The first hurdle in any student’s training is to get to his first solo flight. The Air Force insisted that a student had to be prepared for every possible error that he ‘might’ encounter when flying without the protection of an instructor. Apart from the need to take off and land proficiently, a student had to act instinctively and correctly in the event of an engine failure or if he stalled (flying too slowly to produce sufficient lift on the wings) at any stage of flight.
Full stall, if not corrected early enough results in the uncontrolled, downward spin that killed so many pilots during World War I. In those early days pilots did not understand that pulling back as hard as possible on the elevator control maintained the stalled condition and hence the spin. So far as I know, one pilot chose to limit the duration of his spinning death descent by pushing forward on his control column and, to his utter amazement, the spinning ceased and he was back in control of an aircraft that was flying normally again. Preparing for the fundamental control actions needed to recover from spins was bad on the stomach but it needed to be practised ad nauseam.
From the very first flight, many, many spinning and incipient spin (the first stage of spinning) recoveries were practised, together with simulated forced landings. Limited aerobatics also acquainted the student with the sensations of ‘G’ and inverted flight. Most students returned from their flights feeling pretty ill. I remember only too clearly how the combination of fuel vapour and the flick-turn of every spin manoeuvre made me feel sick, causing my instructor to regularly ask me if I was all right to continue.
Murray Hofmeyr (Hoffy) could not understand why I was not having a Tough time with Mick McLaren because he was going through absolute hell. We soon learned why. Mick McLaren established that Hoffy, who hailed from Mossel Bay in South Africa, could neither ride a bicycle nor drive a car, yet here he was learning to fly a 450 hp machine. No wonder he was struggling under the toughest of our instructors. None of us had been aware of this but the course was instructed to have Hoffy both riding and driving within a week. Determined to protect one of our number, we had Hoffy ready on time and his flying difficulties immediately diminished.
I did not find the glamour in flying that I had dreamed of. It was hard work, stressful and made one feel bloody awful. This changed somewhat on 22 May when my flying time totalled thirteen hours and twenty-five minutes. I had radioed the Control Tower reporting being down wind for a roller landing when Mick McLaren transmitted again to say we would be making a full-stop landing.
When I had pulled of the runway to conduct routine post-landing checks, Mick McLaren called the Tower and asked for a fire jeep to collect him. With this he unstrapped and climbed out onto the wing with his parachute still on. There he turned back to secure the seat straps and said to me, “Well done Petter-Bowyer, you are on your own. Taxi back to runway 13—use my callsign—once around the circuit—I will see you back at the Squadron.” He unplugged the pigtail lead that connected his mask microphone and earphones to the radio intercom, and disappeared from sight.
I experienced no sense of euphoria or achievement until I was in the air. The empty seat next to me emphasised the fact that I had reached an important milestone. Suddenly I was enjoying what I was doing. On final approach for landing I could see the fire jeep near the runway threshold and knew Mick McLaren was watching me closely. I did not let him down. I made the smoothest of landings.
A little earlier our Squadron Commander, Flight Lieutenant Ken Edwards, had sent John Barnes solo with thirty minutes less flying time than me. Only Flight Lieutenants Ken Edwards and Mick McLaren were qualified to send students solo. This was a distinct advantage to their own students because, when other instructors decided that their students were ready, one of these two senior instructors had to conduct the solo test; an added strain on any student trying to make it past his first hurdle.
By the time the last solo flight had been flown our numbers had reduced to twelve, two having been scrubbed for not possessing pilot qualities. But now came the solo party!
Wing Commander Archie Wilson had just taken over from Squadron Leader Whyte as Commanding Officer at Thornhill. He dropped in on our party some time after it had started. Since none of us was used to alcohol, we were already pretty tipsy on the champagne we had been drinking liberally as we toasted each other with nonsensical speeches. In consequence I can only recall two events.
One was Gordon Wright offering the Wing Commander a drink and, having handed it to him, putting his arm around the new CO’s neck before loudly welcoming him to Thornhill. Gordon, oblivious to the furious look on the Wing Commander’s face, pressed on with his welcoming statement. Fortunately, he did not resist Flight Lieutenant Edward’s not-so-gentle removal of his arm from around the CO’s neck. The second memory is of later in the evening. I was standing on top of a table next to an open window playing my piano accordion when I decided to sneak a pee through the open window. This didn’t work out too well! I lost my balance and fell headlong through the window into the dark night.
For a while flying became very pleasant because aerobatics and some low flying gave breathing space between the ongoing spinning, forced landings and never-ending circuits and landings. For every two flights with one’s instructor, there was a solo. The stress had subsided and stomachs had become used to the sensations of flight and the stench of fuel. But ahead of us was the next, and by all accounts, most challenging hurdle— instrument flying.
For instrument-flying training, many aircraft employed an arrangement of canvas screens set around a pilot to prevent him from peeping outside the cockpit. Such an arrangement with side-by-side seating was dangerous because it would blank off an instructor’s vision on the port side of the aircraft, thereby limiting his ability to keep a good lookout for other aircraft.
The Provost’s designers overcame the problem with a unique solution. They fitted a robust, amber screen that resided, out of view, between the instrument panel and the engine firewall. For instrument-flight training it was drawn up and locked in place to cover the whole forward windscreen. Swivelled amber panels that came up with the main screen covered the side panels. Finally, sliding panels on the canopy catered for lateral vision. When all screens were in place the instructor continued to have complete freedom of vision though the world appeared to him as if wearing yellow sunglasses.
The student wore a pair of heavy goggles, such as those used by motorbike riders; but a clear vision lens was replaced by one of blue Perspex. Within the cockpit everything looked like the blue moonlight scene of an old movie but the amber screen became ivory black. Only the sun could be seen though this arrangement, which was so effective that direct viewing of the sun was quite safe.
For the first fifteen minutes or so ‘under the hood’ I suffered a high level of claustrophobia. The combination of tight parachute and seat straps, a tight-fitting oxygen mask and large, tight-fitting goggles in a small world of blue, made me battle for breath. However, by the time my instructor had taxied the long distance to the runway, I had acclimatised and was quite settled.
In the learning phases, Instrument Flying (IF) was every bit as difficult as I had expected, particularly in the small blue world devoid of any external references. From the outset I suffered from vertigo which most pilots experience in varying degrees. I was badly affected by this problem; and it never improved throughout my flying days. I simply had to believe that my instruments were right and accept that my senses were wrong. It took a lot of effort and absolute faith in the instruments to master the weakness.
Once I had become reasonably proficient on a full panel of flight instruments and had started to gain confidence, Mick McLaren covered the primary instrument with a plastic stick-on vehicle licence disc holder. Loss of the artificial horizon introduced a new and infinitely more difficult dimension to flight control, but again, practice made this progressively easier. Then a second disc was applied to remove the directional indicator from view,
