LURCHING ABOUT on the deck of Valentia lifeboat, struggling to make sense of a simple piece of chartwork, it was shattering to hear the smooth delivery of the necessary accurate information over the radio from the Nimrod aircraft overhead. We were involved in a three-pronged effort— lifeboat, Irish Army helicopter and RAF aircraft co-operating to evacuate an injured seaman from a foreign trawler about 50 miles off the Kerry coast, and the vital part played by the Nimrod left me with one firm resolution in mind: to see the inside of such an aircraft and to find out what made it tick so efficiently in Search and Rescue (SAR) work.

St Mawgan base, not far from Land's End, in Cornwall, is the home of 42 Squadron RAF, and by courtesy of the station commander, Group Captain Harry Archer, a three-day liaison visit was arranged.

The Nimrod, of which 42 Squadron has six, is a further development of the Hawker Siddley Comet 4 jet liner.

Alternative engines with 450 knot capability have been installed and inside the body of the aircraft, large enough to seat 100 passengers, only limited space for the crew of 12 is found amid an awe-inspiring array of electronic equipment.

Six Nimrods, eight air crews, a full scale airfield with all its attendant services—administration, training, maintenance —combine to bring St Mawgan's force to 1,500 men. But if their principal function is military, nonetheless, either at St Mawgan or at Kinloss, in Scotland, one fully equipped Nimrod is standing by at all times for SAR missions.

If, for instance, Shannon Marine Rescue Co-ordination Centre is handling some distress situation off Ireland's west coast which calls for an extended sea search, it takes only a 'hotline' connection with Admiralty, Plymouth, and a further 'hotline' to 42 Squadron to have the stand-by air crew scrambled in seconds. The Nimrod is airborne in a matter of minutes, the prefix 'Rescue', now in its call sign, assuring it of prompt diplomatic and flight corridor clearance across national frontiers and air space to the distress area.

The bomb-bay cargo in the rescue Nimrod is an expensive selection of lifesaving equipment which can be dropped into the sea with great accuracy at the touch of a button. As well as flares of white or green, used to light a search area or to evoke a response from a survivor in the water, the Nimrod carries eight 9-seater, selfinflating RFD liferafts which can be dropped in attached pairs or in conjunction with containers of emergency provisions: chocolate, soups, water, first aid kits. . .

My flight in a Nimrod, an exercise SAR sortie, prepared for take off in bad conditions: 8/8 cloud at 250ft.

Our target was a small buoy positioned about 30 miles west of Cornwall; it might just as well have been a waterlogged punt 30 miles west of the Blaskets — a needle in a haystack, in fact—yet we were scarcely airborne when the buoy was located on the ground-stabilised radar. Navigationalinformation, courses and distances, began to flow over the intercom, between the navigators and the captain, Flight Lieut. Chris Hooper; this, at last, was the other side of the coin which had first caught our attention over the radio of Valentia lifeboat.

We dropped through the cloud at 250ft. Half a mile away, right in our path, lay the target buoy! The pre-flight briefing had told that clearer weather was approaching from the Atlantic, so we carried on westwards to meet it. Radar now had several 'contacts' on his screen and each of these was checked out and photographed in turn. Flying as slow as 210 knots and as low as 250ft, it was possible to identify every feature of the ships; even every one of the various types of seabird in attendance.

'We'll go back and do a simulated raft drop on the buoy,' said Chris—and the words were hardly uttered when another intercom, voice cut in: 'Course for the buoy is 081°.' 'Guesswork, just guesswork,' said Chris, in the typical, good-natured ragging which was a feature of the whole crew: but we flew 081°, and at the appointed moment the buoy dutifully appeared in our path.

In this exercise, two smoke floats would represent a pair of rafts. The bomb-doors were opened and the drop was made. We banked sharply through 180° to see the results, and there, spaced about 20 yards equidistant on either side of the buoy, the two flares spread out their smoke over the sea. A survivor could be safely into those rafts in minutes and could remain there, warm and secure, until surface craft or rescue helicopter, guided by the Nimrod, arrived on the scene.

The equipment 'down the back' of the aircraft is any boatman's dream: a continuous dial read-out in latitude and longitude of the aircraft's position, and a chart table/consol where a moving spot of light continuously indicates the position and heading of the aircraft on the appropriate chart of the area.

The radio complex was another interesting lesson in communications.

Compared to the mere handful of radio channels available to surface craft, the Nimrod has an almost infinite variety of working frequencies, The classified showpiece which is really the heart of the Nimrod is an elaborate computer which can do anything from storing tactical information to flying the aircraft automatically. In layman's terms, you can virtually diala- destination, or series of destinations, and the computer will take you there.

By this time, I would have been happy to dial Valentia Island, because I had seen just as much as my mind could grasp in any one visit. But we did the next best thing: we fastened our seatbelts and lined up to be 'talked down' through the swirling clouds to the St Mawgan runway, and to the mild, misty coast of Cornwall..