This is some of an anecgote by a Manchester pilot WJ Lewis RCAF
"On or about 1 December 1940, Manchesters L7279 and L7280 were delivered to 207 Squadron at Waddington, an RAF station in Lincolnshire, followed closely by L7278. For the first few days, since there were no pilot's notes or other briefing materials available, we just pored over the aircraft. One of the first things we noted was the absence of an overall heating system. Closer inspection revealed electrical outlets at each aircrew position, another first—electrically heated flying gear. Now I might as well begin our tales of woe right here.
When we were issued with electrically heated Irvin jackets, trousers, boots, and gloves, all worked okay. But how were we supposed to get the equipment on? It was all interconnected, one electrical line for each piece of equipment. We could get everything on and connected until we came to the last gauntlet (glove). Struggling into a bulky winter flying gauntlet and then attempting to plug in the electrical connector so that you would get some heat was unimaginable. On top of this, the heating elements in the equipment soon began to short out. It was no surprise to have a crew member suddenly get a hot foot, a hot hand, or a hot anywhere. Immediate modification: throw out the electrically heated flying clothing and introduce a heating system. This was done by reversing the oil-cooling system.
The oil-cooler radiator was set in the leading edge of the wing outboard of the engine. A duct in the leading edge supplied cold air that travelled horizontally through the oil-cooler and then exhausted over the top of the wing. For heating, Avro placed a small radiator in the wing leading edge between the engine and the fuselage and connected it to the engine cooling system, similar to the heating system in a car. Outside air was ducted through the leading edge of the wing, through the radiator and straight into the fuselage in front of the main spar. There was no control to regulate the flow of air nor, initially, anything to deflect the air around the fuselage interior. It blew full blast on the wireless operator, and we had to carry a piece of cardboard or plywood to set beside him to prevent his being scorched. Eventually, a deflector did this job, but since there was never any ducting the distribution of heat within the aircraft remained extremely poor.
It was only a few days until we had our first of many Vulture engine failures and with it another problem. Frankie Eustace was taking off when his port engine quit at low level. Against all flying principles, he swung left, making a 225-degree turn into the dead engine and was able to get the aircraft back safely on the ground. The Manchester was parked in front of our hangar. As this had been our only serviceable aircraft, flying terminated for the day.
Four of us sat down to a game of bridge. I happened to be seated where I could see the aircraft parked outside and I noticed that the prop on the failed engine was unfeathered. (The Manchester, incidentally, had the first fully-feathering propellers in the RAF.) The sixteen-foot props were hydraulic constant-speed de Havilland propellers. I remarked on the state of the prop to my bridge partners and asked whether they had seen anyone come over from Servicing to unfeather it. No one had, and we went on with the game. I looked out again—the prop was re-feathered. A fast call to the engineering officer brought maintenance on the run.
They discovered the feathering solenoid was stuck, and the prop was sitting there busily feathering and unfeathering. We quickly realized that this could happen in the air. If a pilot feathered the prop on a dead engine and headed for the nearest airfield, en route the solenoid could stick. The prop would unfeather and he would go down like a lead balloon! ....Two nights earlier, I had had a somewhat terrifying—yet interesting— experience. As this incident was the result of a hydraulic failure, I should say something about the system. The Manchester had one of the first "high pressure" systems. While it would not be considered high today, four hundred pounds per square inch, in 1940, was high. When the system was actuated, for instance, to pull up the undercarriage, the pumps went into action and did their job. After the undercarriage had fully retracted, the pressure would continue to build until it reached six hundred pounds. Then a cut-out valve put the system into idle at four hundred pounds. A number of hydraulic failures on flights were the direct result of the whole system being built without "olives" in the joints or angles. But this night something new occurred.
We took off with Brest as our target. I remember the incident rather well. The night was as dark as you-know-what. I lifted off in pitch black (not unusual), retracted the undercarriage, and "went on to the clocks" (blind flying instruments). At about 50 feet the undercarriage came home, and suddenly the cockpit was filled with a fine oil spray. Pumped under high pressure, it covered everything including my flight instruments. I found myself trying to wipe them—flying at 100 feet! Fortunately I succeeded.
What had happened? On the engineer's panel, there was a rotary switch to move the radiator flaps from "open" to "trail" position. The washer on this control, we later learned, was made of compressed paper (a wartime economy measure). As the wheels came home—and before the pressure reached six hundred pounds and the cut-out valve operated—the washer blew. The pumps continued to operate, however, pumping the entire hydraulic supply mto the cockpit."
should i comtinue with the Bungee cords on the bomb bay doors so they would close ? the Manchester was a horrible aircraft and I'm not even talking about the Vulture engine