How to fly a Spitfire – Part two

The tower tells us where to find it, slightly disappointingly not referring to ‘Angels One Five’ or any other suitably Battle of Britain-grade description of altitude, whereafter the Caravan’s pilot comes on and gives us a rather more precise location, which I think is cheating somewhat. You’d not have caught Adolf Galland dispensing that kind of information to Douglas Bader. We’re climbing rapidly – a Mk IX Spitfire like this can gain around 4000 vertical feet every minute (for reference, the Caravan manages around 1200ft) but as I scan the skies I can see nothing. Maybe he’s lining up to come at us from out of the sun? Okay, probably not.

And there it is, a white speck ahead, above and to the left. It’s been there all the time but until now hidden by a backdrop of white cloud. It looks miles away, and probably is, but when you have a Spitfire at your disposal such matters are rarely an issue for long. In seconds we are upon it.

I can’t believe how close Charlie is prepared to fly to allow us to get our shots, but when you look at them, I hope you’ll agree they were worth it. The wind is really getting up now and I can see the control column constantly correcting to keep us in the frame. Of course I do this kind of thing on a weekly basis when driving behind camera cars, but I have to say the third dimension, the wind and the fact we’re doing well into three figures does add a certain frisson to the occasion.

But it’s not fast enough. I’m told we have five minutes maximum to get our shots, because while the Caravan is hauling for all it’s worth, a Spitfire is simply not designed to fly this slowly. I remember once doing a tracking shot in a Brabham F1 car at Donington Park and going so slowly it simply ran out of sparks and stopped. Others have oiled up, misfired and stalled. Inconvenient on a race track, rather more so at several thousand feet.

After what seems an hour we get a thumbs up from the Caravan, Charlie banks steeply away and as soon as we’re level asks if I want to fly the aircraft myself. Only for the last 50 something years since I first saw The Battle Of Britain at prep school. I make sure my feet are located properly on the rudder bars, then take the stick in my right hand. There’s quite a lot of vibration in here, which is just as well, as I won’t be able to see it trembling.

‘Your aircraft,’ announces Charlie and, to prove it, immediately puts both his hands in the air so I see his fingers. I’m flying a bloody Spitfire.

It’s around about now that you’ll all be wishing I were a proper pilot, well versed in such machines, able to provide a comprehensive, clear-eyed view of its abilities, faults and failings, and really able to put it through its paces. I would too, but I’m afraid you just got me.

‘Could I try a turn?’ I ask, knowing we’re in uncontrolled airspace so can legally fly anywhere. ‘Yes, of course,’ comes the reply, ‘It’s your aircraft, you can do what you like.’ I think ‘within reason’ is assumed.

So I apply a tiny amount of pressure to the stick with what I hope is a commensurate movement of the rudder to stop the nose yawing the other way, and the Spitfire both banks and turns instantly. What looks like most of Sussex is suddenly visible to port, above a now steeply dipped wing. I pull back the stick a fraction to stop the nose from dropping too and the Spitfire responds at once. I return it to horizontal, noticing it requires no more than the gentlest touch by the end of my fingers.

I tell Charlie I can’t believe how responsive it is to which he replies, ‘it’s not a passenger plane, it’s a weapon of war, designed for no other purpose than to fight and to kill.’ It’s a decent point.

Thereafter I pretend I’m alone up here because that’s what you do when you’re in full fantasy mode and flying a Spitfire. Besides I don’t want help from Charlie if I can possibly avoid asking for it. I want to spend every available second flying it myself. So I scan the instruments to make sure the pressures and temperatures are where they should be and of course they are. So I concentrate on my artificial horizon and bank indicator. Turns out that what passes for straight and level in my head does not pass muster with the Spitfire and there are times when I have to make some counter-intuitive corrections to keep the aircraft parallel to the earth. But when it comes to my gut feeling or the aircraft’s carefully calibrated instruments, I know whom I’m trusting.

The coast is ahead and I think about all those impossibly brave young men who crossed it exactly here 85 years ago without knowing if they’d ever see their country again. Men, almost all younger than my children, plenty still in their teens with their lives barely begun. Emotions start welling up inside me I don’t usually experience when testing the vehicles that are more routinely part of my living.

Was it a better aircraft than its chief Battle of Britain opposition, the Messerschmitt Bf 109? I don’t feel remotely qualified to answer but I understand that the German fighter has superior armaments, could climb better and coped with negative g-force thanks to its fuel-injected Daimler engine, something the Spitfire struggled with at least until Beatrice ‘Tilly’ Shilling came up with a restrictor to stop its carburettor flooding under such forces. On the other hand Reginald Mitchell’s genius elliptical wing gave the Spitfire a level of manoeuvrability not even the best German aces could match. All in all I guess we could call it a draw.

Not only is time running out, but the anticipated wind is getting up, and the little aircraft is being constantly deflected by each new gust. I’m glad, because now I’m having to really fly. Anyone can just hold a stick for a few seconds and say they’ve flown the aircraft, but I’m now making constant corrections, learning all the time how the Spitfire responds, trying and failing to imagine what it would be like to throw it about the sky in literally mortal combat.

I find it tiring and worse, shamed to admit as I am, I’m starting to feel unwell and, besides, we’re almost out of time. I’m secretly glad there’s no time for some of the aerobatics the Spitfire will perform because I expect I’d redecorate the cockpit if I did, a poor way to reward the brilliant folk at Spitfires.com who’ve made this entire day possible. So I hand back to Charlie, fess up to my discomfort and suggest we return to base.

‘Sure there’s time for a quick victory roll,’ he intones, and even after all he’s done, I can hear the hope in his voice. ‘Actually it’s just a very simple aileron roll, but that’s what everybody calls it. Very little g. I promise.’

So I take him at his word and watch as he gains a little altitude, a touch more speed, then flips the Spitfire onto its roof and right round again. I’d like to tell you what a violent, visceral experience it was, how I had to fight to keep my breakfast where it was, but in fact it was nothing of the sort. I saw more than I felt, and the Spitfire turned through 360 degrees with the grace and elegance of one born to it which, of course, it was.

Then we head for home. As we came into sight of the airfield, I can see Charlie now really starting to work the stick as the wind picks up to the absolute limit of what such an aircraft is allowed to fly in these days. But we still touch down with balletic poise, and roll up to our parking space, me trying to look as nonchalant as possible.

Just before he cuts the now idling Merlin, Charlie comes on the intercom one last time.

‘I know you’ll think I say this to everyone, but given your level of experience, I really do think you flew her extremely well. Not the easiest conditions for your first flight in a Spit but I really enjoyed being your passenger. Thank you for that.’

And he’s right: I do think he says that to everyone. But I’m taking it. To fly the Spitfire at least safely, perhaps even competently within the very limited scope of what I did with it, was all I could have ever hoped for from the day. And I’ll never forget it, nor feel less than eternally grateful to those who helped make it happen.

Now it’s your turn…

So how do you get to fly a Spitfire? Well it is expensive – think around £100 per minute for as little as 30 and as many as 75 minutes, but I promise you this: the memory will last long, long after the pain of paying for it has faded into obscurity.

Your money will obviously buy you all the safety briefings and rental of all the safety gear and your flight suit, but there are plenty of extras you can add too. These include piling your mates into the Caravan so they can see just how smug you look, formation flying with another Spitfire off your port wing, and an onboard 360-degree video of your flight. There’s even a Spitfire flight simulator you can have a go in.

You can fly pretty well anywhere you like so long as you remain in unrestricted airspace and within your time limitation, but even the shortest flight from Goodwood is enough to get you out over the coast, over to the Isle of Wight and some way out to sea. Take the full 75 minutes and your potential radius stretches as far west as Bristol, and east to Dover for those wanting that iconic White Cliffs moment. Or, if you’re already a pilot, you can be taught how to fly a Spitfire on your own.

Spitfires.com maintains in-house all the aircraft it operates and is CAA approved to carry out all necessary maintenance and repair work to a standard far beyond what would have been acceptable when these aircraft were new. The company operates flights from no fewer than 10 locations within the British Isles from Perth in Scotland to Jersey in the Channel Islands. For further details visit www.spitfires.com, email info@spitfires.com or call 01243 531147

Photography by Liam Young