The Mammoth Book of Fighter Pilots (4 page)

I thought him terribly callous.

“A pilot must never turn down wind at a low altitude when faced with the possibility of a forced landing.

“A pilot in difficulties after leaving the ground must keep straight on.

“A pilot must save himself and his passengers first, not the aeroplane. It is better to smash wheels and propeller than burn a man to death.

“A pilot must take particular care to maintain flying-speed after engine failure. . . .”

Those were the lessons. If the manner of their teaching was hard, it was also effective.

vii

It was a long time between this accident and the start of my regular training in the air. After one preliminary flight
many days passed before I was again taken up. Bad weather, too few machines and instructors, too many pupils were the real causes of delay; but I began to fret and to wonder if discrimination rather than luck was not responsible for my name so seldom being called when the Longhorns stood in fantastic array upon the turf. I remembered the words heard on the evening of my arrival from the would-be adjutant: that little flying was done at Shoreham and that many pupils returned in disgust to their regiments. I had no intention of leaving the Flying Corps until I had had a fair chance of becoming a proficient pilot, but the slowness of the commencement was discouraging.

Nearly two weeks had gone by when one evening I was noticed as I stood disconsolate in front of the sheds. An instructor saw me and beckoned. We embarked in a Longhorn; I was given a flight lasting nearly half an hour. And after that things moved more quickly. Several days in succession were marked by flights either in the stillness of very early morning or in the calm of late afternoon. I began to know my way about a Longhorn. The forest of struts did not grow any thinner, but meaning and order came to it. It no longer took me minutes to thread an anxious path through the wires; I learnt to scramble quickly into my seat in the
nacelle
where the controls were at last becoming familiar. I was allowed to feel those controls while flying. After half a dozen flights I was even permitted to land and take off with only slight assistance from the instructor. In the air I could sense some connection, however vague, between the harmonium pedals working the rudder and the handlebars shaped like a pair of spectacles which gave lateral control. Presently I felt sure that I was making steady progress.

viii

One cold grey morning a few of us were gathered upon the stretch of tarmac in front of the sheds expecting to enjoy that most exquisite of amusements, the sight of another’s
embarrassment, agony and discomfiture. One of our number, a man who had come to Shoreham before me and who had done considerably more flying, was to go for his first solo flight. He had been warned the night before, after half an hour in the air with the senior instructor.

“You’ll go solo at dawn tomorrow,” he had been told briefly. And if for “go solo” the words “be shot” had been substituted he could not have been more upset.

Anxious though we were to be taken up for instruction, we hoped that first of all we should be permitted to witness the unfortunate man’s departure. Secretly, I think we rather hoped that he would crash – not badly, we wished him no harm, but just enough to provide us with real entertainment. Before one’s own turn comes, one is apt to be merciless – not only in aviation.

We were discussing the prospects of this little quiet fun at another’s expense, when the instructors came from the office. One of them marched up to our group; as he passed I caught his eye. He stopped. Ah-ha, I thought, this is where I put in some more instructional flying. But the winged Hero was regarding me thoughtfully with something in his eye that reminded me of a hungry tiger looking at his meat.

“How much dual control have you done?” he asked.

“Three hours and twenty minutes,” I answered, hopeful that so small an amount would induce him to give me more at once.

“H’m –” he muttered, still looking at me fixedly. “Do you think you could go solo?”

The question staggered me. All my past lies flashed before me, whirled in my head and merged into one huge thumping fib.

“Yes,” I answered, and at once regretted it.

“Very well then –” The instructor’s voice was kind now, like that of a surgeon about to announce the necessity for a major operation. “Very well, take up Longhorn Number 2965.”
²

Behind me there was a titter of mirth, but it evoked no response on my part. My hour had struck before I was prepared. I knew nothing whatever about flying, and it was far too early in the morning and it was cold and I hadn’t had my breakfast or said my prayers. I was doomed and I knew it. I felt like asking for a priest. . . . Walking blindly forward, I put on my flying cap.

Against the wings and struts of Longhorn Number 2965 mechanics were idly leaning. They made no move as I approached, gave me no more than a quick glance. They knew well enough that I was a pupil, that unless I came to a machine with an instructor there was nothing doing. But when I began to clamber into the
nacelle
they stopped talking and looked at one another uneasily.

“I am taking this machine up, Flight-Sergeant,” I announced boldly.

There was a nasty sort of silence during which I felt that behind my back signs were being made indicating doubt of my sanity. At length I heard a subdued voice say, “Very good, sir. Switch off?”

“Switch off,” I replied, nervously settling into the front seat of that
nacelle
, which now seemed as lonely as an autocrat’s throne. At my back whispering mechanics turned the propeller. “Contact?” came a voice like that of an undertaker.

For a moment I gave myself up to the wild and wonderful hope that the engine was not going to start. They had to pull it round twice. And then it clitter-clattered into life and I knew that I was “for it.” Adjusting the throttle to slowest running, I stared round fearfully at the ghastly collection of struts, tail-booms and spars that had once again resolved itself into a dense forest in which I should presently be as lost as any Babe in the Wood. Through wire entanglements I caught sight of two mechanics grinning at me. Horrible ghouls, gloating over my forthcoming demise! Was there no way out? I turned my face to the morning sky where the light was still growing. Like the tenor in
Tosca
I had never loved life so much. Not a breath
of wind anywhere, save the slight draught of the slowly revolving propeller. I sniffed the air, and inspiration came to me. Perhaps if I got out of the
nacelle
and strolled nonchalantly over to the sheds murmuring, “No lift in the air,” I should be granted a reprieve. I looked hastily over the side. Below stood the instructor.

“Get well out across the aerodrome before you take off,” he said. “And don’t taxi too fast.”

I nodded, speechless, and buckled up the safety-belt.

ix

In those days the newspapers still occasionally referred to an aeroplane pilot as “the intrepid rider,” and upon the instant when Longhorn and I rose gently into the air I came to know that the expression referred to me. I was intrepid whether I liked it or not. And I was certainly a rider. I squatted rigidly upright upon the edge of my elevated seat, holding the handlebars delicately between forefinger and thumb, treading the rudder pedals as though I were walking upon unbroken eggs. Behind me the alarm-clocks ticked relentlessly; ahead that tea-tray of an elevator held not only my gaze but all my hopes of surviving the adventure.

Ah, that forward elevator, what a blessing it was! It gave one something to look at, something to guide one in keeping the nose of the machine at the right level. If you kept it on or just below the horizon you were safe – until the time came to make a turn. Then you put the nose down lower still. Never make a level turn, still less a climbing one – that was bound to be fatal. Before putting on any bank push the stick forward a little to increase the speed. . . . I was remembering my lessons, anxiety was diminishing. I looked quickly about me. Everything seemed to be all right. But it would not last unless I continued to be very, very careful. I glued my eyes to the front elevator.

Presently, without daring to move my head, I rolled my eyes towards the instruments. The altimeter was recording something. I was indeed off the ground: nearly four hundred feet! It was exhilarating at this altitude. But only momentarily so; I had to get back. My wrist-watch showed that I had been in the air for no less than three minutes. Underneath the elevator, Worthing pier was beginning to come close. Yes, I had to get back! Without great skill this turn would be my last. . . .

Nose down; a slight movement of the handlebars; the machine banked slowly. Softest pressure of the foot; she began to turn. I repeated my lessons aloud: “Beware of stalling. Beware of spinning. Don’t push the nose down too far, or you’ll strain the engine or pull the wings off or something. Gently does it!” The bungalows of Shoreham came in sight. “Now – off rudder, off bank – steady! Level up, watching the elevator. And watch the speed-gauge too. Fifty-three miles an hour? Oh, that’s far too much! Up with the nose – gently – just a ve-ry lee-tle. There!” I had completed my first turn.

The aerodrome came towards me again, passed by directly underneath. I risked a glance over the side. There was quite a crowd of pupils on the tarmac. They were staring up, watching me; I was on my first solo and it was proving to be successful! But I was not home yet and pride comes before a fall. Hurriedly I touched wood, there was a lot of it round me. . . . The speed indicator showed thirty-eight. Too slow! Down with the nose – but
gently.
Unless I was gentle as a nursing mother something dreadful would happen. I would spin into the ground and wake up to find, at best, wings very different from those I coveted sprouting from between my shoulder-blades.

Not far from Brighton I made my second turn and headed back into wind. Then over Shoreham town I pushed the nose firmly down and pulled back the throttle. Longhorn commenced to glide towards the aerodrome. The air-speed settled down to a steady forty-two. I had entered the last phase.

In the very early days machines used to be flown down
with the engine almost full out, a procedure considered necessary to maintain flying-speed. Of course the majority of the early aviators never had to come down from any very great height or they would have found it a tiresome business; but the first time that a pilot (whose engine, it so happened, had failed at a considerable altitude)
glided
down to his landing something new and wonderful was discovered. The French called it a
vol plane
, the British Press a “Death Dive”. It was that morbid expression which I remembered as Longhorn bore me earthwards.

Not that I found, on this occasion more than on any other, that gliding itself was unpleasant. It was the prospect of landing that I dreaded. All had gone well so far. Longhorn was still intact, making a happy rustling sound as she sailed slowly through the calm air. On the green surface of the aerodrome the sun shone, the wind rippled the long grass. But what was going to happen when these two met, the aeroplane and the aerodrome? I was sure I could never bring myself – alone, unaided – to “flatten out” at just the right moment. There would not be much noise, I thought; a heavy crunch and then struts, spars, wires, white fabric would all collapse and fold themselves about me. I would remain sitting in the crushed
nacelle
until they sent a party from the sheds to liberate me; and their laughter would be restrained only if I were seriously hurt.

Meanwhile the ground seemed to be coming up in normal fashion. The broad river curving towards the sea glinted darkly, momentous as Rubicon. But Longhorn did not falter; she crossed it, and was at just the right height on passing the tall bank at the eastern side of the aerodrome. The sun still shone. I could see the daisies in the grass beneath me. Time to flatten out. With the utmost gentleness I pulled back the handlebars, treading nervously on the harmonium pedals to bring the nose dead into wind. The front elevator rose, the noise of wind in the wires died away. I stared ahead like a hypnotized rabbit. From directly underneath there came a hollow rumble, from further astern a scraping sound; the machine shook, gave a gentle lurch. Still keeping my head rigidly to the front I squinted down at the speed indicator. Nothing! At the altimeter – Zero. . . . I looked boldly over the side. The grass was very near, almost motionless, I could see each blade. Fuzz from a dandelion blew slowly past the lower plane. I had landed.

As I taxied back to the sheds two mechanics came out to guide the machine in. They were still grinning. Never have I seen smiles of such seraphic beauty.

“How did you get on?” a fellow pupil asked.

“Oh, all right,” I answered carelessly. “But – not much lift in the air.”

Back at the Mess I ate the heartiest breakfast of my life.

x

Not many days later a number of us were transferred at short notice to Gosport, to complete our training and to be attached to a new squadron then being formed. The transfer was something of a move up, but to me it was also very alarming. I had got the hang of things at Shoreham; I had done some half a dozen solo flights, I knew the instructors and their ways, I was at home in two different Longhorns, and I had learnt to find my way about the country within a radius of as much as three miles in the air. What was going to happen at Gosport? Would the new instructors understand me or I them? Would they fly in the same manner? Would their machines be the same? There were many different types at Gosport; would I be expected to fly them all? If I were not taken up again soon I might forget the little I had learnt. The very air might be different; it might not have as much lift as at Shoreham. It was all very disquieting.

And indeed for the first few days at the new station I was not altogether happy. The quarters were uncomfortable, my kit had not arrived, the place was overcrowded, and overcrowded not only with pupils but with a lot of people who already had their “Wings” and would scarcely speak to the novices. Worst of all when I arrived there was only one Longhorn available for training; a queue waited to fly her.