that time, made the first flight on March 19, 1948. With that he became the first of a long series of pilots, who at 35,000 ft, would need their full lung capacity for every three or four spoken words, because a pressurised cockpit for the Gloster Meteor VII was considered too great a luxury. The same with the ejection seat. After an extensive demonstration programme - with large export orders as a result - the prototype with all its life experience was sold to the Netherlands and repainted and provided with an air force appearance; the registration became I-1. After a short period of service at the JVS at Twenthe the aircraft went to Soesterberg and there, with 322 squadron, I finally met her. And flew her with great joy in the company of Jan de Wilde, an old KNIL-flyer (Koninklijk Nederland Indisch Leger or Royal Netherlands Indies Army) and good natured comrade of many years at the JVS. Jan had proposed that I should make this trip, my farewell flight as navigation instructor of the Klu (Royal Netherlands Air Force) completely on my own, flying from the forward cockpit, so that I could also start the engines. If I didn't give him a reason, he wouldn't touch anything. We booked an overland flight Soesterberg - Twenthe - Soesterberg, without a stop, at 5,000 ft, on September 19, 1956. The flight put me in a state of ecstasy. There I was, sitting comfortably, and flying the prototype of the Meteor VII. My hand moved the same stick as Bill Waterton had done, I managed the same “fast-slow” slides, the same flap handle, the same switches that he had touched. I enjoyed every second, turned a series of barrel rolls and a couple of “Immelfolks”. Looking down at Twenthe I bade farewell to this base which had been my home for almost four years and we flew back to Soesterberg. Two circuits and two perfect landings on the cradle of Dutch military aviation sealed the end of my time in the air force. Jan swore to me that he had not touched anything. Altogether I could not have wished for a nicer symbolism. I still think of it with joyous feelings. The I-1 was later scrapped ignominiously. (C.J.P.M. van Meurs)

The I-1 as “gate keeper” in 1960 at an Air Force depot before being scrapped in 1965