“Right, because your last name is Wellington, and there was a bomber called the Vickers Wellington that was also nicknamed the ‘Wimpy.’ That’s a pretty insulting nickname, if you ask me.”
– Lucretia Tang, CULT OF THE WYVERN Chapter XIII
Lieutenant James “Wimpy” Wellington, the dashing executive officer of the fictional No. 1776 Naval Air Squadron and pilot of the Westland Wyvern with the serial number WP335, is indeed named after the famous World War II medium bomber. But he’s not the only character in CULT OF THE WYVERN to be named after an aircraft. In fact, the names of all five of our intrepid Fleet Air Arm flyboys are derived from a flying machine!
With the exception of the aforementioned Wimpy, the pilots’ names are anagrams, either the full name or surname, of an aircraft type from the character’s country of origin. These are the aeronautical wonders and/or abominations to which our heroes—and, in one instance, villain—pay homage, starting with the one for our noble Canadian co-protagonist.
(For the record, the Tang siblings’ names are not aviation anagrams.)
Lt. Sidney Daventry, RCN
Canadair CL-84 Dynavert
D A V E N T R Y = D Y N A V E R T
Before the V-22 Osprey, there was the Ospr-eh.
The Dynavert was the culmination of intensive Canadian research into vertical and short takeoff and landing (V/STOL) technology that had commenced in 1957. The design featured a wing assembly that could rotate through one hundred degrees, with the incidence of the horizontal stabilizer automatically adjusting to account for trim changes. Additional stability and pitch control during vertical flight was provided by a set of contrarotating propellers arranged vertically at the tail.
First flown in 1965, the Dynavert was envisaged as a multirole military aircraft, with applications ranging from light troop transport to close air support. The eight-year test and evaluation program was considered overwhelmingly successful, despite the loss of two of the four airframes built, thankfully without loss of life. The aircraft exhibited good handling characteristics and was relatively easy for pilots of fixed-wing aircraft to adapt to, and proved capable of carrying up to twelve passengers and a variety of external armament at a fairly brisk 321 miles per hour in “airplane mode.”
So, why was the aircraft cancelled? Well, the Canadian Armed Forces probably wouldn’t have been able or willing to procure the type in sufficient numbers to justify the project’s costs, so the primary target customer was a certain country south of Canada with an insatiable appetite for military equipment. As such, many hours of flight testing were conducted south of the border, with Dynaverts operating successfully from several U.S. Navy ships and one even landing on the White House lawn.
Alas, the United States government isn’t overly fond of purchasing weapons from foreign countries—some Canadian aircraft types have indeed seen service with the U.S. armed forces, such as the de Havilland Canada CV-2 Caribou, but usually not in highly visible roles—and has a demonstrated insecurity about products from Canada outshining its own (see: Arrow, Avro). This, coupled with the downturn in military acquisitions that accompanied the end of the Vietnam War and the fact that several American manufacturers had similar aircraft either in the air or on the drawing board, put paid to any potential sale. Canadair tried to pitch the aircraft to other NATO partners, but no orders were forthcoming.
Both surviving Dynaverts are currently in museums, one in Ottawa and the other in Winnipeg.
Lt. Cdr. Eugene Faintary
Fairey Gannet
G E N E F A I N T A R Y = F A I R E Y G A N N E T
If ever proof was needed that you should neither judge a book by its cover nor an aircraft by its looks, I present before the court Exhibit A. Despite being spectacularly ugly, the Gannet was an incredibly versatile, reliable, and capable aircraft that served the Royal Navy in the anti-submarine warfare, airborne early warning, carrier onboard delivery, electronic countermeasures, and training roles for a quarter of a century.
The Gannet’s less-than-svelte lines are partly a factor of its function and partly of its powerplant. The Armstrong Siddeley Double Mamba turboprop engine consists of two Mamba turbines mounted side-by-side and turning a single driveshaft that spins a pair of contrarotating propellers—much like those of the Westland Wyvern in the book, though that aircraft employed a comparatively simple Python engine to drive the props. This allowed a sufficiently powerful engine to be fitted into an airframe compact enough to operate in the close confines of an aircraft carrier deck. To further save both lateral and vertical space, the Gannet’s wings folded at two junctures, one just outside the main landing gear struts and the other about two-thirds toward the wingtips, allowing the aircraft to easily fit into a carrier’s hangar.
The first operational Gannet squadron, No. 826 Naval Air Squadron, stood up in early 1955, with its first deployment being aboard a vessel that will be familiar to readers of the novel: HMS Eagle. The type was gradually withdrawn from the anti-submarine warfare role beginning in the mid-1960s, its duties given over to helicopters, but soldiered on in other capacities until 1978—perhaps leaving service prematurely, as some have argued that, had the AEW3 airborne early warning variant (pictured above), retired without an immediate replacement due to budget cuts (a recurring theme in the United Kingdom), still been active during the 1982 Falkland Islands War, some of the devastating and deadly Argentinian attacks on British ships could have been averted. Gannets were also operated by the naval air arms of Australia, Germany, and Indonesia.
A number of Gannets can be found in museums in the four countries that operated them, plus a handful in the United States, such as the example shown in the photograph, at the Pima Air & Space Museum in Tucson, Arizona. Additionally, a Gannet T5, former RN serial number XT752, is listed on the FAA register in airworthy condition in Wisconsin, though to my knowledge, it hasn’t flown in several years.
Though the Gannet was a contemporary of the Wyvern, it did not see action during the Suez Canal Crisis of 1956.
Lt. James Wellington
Vickers Wellington
This one, obviously, is not an anagram.
Introduced into RAF service in 1938, the Wellington was Britain’s most-produced bomber of World War II; in fact, the production run of 11,461 units was more than three and a half times those of the RAF’s other two large twin-engine bombers, the Handley Page Hampden and Armstrong Whitworth Whitley, combined. Its most notable feature was its geodetic structure, made using a series of geodesic arcs—essentially a basket woven in duralumin—and covered in Irish linen. Though this design had some drawbacks, such as difficulty of assembly and difficulty in modifying the aircraft for pressurization, it producedresulted in an airframe that was durable yet lightweight and able to sustain significant battle damage.
The Wellington began its career as a daytime bomber, but its lack of self-sealing fuel tanks and insufficient defensive armament made it vulnerable to attacks by enemy fighters, and it was reassigned to nighttime operations. While it was gradually replaced in this role by larger four-engine bombers like the Avro Lancaster in the European Theater, it remained active in the Middle East and Mediterranean areas of conflict throughout the war, and its versatility made it suitable for other roles, particularly with RAF Coastal Command in the anti-submarine warfare role. It was also utilized in the magnetic mine clearance and airborne radar roles.
While Jim might be a bit ignorant to the origins of the “Wimpy” moniker, we, fortunately, are not: it’s a reference to the character J. Wellington Wimpy from the Popeye the Sailor comic series. Certainly not a knock on the aircraft’s abilities; as the lieutenant himself boasts, there’s nothing wimpy about a Wellington!
Lt. Tom Wickler
Saunders-Roe A.36 Lerwick
W I C K L E R = L E R W I C K
The mercurial Scotsman gets an aircraft with a personality to match his own.
No roster of Britain’s worst aircraft would be complete without the tubby Lerwick, an aircraft laden with structural defects and possessing woeful handling characteristics. Even after significant tweaks to the airframe, the Lerwick was found to have vicious stall tendencies and instability in all aspects of flight. Flying the aircraft “hands-off” was a non-starter, which isn’t particularly ideal for a type designed for maritime patrol, a role involving missions that last upwards of seven hours at a time. It was also wholly incapable of flying on one engine, as the controls were unable to overcome the torque of the functional motor, and even with maximum input the aircraft would enter into a slow death spiral.
To make matters worse, the floats under the outboard wings had a terrible tendency to break off, and in several instances, the bomb doors just popped open in flight without the crew’s input. The Lerwick joins an ignominious club of aircraft with a loss rate of greater than 50% of the production run; a small sample size, granted, considering only twenty-one Lerwicks were built, but in a mere three years of service, eleven aircraft either crashed, sank, or disappeared.
No word on whether aliens had aught to do with the latter…
Lt. D. B. Barluck
Blackburn Blackburd
D B B A R L U C K = B L A C K B U R D
For the record, “Blackburd” is the correct spelling; apparently, it’s an archaic Scottish form of “blackbird” and not some Yorkshire lads in 1918 trying to be cute or edgelord or whatever.
Anyway, the unfortunate young lieutenant sure got the short end of the stick with this one. Spawned from an especially convoluted Air Ministry Specification for a torpedo bomber to replace the capable but somewhat unreliable Sopwith Cuckoo, the Blackburd was designed to be built quickly and save as much weight as possible, hence it looking like it was cobbled together using whatever materials could be scrounged up from the back lot of the local hardware store. Unfortunately, the Blackburd flew about as pleasantly as it looked; it was front-heavy, unstable in all but perfectly level flight, and possessed insufficient rudder authority, and was thus physically demanding to fly. To make matters worse, the cockpit was closer to the rear than the front, giving the pilot almost no visibility over the nose when the aircraft was on the ground.
Oh, did I mention that this thing was supposed to operate from aircraft carriers? You know, constrained and difficult environments in which visibility and precision control are paramount?
But perhaps the most absurd aspect of the Blackburd, silly name notwithstanding, was its undercarriage. The axle connecting the main wheels would have prohibited the release of the torpedo carried under the fuselage, so said axle, together with the wheels attached to it, was jettisoned immediately after takeoff, with the aircraft landing on steel skids.
Yes, you read that right: the wheels were designed to fall off. It went about as well as one might expect. Some had even suggested that the Blackburd should simply ditch in the sea next to the ship after a mission, hopefully surviving impact with the waves. (When the word “hopefully” appears in your operating philosophy, you know you’ve got issues.) Considering the thing had all the hydrodynamics (and aerodynamics, for that matter) of the Tower of London, I think I’d take my chances with the skids, despite the obvious risks of landing on such appendages.
In what should come as a surprise to no one, the Admiralty retained its sanity and the Blackburd did not go into production.
Racosku
Blackburn Skua / Blackburn Roc
R A C O S K U = S K U A R O C
The Skua and Roc were designed together, based on the same airframe, and given the company designations B-24 and B-25 respectively—not to be confused with the American Liberator and Mitchell bombers.
The Skua (top photo) was the more conventional of the two, though somewhat ill-begotten, as its specification called for an aircraft that could perform the duties both of a dive bomber and a fighter, which is a bit like ordering a vehicle that’s both a sports car and a dump truck. Though it lacked in performance and armament, the Skua did see reasonable success in World War II, particularly in the Norwegian campaign. The type was credited both with the first air-to-air victory by a British aircraft in the war, when a flight of three Skuas downed a Dornier Do 18 flying boat, and the first-ever wartime sinking of a heavy vessel by air, when Skuas from Nos. 800 and 803 Naval Air Squadrons dive-bombed the Kriegsmarine light cruiser Königsberg in April 1940.
Despite its successes in both of its intended roles, the Skua was found to be too slow and too lightly armed to be effective, and was withdrawn from frontline service by 1941, but continued in service as a trainer and target tug throughout the war.
The Roc (bottom photo) was a different story entirely. The turret fighter concept that had infatuated so many a British military planner in the mid-1930s was effectively an aerial adaptation of the ships-of-the-line concept: a fighter would approach an enemy bomber, usually from below, and blast it with concentrated firepower. While it may have sounded practical on paper, it was in practice an inherently flawed concept. Nonetheless, the RAF had some success with the Boulton Paul Defiant.
In the case of the Roc, however, the added weight and drag of the turret only degraded an already lumbering airframe, resulting in an aircraft with a top speed of under 200 miles per hour. (The Royal Navy was offered a navalized variant of the Defiant, which had performance roughly on par with the Hawker Hurricane, but for some baffling reason, chose to go ahead with the Roc.) Somehow, the Roc’s only recorded air-to-air kill was over a Junkers Ju 88, an aircraft with a top speed nearly 100 mph faster than the Roc’s!
The Roc was quickly deemed ineffective and relegated to support duties. In a particularly embarrassing denouement, the Roc’s last role was as station air defense at RNAS Gosport in Hampshire; the aircraft themselves were no longer airworthy, but their turrets were still usable as stationary anti-aircraft weapons.