Concorde: Once The Gift of Time

Story and all photography by
Eric Anderson 

 

I remember wandering, somewhat sadly, amongst the daisies and dandelions and mostly World War II vintage aircraft in the farmers’ fields of the Strathallan Collection in Perthshire, Scotland. Pride of place, if that term can be used for a somewhat mournful group of airplanes, was the De Havilland Comet, the jet that rocked the aviation world when it was developed – the first supersonic airliner. The marque was finally felled by metal fatigue, its aluminum skin damaged by the constant pressure changes for it to fly fast at altitude. The one I was looking at was actually flown into this field as a complete functioning plane, its pilot knowing he had one chance to do it right because, no way, was anyone ever going to be flying it out.

I recall, too, exploring the Museum of Science in England near Stonehenge about 350 miles to the south. There in all its glory was Prototype 002 of the unique Concorde, Comet’s successor and arguably the most special airplane ever conceived. That would be conceded by most aviation experts even as the DC3, the Boeing 707 and the 747 have been more practical planes. I wondered walking under the prototype how many person have been lucky enough to fly in such a magnificent airplane.

British Airways accepted its first Concorde reservation in 1960, nine years before the prototype even flew. The airline ordered five Concordes in July, 1972, beating out Air France to become the world's first supersonic airline. Five thousand hours of testing went into Concorde before it was certificated, the most examined program in aviation history. Concorde was a slender aircraft, only 203 feet long with a wingspan of a mere 84 feet. Ungainly on the ground, in the air it is like a silver javelin, hurled into the skies if not to win an Olympian victory for its airline, then at least to bring a gift of time to its passengers. Because in Concorde, literally, time flies.

Those were days -- before terrorism -- when an aviation author would be welcomed, if the fates were kind, in the flight deck of commercial airliners. I am sitting thus behind the pilot of this aircraft staring at instruments I've never seen on my Cessna 182. Here's a button that says "Mach Hold," another labeled "Auto Land," and another, a peculiar knob stuck on the dash between the pilots as if it were an afterthought, identified as ''Visor Nose."

The small cramped cabin is a paradox. The latest in technological, navigational and radio instrumentation packaged into an interior not unlike the inside of a 1956 Plymouth. With a difference. This is Concorde, January 1983 -- after nine years in service still the most pulsatingly exciting airplane in the world.

We're having a slight delay at Kennedy, an expected nuisance for most air travelers but a particular annoyance for Concorde passengers where time is everything.

Seconds pass. John Streek, the cabin service officer, sticks a cheerful head into our compartment. He is carrying a tray for the crew. "Like a drink, sir?" he asks me. He's obviously used to strange characters sitting in the jump seat behind the pilot. Your voice sounds in your earphones, "Thank you; I'd love a cup of coffee."

Streek smiles reproachfully, "It's tea, sir, is that all right?'' Of course it is, after all this is British Airways. A moment later, he's back with his lemon-scented face cloths. I wipe my face and hands as I sit beside the most privileged air crews in aviation history.

Like a Walter Mitty I look around studying the instruments in front of me. Amongst all the dainty electronic gear are gigantic knobs, somewhat like the fuel-cap on my son's Volkswagen, labeled "Yaw Trim" and "Roll Trim." And that's the Mach meter. In front, the old reliable magnetic compass. Here's a sign saying, "Emergency Rope" -- oops, we'll pass on that one.

Concorde moves down the taxiway, a simple procedure yet one which burns one ton of fuel every ten minutes. British Airways Flight 194 to London, bumps along awkwardly as all aircraft do on land. The taxi-out checklist amongst the flight crew continues. The brakes have been tested, trim adjusted, fuel transfer for proper balance, flight instruments and navaids set.

"Cabin secure -- check."

"Seat belts and harness on -- check."

The captain pulls his seat forward.

My foot, propped upon it, falls to the floor. I would have followed but for the seat belt, an odd four-piece attachment reminiscent of military parachute harness. The captain glances over his shoulder as I hang, stupidly, from his neck. "Not tonight, darling," he murmurs in my ear. The co-pilot grins at us both.

The radio crackles again.

"Speedbird 194, cross Runway 14 and hold short of 22 Left," sounds in my ears. The first officer responds. The captain calls out his pre-takeoff briefing. Speeds are discussed and the drill for any engine problem on takeoff. The nose is dropped to five degrees. The engine performance monitor is armed. Cabin staff are warned to be seated. Radios and radar are set. The center of gravity is checked.

The voice continues, "Reheat On." The afterburners are now activated. On takeoff they will reheat the post-combustion exhaust gases to increase their ejection speed. This adds about 17% thrust to the four power plants aboard. The Rolls-Royce/Snecma Olympus engines each have a total thrust of about 40,000 lbs. The power in relation to aircraft weight is about 1.7 times greater than that of a 747.

We are ready to go.

The captain takes hold of the odd wheel in front of him. It looks, for all the world, like the handlebars of a motorcycle. Captain Harry Linfield, however, is no Hell's Angel although he did fly de Havilland Vampires in the Royal Air Force.

Go!

The clock starts. The throttles shoot forward and we hurtle down the runway.

"Speed building..."

"100 knots, power check"

"V1"

"Rotate." Concorde claws its way into the sky, climbing like a fighter.

In the two cabins behind us, each seating fifty persons, the passengers feel the thrust, the awesome power that throws Concorde like a spear into the skies. They notice a steeper angle of climb than they're used to in other aircraft. They hear the noise.

Those are the sensations, the memories passengers should enjoy in a Concorde flight because, later, breaking the actual sound barrier is an anticlimax. There are no impressions of extra speed in the cabin as the Machmeter passes 1.00 then hits 2.00.

Up front, seconds later, the noise quiets as the afterburners are turned off for noise abatement. On the flight deck, an extraordinary thing now happens. Slowly, the nose visor elevates to streamline the Concorde. The effect on a newcomer is startling. It's like driving a plane into a carwash. Now Concorde has the sleek body and long nose by which all recognize her.

Concorde tears into the sky. At elapsed time 21 minutes we are supersonic, and at 36 minutes we hit Mach 2. The outside air temperature indicators show minus 58°C yet, at this speed, the air passing through the engines is leaving the compressors at 550°C (or more than 1000°F).

This is Concorde -- eleven miles high. This is flying -- 23 miles a minute. And if you were flying en route with British Airways from Kennedy to London Heathrow on January 1, 1983, you'd have arrived 2 hours 56 minutes and 35 seconds later, and not only landed in London but also in the Guinness Book of Records.

Anderson holds a commercial pilot license with ratings for single and multi-engine aircraft, land and sea and has written three books on aviation. He often flew his family on vacation. They hated it! It was his flying.