Worst flight ever/ worst journey.

To avoid more deviation on the fascinating"Worst airport" thread, I thought I would start this. The focus should be on trips by public transport, not adventure training or actual deployments, so it doesn't get overwhelmed by dits of waiting for RAF movers
As a starter, I'll pitch in my index for air travel, my first flight ever. Age 11, young Civvy was bound for Berlin to visit family, courtesy of a charter flight laid on for replies by the RAF. After clearing customs in a Luton airport that seemed to consist of just portakabins, we boarded our flight, an Airspeed Ambassador, a 1940's design twin prop far from the shiny jet a small boy had hoped for.
Things started well, right up to the point we entered the Berlin Air Corridor. This was the mid sixties, the Cold War was still unpleasantly hot, and as many of you will remember, the leg over East Germany had to follow one of 3 fixed routes, or you were likely to attract the attention of some of the Warsaw Pact's air defences. Trouble was, slap bang across the mandatory route was a huge line of thunderstorms. The Ambassador didn't have the oomph to go over it, diversion didn't seem to be an option, so we went through it. After the first few minutes of randomly dropping like a stone and being tossed from side I was wondering how much of this the old aircraft could take without losing its wings. After ten minutes I didn't care as I was too busy filling every sick bag I could find, and after that I was hoping it would crash so the motion would stop. When we reached clear air I made a dash for the loo, and continued to empty my gut from both ends until the cabin crew hammering in the door insisted we were on final approach. It was a very grey but grateful Civvy who descended onto the wet concrete at Tempelhof.
 

RBMK

War Hero
To avoid more deviation on the fascinating"Worst airport" thread, I thought I would start this. The focus should be on trips by public transport, not adventure training or actual deployments, so it doesn't get overwhelmed by dits of waiting for RAF movers
As a starter, I'll pitch in my index for air travel, my first flight ever. Age 11, young Civvy was bound for Berlin to visit family, courtesy of a charter flight laid on for replies by the RAF. After clearing customs in a Luton airport that seemed to consist of just portakabins, we boarded our flight, an Airspeed Ambassador, a 1940's design twin prop far from the shiny jet a small boy had hoped for.
Things started well, right up to the point we entered the Berlin Air Corridor. This was the mid sixties, the Cold War was still unpleasantly hot, and as many of you will remember, the leg over East Germany had to follow one of 3 fixed routes, or you were likely to attract the attention of some of the Warsaw Pact's air defences. Trouble was, slap bang across the mandatory route was a huge line of thunderstorms. The Ambassador didn't have the oomph to go over it, diversion didn't seem to be an option, so we went through it. After the first few minutes of randomly dropping like a stone and being tossed from side I was wondering how much of this the old aircraft could take without losing its wings. After ten minutes I didn't care as I was too busy filling every sick bag I could find, and after that I was hoping it would crash so the motion would stop. When we reached clear air I made a dash for the loo, and continued to empty my gut from both ends until the cabin crew hammering in the door insisted we were on final approach. It was a very grey but grateful Civvy who descended onto the wet concrete at Tempelhof.
People pay good money for that sort of experience at Alton Towers.
 
Memory jog:-

Marchwood to Sardinia. Ex Dawn Patrol. 1974 On board RFA Sir Lancelot....As a relative rookie, Sharing a windowless many 3 tiered bunk accommodation, with some steely jawed dealers of death from 16 Para and 216 Para sigs,, we were to witness many lurid, and done for our benefit, and their amusement displays of various sexual games and displays, combining with going through the bay of Biscay in a force 9 storm, in a flat bottom boat, which corkscrewed, we were all violently sick, all confined to our bunks and the floor was awash with puke, which had to be cleaned up, by us it lasted for 18 hours.

Entering the med, blistering hot, all on the upper decks, and all told to remove cap badges, and anything that could identify us, we were being shadowed by a Russian" Trawler" which was in reality a surveillance-radio-monitoring-spy vessel.

Not allowed into bunks until after midday scran. A storm hits, high winds, the full Monty, I found cover in a chain-flag-paint-whatever locker on deck. I had 4 trips on that boat, and that was the worst of the lot.
 
Worst flight for me was a plane trip from Delhi to Srinagar

Now I'm all that bothered about flying but this trip was different. For some strange reason the flight path seemed to follow the Himalayas. Also having two jet engines you'd expect the plane to climb higher than 30,000 but no if you looked out both sides of the plane you'd see cliff faces flying past and during all this we were getting buffeted by unbelievable turbulence. You know these old films with a flying Fortress or a Lancaster shaking about as flak narrowly misses ? That's exactly what it felt like and one of the cabin lockers flew open and a bag fell out . I didn't go full blown hysterical but I was ready to faint .

Needless to say when I left Srinagar I caught a bus back to India
 

Legs

ADC
Book Reviewer
Many moons ago as a 12 year old child I made the regular journey from RAF Wildenrath to my boarding school in Gloucestershire. It was 'Spring' Term 1983. We took off as usual on a Britannia Airways 737(?) from Wildenrath and landed in a very wintery Luton Airport. Normally what happened was we were bussed to Kings Cross, collected by an Escort Service (not that type, you smutty individual) called 'Universal Aunts'. The escort took us across London to Paddington and put us on the train to Bristol Temple Meads, where we were collected by the school.

This trip though was different. It was a very snowy and cold winter. The trains were not running. So we (a group of about 10 including my elder brother and myself, and my school chum JJ Hine, whose dad was the Station Commander at Rheindahlen who went on to be Commander Strike Command) were bustled aboard one of those old RAF busses - the type that could be converted to an Ambulance. We we given blankets and off we went. We arrived at RAF Brize Norton to pick up and drop off other kids. It had taken all day to get there and we were frozen. The bus doors wouldn't shut properly and the heating... well, there was none. We slept at the Gateway Hotel at Brize. The next day was more of the same as we trundled westwards. Frozen, wrapped in blankets and driving through freezing fog and snowstorms. After about 18 hours we reached the village where the school was. But the bus couldn't make it up the hill. We waited for a few hours while some Airman battled through the blizzard, up the hill to the school. After about three or four hours a Landrover belonging to a local farmer arrived and did a few shuttle runs to get us up to the school.

Just to make matters worse, we always travelled in school 'Sunday' uniform. Shorts, shirt and blazer. Yep. In a blizzard.

A three day journey from hell.
 

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