The Vulcan bomber. Possibly the most beautiful military aircraft ever built. Certainly the noisiest. It was the aircraft which patrolled the skies over my home throughout the 1970s until we moved in 1984 – the year it was de-commissioned. Star of the Bond film Thunderball. Icon of the RAF.
We lived in Penzance between 2006 and 2013. Every summer, I tried to drag my two sons to the annual airshow at RNAS Culdrose, near Helston on the Lizard. It was a hopeless endeavour. They never shared my Baby Boomer generation’s veneration for military aircraft: the Spitfire, Hurricane, the P-51 Mustang, the ME109, the B-17 USAF Flying Fortress, the Lancaster bomber. And that was just WWII. Then there were the French Mirages, the MiG Soviet fighters, the F-15s and the Russian Bear. Every year I tried. On the one year I managed to get them both to come with me, it was fogged out – a frequent problem in that damp part of the Atlantic world. The promised Red Arrows were a no show. Ditto the Spits. This confirmed every prejudice they had against the show.
And then. And then. 2010. 28 July. This would be different. This year they were expecting a visit from the last Vulcan flying in the world. Making its last appearance. A big day. My entire aviation childhood was exemplified in this magnificent aeroplane. I wanted to see her fly for the very last time. And, reluctantly, Josh came with me to see, but mainly to hear her.
All the way there I talked of her sleek lines but mainly of the thunderous engine noise. “I get it, dad. It’s loud.” You could hear Josh’s eyebrows rising with exasperation. “Loud doesn’t do it justice”, I continued, carried away on a fervour of nostalgia mixed with anticipation. We arrived and parked up. There were the usual medley of nondescript ancient aircraft on the ground to gawk at and clamber over and inside. The hours went by. The Royal Moroccan Airforce’s Acrobatic Team did some rather pedestrian manoeuvres up above the crowd against the backdrop of an azure sky. Ho, hum, all rather humdrum.
My ears pricked up way before anyone saw the Vulcan coming in from the South. It had evidently flown in an arc around Culdrose, shifting from its original flight approach path to an approach which would show the plane off to best effect. “She’s here”, I said to Josh. “Where?”. “Look over there”. I pointed to the south. “There’s nothing there, dad.” “Ssh. Listen“, I implored.
Then we saw her *. A great boomerang shape about 3 miles out and just 25 degrees off the deck, belching smoke out of the massive engines. Josh still wasn’t impressed but he picked up on the hushed sense of excitement amongst the crowd. I passed him the binoculars. The tannoy had picked up on the direction of the crowd’s gaze by now and the deep, clipped tones of all airshow announcers everywhere chimed in to announce the imminent arrival of the star of today’s show. There was a run down on the Vulcan’s active service credits and some bunny about the tech spec. Within 30 seconds the announcer was drowned out as the Vulcan passed overhead, her huge underbelly seemingly within arms reach. I looked at Josh. There was a broad smile all the way across his face. The magic was working.
The Vulcan did a few more turns to re-approach and fly past overhead, then, the moment all we fans had been waiting for: she pulled a vertical climb right above the crowd and switched on the afterburners. You could feel the force. It shook you. It shook the ground under our feet. It shook the sky. Speech was pointless. We stole a glance at each other as the plane climbed. Josh grimaced and then smiled to say “That is quite loud, actually” and we both smiled. Every car alarm in the car park was set off by the vibration which made us both laugh.
She climbed and climbed. And climbed. This was one impressive aircraft. She may have a terrifying purpose – to deliver Britain’s nuclear payload if required – but out of a sombre raison d’etre was produced an aircraft capable of withstanding most of what could be thrown at it whilst operating at an extraordinary level of performance. And she sounded like the God of fire she was named after. She didn’t disappoint.
In the car, which, felt very puny after what we had just experienced, Josh had a newfound respect for one of my hyperbolic childhood reminiscences. (Only 49 to go.) He had witnessed the flying of a legend into the history books. And it did not go gentle into that good night. It raged against the dying of the light. Just as a God should.
* The 2010 RNAS Culdrose Airshow appearance by the Vulcan is at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qTPNR6-FIEk