212 KILOMETERS IN A
KIRBY CADET MARK I
by John Jeffries
On 5th June, 1960 John Jeffries soared a 1936 Kirby Cadet primary solo training
glider 212 kms from Dunstable to Cranwell via Stratford-on-Avon. This interesting
account, which puts today's 500 km triangles in fibreglass sailplanes into their true
perspective, is reproduced by courtesy of the London Gliding Club Gazette (issue
Oct./Nov. 1960).
The ranks of those who can recall with affection that one-time high
performance sailplane the "Kirby Cadet Mark I" are, alas, becoming
sadly depleted. Even more sad perhaps is the increasing scorn with
which such relics of the "bad old days" are regarded by the unfeeling
new generation of self-styled pundits and by the old hands who choose
to forget. Personally, the Cadet symbolises the passing of the fun,
sport and amusement era of gliding so that I jumped at the opportunity
to fly Peter Fletcher's version in the hope of recapturing something of the
excitement of the past. To be a little more honest, I have to admit to
engineering the opportunity by the well-tried flattery process, carefully
camouflaged, of course. Perhaps the flattery was a bit overdone,
because Peter was soon imploring me to fly the machine away just to
prove for once and for all that the performance of this Cadet was at
least equal if not actually superior to that of the Skylark 3. I egged him
on further by suggesting that the Long Mynd, a mere 120 miles away,
was a task well suited to the machine. But even Peter was a little
sceptical of such a suggestion and falling beautifully for the bait, laid a
wager that not half the distance could be covered. To impress me still
further with the capabilities of his machine, he modified his flutter by
allowing the 60 miles to be covered in any direction. This was good
because my navigational prowess is limited and the whole five shillings
might be very useful to help towards the retrieve. Thus morally fortified,
we dragged the Super Cadet to the launching point.
Perhaps it might be as well to explain to those few who do not
already know that the Cadet in question is named "It." This rather
curious name is derived from its hill-soaring "recall sign" (which just
proves its soaring ability). If therefore, I refer to "It," I do not mean to
be derisive. Anyway IT and I were eventually lined up for the second
aero-tow of the day, after a protracted wait for cumulus to form. Donned
in lightweight goggles and sitting on a lightweight foam plastic cushion,
fully half an inch thick, the IT and I took the air. The first part of the
launch was a trifle hairy, not of course due to the superior handling of
the machine, but to the fact that the wind was easterly and take off was
towards the hill. Surprisingly enough, the remainder of the tow was
exceedingly smooth and pleasant and I completely forgot what I was
flying. This was really rather careless because on casting off in the first
77thermal we struck, I perceived that we were at a mere 900 ft. and only
marginally within gliding range of the Club. Fortunately the thermal did
its stuff and lifted us to 3,000 ft. albeit rather slowly. At this height I
left to try my luck with another cloud before, setting off and after a rather
embarrassing scrape at no great height and out of range of the site,
achieved a more satisfactory rate of climb. Estimating a vertical height
of 1,000 ft. from cloudbase ( I hope not too inaccurately) we thundered
off in true competition style in the direction of downwind, which by a
strange coincidence, corresponded roughly with the intended track.
One lesson was very quickly learnt and that was that if we were to
remain airborne at all, the nearest source of lift had to be utilized
whether or not it lay on course. Hence we pursued the sort of route that
might well have been taken by a drunken fly, only we doubtless flew more
slowly and frequently little higher. The M1 appeared beneath us,
disappeared and then reappeared. Woburn Abbey slid by at a good
15 knots hotly pursued by a mess of unidentifiable aerodromes until at
long last, Edgehill hove into sight on the starboard tip about one Cadetyear
away. This was something of a shock since it should have turned
up on the port tip but then when your life consists of a series of highs,
very lows, and shattering slows in between, you just can't be too fussy.
Things now began to get really difficult. A sheet of rapidly
thickening high cover was approaching from the South and thermals were
becoming more and more dismal. Fortunately during a perfectly
miserable climb from an all-time low, a promising patch of cu started to
form over the southern end of Edgehill and as soon as I judged there was
the remotest chance of reaching it, we left our thermal and pushed off
at max. glide. Now the one really good feature about IT is that any form
of speed chart, glide chart or computer is completely unnecessary since
max. glide, max. cruise, min. sink and stall all seem to occur at exactly
the same speed. I will admit that the precise speed for these conditions
of flight is difficult to determine since the A.S.I, needle has long
disappeared backwards off the scale, but if a single hair on your head
moves, you are going too fast and if you feel a breeze from behind, you
may be a trifle too slow. No other indications of the correct speed can
be expected. At all events, a final glide ensued except that by a gnat's
whisker, it wasn't final and we were soon grinding merrily away again in
1 ft. sec. up some 200 feet above the ground. We slowly drifted past
Edgehill which was being rapidly consumed by a giant earthwork pincer
movement, and on towards the end of No. 1 runway at Gaydon where
V bombers seemed to be two a penny. I couldn't help lapsing into the
realms of conjecture (Heaven knows there was enough time) as to what
would be our fate should a state of National Emergency be declared at
the precise moment that we drifted across the end of the runway. Would
we be escorted down by fighters with a stalling speed at least twice as
great as IT's max. permitted, or would we be dispatched without
ceremony with one well-directed shot. I was really quite glad when we
cleared the airfield with a more comfortable height margin and the
78thermal gathered more momentum.
By now a bank of high stratus which had been approaching rapidly
from the South had reached my intended track and effectively masked
the sun. However, there was a "corner" to the cloud blanket and I
pressed on in the fond belief that things might be better further West.
The actual break back occurred at Stratford-on-Avon but by this time I
could see that the sky ahead was pure blue and not very inviting. Never
mind, the river and the Memorial Theatre looked most attractive and
even though this was probably our final glide (apparently now dead into
wind), the view was well worth the trip.
During the course of the glide a few new cumulus began to form to
the north of track and we eventually contacted lift at no great altitude
over Snitterfield, achieved a quite acceptable rate of climb and arrived
at cloud base (I think) at no less than 6,700 ft. — the best height of the
voyage. By now the clamp was well and truly overhead and all thought
of the Mynd vanished and the task was converted to a free distance in
the direction away from the clamp, i.e. roughly North. But I had left it
too late and unable to overtake the clamp was soon searching for a
suitable landing field. As a last desperate resort, I investigated a patch
of shadow a lighter shade than the remainder which lay over the village
of ? Without daring to breathe, we slowly girated in zero, centred on
it and according to the altimeter, climbed in it until after an aeon we
reached 4,000 ft. and hurried off to the nearest obvious lift. Since by
now I had nothing but a purely academic interest in our whereabouts,
serious map-reading didn't come into it. But because I thought I
recognised a series of small lakes in the vicinity I made some slight
effort out of idle curiosity to check our position and sure enough I was
right to within the nearest 10 miles—we were somewhat north of
Northampton although what had happened to the M.I. is anybody's guess.
The next cloud took so long to reach that it was on the decay when
we arrived so we left again for the nearest, smallest wisp we could see.
Unhappily we again were not over-blessed with height so I kept my eye
glued to the little cloud hardly daring to look at the ground. Just to be
difficult the cloud sat on the far side of a reservoir which from 900 ft.
took on the proportions of the English Channel and it was not until dead
mid-stream that a welcome surge raised my spirits. Since at last we had
reached the sunlight proper the thermal was a marked improvement on
what we had become used to, and in a matter of minutes we were looking
down proudly from cloudbase. Off once again, we pursued our roughly
northerly course on the descents between climbs until I suddenly became
aware that we were not only maintaining a northerly heading but also a
northerly track. However, I was lost once again so it didn't really matter.
All I knew was that J was now going down-wind again which was very
satisfactory. Casually I glanced down at an airfield as it slid by at snail's
pace far below and observed, I thought, that the windsock pointed
towards us. Perhaps I had not seen correctly — I dismissed it from mymind. Another airfield hove in sight and here gliding was in progress.
Everything looked horribly uniform and concluding it must be an R.A.F.
club, we sailed over their winch in fine civilian style, observing also that
we really were flying dead into wind. An Olympia was launched almost
beneath us and began circling a few hundred feet below. Since we
were at the end of a short cloud street, I elected not to join him and
pressed on upwind until we found a really meaty piece of lift which
rushed us up to cloudbase. Much to my unsporting delight, I saw that
the Olympia had failed to soar and had landed, not once but three times.
Then I was on what was definitely my final glide over Barkston
Heath, although I didn't know it at the time, still into wind — on toward
a large aerodrome with parched looking grass around the runway. The
closer we got the more convinced I was that this was Cranwell. There
is after all only one aerodrome in the country that looks like Cranwell--
Cranwell. The next cloud was a good twenty miles away with clear blue
sky in between so that there was really little hope of our journey
continuing so I amused myself by flying locally over the College buildings
until finally we ran aground in front of the old control tower.
There followed a pleasant though rather distracting wait due to
thunderstorms and constantly changing wind direction during which I
was royally entertained in the Mess until the retrieve arrived. The
excitement seemed to have been too much for poor Peter who after
waxing very voluble during the loading-up operation, curled up in the
back of the Land Rover and wasn't heard of again until on the outskirts
of Dunstable.
Incidentally, I still haven't got my 5/- wager !
KIRBY CADET MARK I
by John Jeffries
On 5th June, 1960 John Jeffries soared a 1936 Kirby Cadet primary solo training
glider 212 kms from Dunstable to Cranwell via Stratford-on-Avon. This interesting
account, which puts today's 500 km triangles in fibreglass sailplanes into their true
perspective, is reproduced by courtesy of the London Gliding Club Gazette (issue
Oct./Nov. 1960).
The ranks of those who can recall with affection that one-time high
performance sailplane the "Kirby Cadet Mark I" are, alas, becoming
sadly depleted. Even more sad perhaps is the increasing scorn with
which such relics of the "bad old days" are regarded by the unfeeling
new generation of self-styled pundits and by the old hands who choose
to forget. Personally, the Cadet symbolises the passing of the fun,
sport and amusement era of gliding so that I jumped at the opportunity
to fly Peter Fletcher's version in the hope of recapturing something of the
excitement of the past. To be a little more honest, I have to admit to
engineering the opportunity by the well-tried flattery process, carefully
camouflaged, of course. Perhaps the flattery was a bit overdone,
because Peter was soon imploring me to fly the machine away just to
prove for once and for all that the performance of this Cadet was at
least equal if not actually superior to that of the Skylark 3. I egged him
on further by suggesting that the Long Mynd, a mere 120 miles away,
was a task well suited to the machine. But even Peter was a little
sceptical of such a suggestion and falling beautifully for the bait, laid a
wager that not half the distance could be covered. To impress me still
further with the capabilities of his machine, he modified his flutter by
allowing the 60 miles to be covered in any direction. This was good
because my navigational prowess is limited and the whole five shillings
might be very useful to help towards the retrieve. Thus morally fortified,
we dragged the Super Cadet to the launching point.
Perhaps it might be as well to explain to those few who do not
already know that the Cadet in question is named "It." This rather
curious name is derived from its hill-soaring "recall sign" (which just
proves its soaring ability). If therefore, I refer to "It," I do not mean to
be derisive. Anyway IT and I were eventually lined up for the second
aero-tow of the day, after a protracted wait for cumulus to form. Donned
in lightweight goggles and sitting on a lightweight foam plastic cushion,
fully half an inch thick, the IT and I took the air. The first part of the
launch was a trifle hairy, not of course due to the superior handling of
the machine, but to the fact that the wind was easterly and take off was
towards the hill. Surprisingly enough, the remainder of the tow was
exceedingly smooth and pleasant and I completely forgot what I was
flying. This was really rather careless because on casting off in the first
77thermal we struck, I perceived that we were at a mere 900 ft. and only
marginally within gliding range of the Club. Fortunately the thermal did
its stuff and lifted us to 3,000 ft. albeit rather slowly. At this height I
left to try my luck with another cloud before, setting off and after a rather
embarrassing scrape at no great height and out of range of the site,
achieved a more satisfactory rate of climb. Estimating a vertical height
of 1,000 ft. from cloudbase ( I hope not too inaccurately) we thundered
off in true competition style in the direction of downwind, which by a
strange coincidence, corresponded roughly with the intended track.
One lesson was very quickly learnt and that was that if we were to
remain airborne at all, the nearest source of lift had to be utilized
whether or not it lay on course. Hence we pursued the sort of route that
might well have been taken by a drunken fly, only we doubtless flew more
slowly and frequently little higher. The M1 appeared beneath us,
disappeared and then reappeared. Woburn Abbey slid by at a good
15 knots hotly pursued by a mess of unidentifiable aerodromes until at
long last, Edgehill hove into sight on the starboard tip about one Cadetyear
away. This was something of a shock since it should have turned
up on the port tip but then when your life consists of a series of highs,
very lows, and shattering slows in between, you just can't be too fussy.
Things now began to get really difficult. A sheet of rapidly
thickening high cover was approaching from the South and thermals were
becoming more and more dismal. Fortunately during a perfectly
miserable climb from an all-time low, a promising patch of cu started to
form over the southern end of Edgehill and as soon as I judged there was
the remotest chance of reaching it, we left our thermal and pushed off
at max. glide. Now the one really good feature about IT is that any form
of speed chart, glide chart or computer is completely unnecessary since
max. glide, max. cruise, min. sink and stall all seem to occur at exactly
the same speed. I will admit that the precise speed for these conditions
of flight is difficult to determine since the A.S.I, needle has long
disappeared backwards off the scale, but if a single hair on your head
moves, you are going too fast and if you feel a breeze from behind, you
may be a trifle too slow. No other indications of the correct speed can
be expected. At all events, a final glide ensued except that by a gnat's
whisker, it wasn't final and we were soon grinding merrily away again in
1 ft. sec. up some 200 feet above the ground. We slowly drifted past
Edgehill which was being rapidly consumed by a giant earthwork pincer
movement, and on towards the end of No. 1 runway at Gaydon where
V bombers seemed to be two a penny. I couldn't help lapsing into the
realms of conjecture (Heaven knows there was enough time) as to what
would be our fate should a state of National Emergency be declared at
the precise moment that we drifted across the end of the runway. Would
we be escorted down by fighters with a stalling speed at least twice as
great as IT's max. permitted, or would we be dispatched without
ceremony with one well-directed shot. I was really quite glad when we
cleared the airfield with a more comfortable height margin and the
78thermal gathered more momentum.
By now a bank of high stratus which had been approaching rapidly
from the South had reached my intended track and effectively masked
the sun. However, there was a "corner" to the cloud blanket and I
pressed on in the fond belief that things might be better further West.
The actual break back occurred at Stratford-on-Avon but by this time I
could see that the sky ahead was pure blue and not very inviting. Never
mind, the river and the Memorial Theatre looked most attractive and
even though this was probably our final glide (apparently now dead into
wind), the view was well worth the trip.
During the course of the glide a few new cumulus began to form to
the north of track and we eventually contacted lift at no great altitude
over Snitterfield, achieved a quite acceptable rate of climb and arrived
at cloud base (I think) at no less than 6,700 ft. — the best height of the
voyage. By now the clamp was well and truly overhead and all thought
of the Mynd vanished and the task was converted to a free distance in
the direction away from the clamp, i.e. roughly North. But I had left it
too late and unable to overtake the clamp was soon searching for a
suitable landing field. As a last desperate resort, I investigated a patch
of shadow a lighter shade than the remainder which lay over the village
of ? Without daring to breathe, we slowly girated in zero, centred on
it and according to the altimeter, climbed in it until after an aeon we
reached 4,000 ft. and hurried off to the nearest obvious lift. Since by
now I had nothing but a purely academic interest in our whereabouts,
serious map-reading didn't come into it. But because I thought I
recognised a series of small lakes in the vicinity I made some slight
effort out of idle curiosity to check our position and sure enough I was
right to within the nearest 10 miles—we were somewhat north of
Northampton although what had happened to the M.I. is anybody's guess.
The next cloud took so long to reach that it was on the decay when
we arrived so we left again for the nearest, smallest wisp we could see.
Unhappily we again were not over-blessed with height so I kept my eye
glued to the little cloud hardly daring to look at the ground. Just to be
difficult the cloud sat on the far side of a reservoir which from 900 ft.
took on the proportions of the English Channel and it was not until dead
mid-stream that a welcome surge raised my spirits. Since at last we had
reached the sunlight proper the thermal was a marked improvement on
what we had become used to, and in a matter of minutes we were looking
down proudly from cloudbase. Off once again, we pursued our roughly
northerly course on the descents between climbs until I suddenly became
aware that we were not only maintaining a northerly heading but also a
northerly track. However, I was lost once again so it didn't really matter.
All I knew was that J was now going down-wind again which was very
satisfactory. Casually I glanced down at an airfield as it slid by at snail's
pace far below and observed, I thought, that the windsock pointed
towards us. Perhaps I had not seen correctly — I dismissed it from mymind. Another airfield hove in sight and here gliding was in progress.
Everything looked horribly uniform and concluding it must be an R.A.F.
club, we sailed over their winch in fine civilian style, observing also that
we really were flying dead into wind. An Olympia was launched almost
beneath us and began circling a few hundred feet below. Since we
were at the end of a short cloud street, I elected not to join him and
pressed on upwind until we found a really meaty piece of lift which
rushed us up to cloudbase. Much to my unsporting delight, I saw that
the Olympia had failed to soar and had landed, not once but three times.
Then I was on what was definitely my final glide over Barkston
Heath, although I didn't know it at the time, still into wind — on toward
a large aerodrome with parched looking grass around the runway. The
closer we got the more convinced I was that this was Cranwell. There
is after all only one aerodrome in the country that looks like Cranwell--
Cranwell. The next cloud was a good twenty miles away with clear blue
sky in between so that there was really little hope of our journey
continuing so I amused myself by flying locally over the College buildings
until finally we ran aground in front of the old control tower.
There followed a pleasant though rather distracting wait due to
thunderstorms and constantly changing wind direction during which I
was royally entertained in the Mess until the retrieve arrived. The
excitement seemed to have been too much for poor Peter who after
waxing very voluble during the loading-up operation, curled up in the
back of the Land Rover and wasn't heard of again until on the outskirts
of Dunstable.
Incidentally, I still haven't got my 5/- wager !