Night flying
Night flying
stories
An account by Sophie Bonneville: they say human beings are not “night birds” – well, maybe they are!!
Because at the ACD, on Tuesday and Thursday evenings in winter, when the cloud base (9,000 ft minimum) allows and a safe diversion airfield has been arranged, around thirty of us take off into an often starry sky to enjoy a somewhat selfish (but often shared) and above all unique pleasure! Nothing compares with night flying, a source of intense and special happiness, where all is silence, softness and serenity.
But before taking off, some preparation is essential. First, runway 04 (the paved one, compulsory for night flying except for emergency landings) has to be prepared as soon as it is free for our joyful night-time activity: we take the van out of the workshop, pick up the electronic control unit for the runway lights and slowly (it takes two people) switch them on (white lights along both sides of the runway, red and green at the 04 and 22 thresholds, and blue for taxiways Echo 2 and Echo 3). It is great fun – what a joy to drive alone on the runway, free at last, and set up our playground!
Our aeroplanes wait patiently on the apron, refuelled in advance. It's the stuff of dreams! We use the 30-minute legal break imposed on air traffic control to get kitted out (hat, gloves, yellow or orange vest and above all… a headtorch and a mobile phone, essential tools for a proper pre-flight inspection!) and check our aircraft at leisure.
The clubhouse slowly changes; the lights are partly switched off so that our eyes can get used to the dark. No doubt about it: the night-flying ACD has nothing to do with the daytime ACD! We chat calmly among pilots, as if time were somehow suspended…
With our aircraft ready, we start the engines after first warning our friends with two flashes of the landing lights; nothing is left to chance when it comes to safety.
Engine warm-up. It sometimes takes a little while; then, after clearance from ATC, we taxi slowly, all lights on, along the yellow line to Echo 1. Engine run-up with the lights off, so as not to dazzle the landing aircraft.
Lining up. The adrenaline rises, and so does the pleasure… Take-off on the centreline. Here we are in a sky often partly or fully lit by the moon; the parameters must be respected, and the downwind leg gives us time to admire the lights of Grenoble and the stressed-out flow of cars we look down on with a certain pride!
Spotting runway 04 (our lighting is not quite like Saint-Geoirs'!), base leg, concentrating on the PAPI, our lifeline for the evening, which guides us until, at the very end of short final, we find (thanks to our landing lights) the piano keys and the centreline of 04! Mind you, during our night rating we did learn to land without lights or PAPI, and believe us, that works too!
Circuits are nice, but a local flight to the north, a flight to Saint-Geoirs or a long cross-country make unforgettable escapes, where our daytime life fades away to make room for a beautiful night-time interlude.
The flights follow one another without a break, because time flies: playtime has to end at 21:00 (22:00 for long cross-countries). The ballet of aircraft in the circuit is a beautiful sight; we never tire of it!
Game over: the club van drives out again to switch off the lights one by one, then goes back to park at the workshop. Darkness falls again on our playground…
Roll on next Tuesday or Thursday!
Sophie Bonneville
An account by Bernard Moro: flak over the Mont d'Or
I was at Pontarlier at the time. Since the autumn I had been training for night flying, dual at first, then solo after my release. There was no runway lighting. In winter, most of the time, the runway stood out black against the snow-covered grass, or else it was very distinct, smooth, flat and white under the aeroplane. It is New Year's Eve 98-99. The weather is fine, cru as they say up there – raw, minus fifteen or so – moonlight, not a breath of wind. I have friends staying, but I have warned them I have an important appointment that night. At 23:30 I turn up at the aerodrome clubhouse. The club's pilots are getting ready to see in the New Year: a big table, a fine buffet, music, champagne… I say hello to everyone, but they know my plans are different.
Through the thin layer of snow I walk out across the apron to the hangar, open it the way you open a Christmas present, and gaze at the red Régent waiting for me. We agree: it's time to get airborne. Carefully, so as not to slip, I pull it out, remove the tail stand and put it away. A careful pre-flight. I climb aboard, close the canopy, take off my gloves despite the cold, switch on my red headtorch and go through the start-up ritual, only slower, more joyfully. It is about savouring every one of these moments that, perhaps without realising it, I have been waiting for since I began this night rating. There we are: the engine is running like clockwork. I let it warm up gently.
Right, let's go. Still slowly, the tyres roll through the dry, powdery snow; I report at the holding point, knowing they are listening at the clubhouse. It is 23:45. I backtrack up the runway. Take-off on 02. Final checks, all good, and here we are in the air, the aeroplane and I. First I go and see the friends I left at home. They live in a block of flats on a hill east of the town; I flash my landing lights, have time to see torches flashing on their balcony, and climb towards the sky.
The snow-covered countryside in the moonlight is beyond words. I keep climbing eastwards, towards the Mont d'Or, the Métabief ski resort, the fir trees. I feast on images that I know will stay etched in my memory forever. All the settlements can be read, far better than by day, through the density of the lights. You can see the layout of the housing estates, the entrances, the roundabouts, all in light. And the vast black expanse of the farmland and forests.
Just before midnight, crackling in the headset. “Happy New Year, Bernard!” says a woman's voice – one of the pilots partying at the club. How lovely; I thank her warmly. And suddenly the sky lights up.
I am above one of the many hamlets scattered around the Mont d'Or. And I had completely forgotten their custom of setting off fireworks on the stroke of midnight on New Year's Eve! It's going off everywhere, it's magnificent and damned worrying; I understand the fear of 1940s war pilots when the flak shells came up at them! But my aeroplane is only wood and fabric, for heaven's sake!!! I picture a rocket hitting one of the wings and setting the fuel tanks alight. Full throttle, my stomach in knots, I climb while getting well away from what looks like the launch point of the rockets.
I breathe again, still climbing, safe now. I see other hamlets joining the party, colours bursting everywhere; it's beautiful, silent (especially compared with the engine), it's fabulous. I'm at 9,000 feet above the town. I can see Lausanne, the dark patch of Lake Geneva, and the arcades of Évian. I see them because I know them, but it is impressive how sharp the view is despite the altitude.
The following year, at 00:15, after a very gentle flare, the Régent's tyres caress the snow. I put the aeroplane away the way you tuck in a child you love. Thanks for the ride, old friend. I won't linger at the club. Too many images in my head, too many memories already. Which I am happy to share today…
Bernard Moro
An account by Jean-Yves Larnaudie: a trip to Saint-Geoirs
The Saint-Geoirs airfield at night.
Final at Saint-Geoirs. The runway is magnificent, its green lights marking the 09 threshold, its red lights marking the end of the runway 3 km further on, the taxiways edged in blue.
Returning from Saint-Geoirs. Approaching overhead Moirans. The Grenoble basin is brightly lit and above it you can even see the floodlit slopes of Chamrousse!
The Grenoble conurbation. Note the Cours Jean Jaurès / Cours Saint-André, one of the longest straight avenues in France, the dark Drac river on the right, the stadium brightly lit for a match… Wow.
Jean-Yves Larnaudie
