The commemorations for the 80th anniversary of D Day this year reminded me of my involvement with the 60th anniversary when flying the BBMF Lancaster back in 2004. The plan seemed straightforward: on the 5th June fly from Southampton escorted by the Mk V and Mk IX Spitfires, both of which were D Day veterans, scatter one million poppies from the Lancaster bomb bay alongside the MV Van Gogh, a cruise ship anchored a few miles off Juno beach with several hundred veterans on board, then land at Le Havre. Once there, refuel and the next day, 6th June, lead the flypast at the official ceremony on Juno beach, attended by the French President and Her Majesty the Queen, then return to Le Havre and back to Blighty on the 7th.
 
Normally for such an event there would be reams of paperwork and at least an Operation Order detailing airspace restrictions, frequencies and IFF squawks (codes) etc. Unfortunately, D Day was in France and this was organised by the French. French organisation is an oxymoron like army intelligence, so
when it came to the above—nothing, bugger all, rien.
 
However, we had established by phone that Le Havre was expecting us and could refuel and accommodate us and I’d filed a flight plan which had been accepted so we weren’t unduly concerned.
 
We departed Southampton in glorious sunshine, performed a flypast at Bembridge on the Isle of Wight and set course for France as our Lancaster forbears had done on hundreds of occasions before. Fortunately our forbears did not have to deal with French air traffic as when we contacted them they informed us that there was an exclusion zerne around the channel and the beaches to protect the dignitaries and we were not to enter it. Now anybody would think that an exclusion zone around Jacques Chirac was not a bad thing and probably the bigger the better but despite our protestations that the 'zerne' was pour nous we were told to turn away. Naturally, being British, we duly carried on and ignored this and OC OPS, who was flying one of the Spits, volunteered to talk to them as being half French himself he could parlez le frog effluently. Although being half French it must have been the bottom half, for after jabbering away for what seemed ages we were rapidly intercepted by a Mirage and Rafale.  He may as well had told them that le plume de ma tante est sur le bureau de mon oncle for all the good it did. Not to be outdone, we slowly dribbled the speed back on the Lancaster and could see the noses on the fast jets getting higher and higher as their angle of attack increased to cope with the low speed until they almost fell out of the sky. They then left us alone and we continued, delivered the one million poppies abeam the ship and landed uneventfully at Le Havre.
 
Problems over we thought when we were met by the airport manager and asked him if he had the neuf hundred gallons du AVGAS we had ordered. Oui was his reply, followed by a long silence. Ou est le bowser then we asked, to be told nous n’avons pas du bowsers. Apparently all the bowsers had been commandeered for the VIP aircraft, which left us somewhat perplexed. Ou est le neuf hundred gallons du AVGAS then we then enquired. La bas he said and pointed to a forecourt type petrol pump down a narrow track running through a light aircraft park. There was no way we could taxi the Lanc under its own power there as it would have caused Cessna carnage and we had no towing equipment so the only option was to manhandle it.
 
Luckily we were able to use the braun from the local parachute club and pushing on the undercarriage legs and tail we managed to achieve a gentle walking pace, steering with the gentle use of differential braking from the captain in the aircraft we successfully reached the pumps. After refuelling we now had  a couple of bijou snagettes. Numero un, the aircraft was now some neuf hundred gallons of AVGAS heavier and numero deux ,was now facing backwards as we couldn’t turn it, which meant pushing it tailwheel first. Unlike the Dakota the Lancaster tailwheel doesn’t lock but castors freely and, to make matters worse, the narrow track had a downhill camber. Facing backwards the differential braking method was not an option. Anyone who’s pushed a fully laden supermarket trolley across an incline will understand the problem and they have four wheels!  A three wheeled fuel laden Lancaster is a tad more difficult than a supermarket trolley. However, not to be thwarted, off we trundled backwards only to find the tail turning down the slope. The copilot then had a bright idea. Now you don’t normally find the words 'copilot' and 'good idea' together in the same sentence; indeed on the Vulcan the copilot was thought to be the missing link between the Neanderthal and Homo sapiens, who was fit to carry the rations but not for responsibility and was certainly not to be used for breeding purposes. However, this copilot was also a Lanc captain in his own right and could therefore read AND write. His cunning plan was to swing from the tail plane and kick the tailwheel straight, surprisingly this steering method worked and we achieved a brisk walking pace reversing the aircraft. Unfortunately, like all plans something has to go wrong and indeed it did. The co performed another almighty swing but this time lost his grip, slipped and as tailwheel ran over his feet we came to an undignified halt. The captain stuck his head out of the cockpit window - “Porquoi avons nous stopped?” he enquired only to be told “Vous aves just run over votre copilot.” The airport manager, now the paramedic, arrived with a bag of plasters but luckily the CO's  flying boots had prevented any major damage and apart from a bruised reputation and feet he was generally fine, albeit walking with a slight limp and excused ration carrying duties.
 
Fortunately all the effort paid off and the next day we performed the flypast, accompanied by the fighters, over Juno beach in front of Her Majesty the Queen and the other assembled VIPs. The icing on the cake was an appreciative letter on behalf of Her Majesty, congratulating us on the perfect timing for the event and for our overall contribution.
 
The jury is still out on what is more effective, a copilot or a chock and to this day we should be grateful that D Day was not organised by the French. If it was their national dish now would be bratwurst and sauerkraut, not frogs legs!