Never a Dull Moment

Victor Collin

Description

Pursue your dreams with determination. Time and time again I have had to rebound from the vicissitudes that life throws at you and lay you low.
Victor was born before WWII, grew up during the war in England and was greatly influenced by watching the Battle of Britain first hand.
Upon completion of his education at Colfe's School he did his two years of National Service in the R.A.F. During the next four years he used his spare time and money to enroll in Jim Russell's Racing Driver's School and to learn to fly at Croydon Aerodrome.
Emigration to the U.S.A. followed, where he gained his Commercial Pilot's License, doing mostly crop-dusting in open-cockpit biplanes for three years, before being hired by T.W.A. He spent nearly thirty years with T.W.A., ending his career as Captain on the Lockheed 1011 and the Boeing 747. Foreseeing the demise of T.W.A., he flew in command of L-1011's for two years with Air Lanka in Sri Lanka, with B-747's on a HAJJ contract in Saudi Arabia and finally in charge of a private 747SP, first for the President of Kazakhstan, then for the Sultan of Brunei's family.
He is captivated with the romance of flight in all its different forms, has a passion for foreign languages, martial arts and travel, especially to China and Russia. These two countries have been in his purview all his life, they are a constant source of world political intrigue.

Sujets

• Transportation
• Captain
• Flight
• Travel
• Autobiography
• Pilot
• TWA
• Aviation

Informations

• Publié par: AuthorHouse
• Date de parution: 22 mars 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9798823003742
• Langue: English

Extrait

Never a Dull Moment
 
 
 
 
VICTOR COLLIN
 
© 2023 Victor Collin. All rights reserved.
 
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.
 
AuthorHouse™
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Bloomington, IN 47403
www.authorhouse.com
Phone: [phone]
 
Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
 
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.
 
ISBN: 979-8-8230-0373-5 (sc)
ISBN: 979-8-8230-0375-9 (hc)
ISBN: 979-8-8230-0374-2 (e)
 
Published by AuthorHouse 03/21/2023
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
to my wife, without her inestimable help this would not have been possible, to Fred, who gave it a name and to fellow flyers around the g lobe
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter 1Flawed Baby
Chapter 2Growing up in War-torn Britain
Chapter 3Come Sons of Colfe
Chapter 4For Queen and Country
Chapter 5Going Nowhere, in Style
Chapter 6Carpe Diem
Chapter 7Working for Mr. Hughes
Chapter 8My Affair with the 747
Chapter 9Playing with Fire
Chapter 10Avertible Breakdown
Chapter 11Kashmar
Chapter 12Command
Chapter 13The Face of Retirement
Chapter 14Third Millennium
Chapter 15Masha
Chapter 16Lhasa, at Last
Chapter 17Corona Virus
Chapter 18Break Out
CHAPTER 1 Flawed Baby
According to my mother I was born during a wild thunderstorm at four o’clock in the afternoon, with only a midwife in attendance. This happened at 128, Falconwood Avenue, Welling, Kent, United Kingdom, because she had a deathly fear of hospitals. I remember little of my early life, until the age of five or so, however those memories that I do have seem to be vividly clear.
My parents moved to this new estate on the outskirts of London in about 1934 from Sunderland. My father had given up all hope of becoming Captain of an ocean going liner with Blue Funnel Line. In order to achieve his ambition to be master of his own vessel he joined Wm. Cory and Sons, based in London. The ships were colliers transporting coal from the north-east of England to London and other destinations in Europe.
My first recollection is being taken to St. Mary’s Convent in order to attend school at the tender age of three and a half. Mum was insistent that I should have the best education possible and as there was no alternative I was enrolled in a girl’s school. Being thrust into the arms of a frightening, hooded apparition in a black shroud filled me with horror and of course I howled my head off and demanded to be taken away. The second time I was quieted somewhat and taken to see baby Jesus, but I still cried with resentment. My lifelong atheism, I believe, commenced at this very moment.
The object, I suppose, was to learn the three r’s, but surprisingly I was introduced to French at this early age and can clearly remember singing songs in class, such as Frere Jacques. I have a French- English dictionary yet, inscribed on the frontispiece in my father’s beautiful copperplate “ Happy Birthday, 1940 “. We used to march into class every day to the rousing tune of “ in an English country garden “, a nun, in all her finery at an old piano, belting it out with gusto, her right foot pressing the loud pedal hard to the floor and her left tapping out the rhythm. The convent was poor, the floors plain dark wood, the walls bare and the reason they took me in, maybe, on account of lack of money. How my mother managed to swing it I cannot imagine, but the leg-pulling from the girls was at times traumatic.
I had a handsome pedal car, brought from Japan by Dad, but there is a sneaking suspicion it was a hand-me-down from Don, who had one too. I also had a tricycle, which displeased me, because under heavy cornering speeds it would tip me off, incurring crying and plasters, it in no way measured up to the proper joy of motoring.
Walks in Falcon Woods were something to look forward to with Skippy, my dog, a mongrel of dodgy parentage, none the less a treasure of a friend. Day to day life was much the same as any other youngster’s in that age, there were highlights though, occasions when I ran to the front gate to peer through the grill and feast my eyes on the next animal-drawn delivery to pass by. First of all the milkman came early to start the day off, with a couple of pints of Jersey or Guernsey milk, each with a thick layer of luscious cream visible at the top. The lovely old carthorse would quietly follow, keeping pace without attention, depositing once in a while a steaming mound, which Mum fell over herself in the haste of acquiring a shovel-full before the neighbours, for the roses. Then came the rest, usually once a week, at varying times. The coal-man, with his horse and cart, not pristine like the milkman, but filthy black with the dust. The tinker, accompanied by his donkey and jingle, happy to take anything metal and prepared to sharpen kitchen knives, scissors, shears and even the blades of our lawn mower, from which the sonorous sounds of the old manual type issued, so typical of a summer afternoon in those days, they will never be heard again. Last of all, the rag and bones man who would take anything, his skeletal pony dragging a dusty cart. His cry of “ ragabo “ could be heard from the kitchen, in time to catch him, for he did not hang about too long.
We had a strange family life. My mother took in P.G.’s (paying guests) all her married life and Rufus Pickles was with her in Sunderland, so he came to Welling as well. He was a delightful man, a carpenter and joiner by trade. I was encouraged to call him Daddy Rufie, looking back it must have been an awfully low blow to Dad, who was at sea for so much of his working life. I have no recollection at all of either my brother or my father at this time. Rufie built a huge aviary at the foot of the garden and filled it with exotically coloured birds from all over the world, which entranced me and left me with a great love of birds to the end of my days.
I can remember nothing else of note until the next happening - WWII. The fear that my mother felt, now that my brother and to a much greater extent my father could be in the killing zone, was palpable and was surely transmitted to me. The sounds, the smells and sights of war are all jumbled together in my mind, but the outstanding event, the Battle of Britain, is indelibly printed on my soul forever. The scratches in the sky, the noise of V-12 engines and everyone in the streets looking up and pointing had a huge effect on me. My mother was constantly telling me that those men were fighting for us and there was even one pilot with no legs (Douglas Bader) . This was a puzzlement for many years to come because I just could not imagine how a legless man could fly an aeroplane, she omitted to say that his legs were replaced by artificial ones. I was well aware, even at five years old, that something of monumental consequence was actually being played out before my eyes.
Then came the blitz, the air raid warnings and the bombings. We had an Anderson (I think) shelter erected in the living room, it was just a metal cage, when the warning sounded Mum and I snuggled together under the metal top. We were in the alley the bombers took to London from France, but much better off than the city itself, beset with heaps of rubble and frightening fires. One day there was a big bang, bits and pieces came raining down and the house became unliveable. Our peripatetic journey throughout England, following Rufie helping to build aerodromes for the next five years, began.
CHAPTER 2 Growing up in War-torn Britain
First stop was “Two Gables”, Hopping Jacks Lane, Danbury, Essex. This could not have been too interesting, because I remember little, however one could hardly forget the address. I do recall that it was a lovely large house, with a fair sized garden, where I went through a phase of carrying two blue/grey coloured rabbits, wrapped in bright yellow dusters, everywhere I went. The house itself had highly polished floors with throw rugs dotted around in unexpected spots. I came a cropper one day running into the study, the rug slipped away from my feet and I fell on an open electric fire and burnt my arm, causing me severe pain for some time. I made friends with Peter at school, who I made a point of recontacting in the fifties, to find that he had become a competent sports car driver, racing Lotus XI’s. Once again the memories are jumbled together and I have trouble connecting them into a logical cohesive journey. One day definitely stands out. Rufie was working at an aerodrome at Bradwell, he took me with him when he could, on Saturdays and Sundays. Fascinated by aeroplanes, I would sneak away and get into conversation with the mechanics servicing the aircraft with RAF Coastal Command, flying Lockheed Hudsons. I suppose I became a bit of a nuisance, asking lots of silly questions. One day, when they had to fly a quick circuit in order to check some work done, they persuaded the flight crew on my behalf to take me along. They stuffed me into the bomb aimers’ position and I experienced my first five minute flight. They made me promise so adamantly on a hidden tub of saint’s bones that I would not tell, I have never said a word until now. If my mother had known I would not be here to tell the