FIRST SOLO
Until the late 1950’s, the mainstay of the RAAF’s training squadrons was the Wirraway, the very aircraft the Pacific War’s first Kamikazes - Australians - faced the Japanese Zeros in 1942. Yes, it was a trainer, the Australian version of the venerable North American Havard, or AT6, but in 1942, it was all we had to pit against the Zero, probably the best fighter in the world at that stage of the war.
Readers who doubt that Australia fielded suicide pilots three years before the Japanese in World War Two might not be aware that at Rabaul in New Britain in early 1942, just before he stepped into his Wirraway to do battle with the advancing and seemingly unstoppable Japanese Grand Fleet and its hundreds of Zeros, the Commanding Officer of the single - and under strength - RAAF Squadron based there sent a signal to RAAF Headquarters in Melbourne: “Morituri te salutant, Caesar.” – We who are about to die salute thee, Caesar - the salute of the gladiators in the arenas of ancient Rome.
They did, to a man.
Most trainees, in their teens or early twenties, got to love the Wirraway, but few would disagree that it was a bit like taking your initial driving lessons in a Mack truck - just a little daunting at first.
The Wirraway’s major vice was its tendency to ground loop - to spin around itself in ever decreasing circles during landing, a bit like a dog chasing its tail, sometimes even digging a wingtip into the ground. This tendency was made worse in any hint of a cross wind - and as any flying instructor will tell you, if there isn’t a crosswind, the average student pilot will create one for himself.
Our hero in this incident went on to become a highly regarded senior Hercules captain. But on this day he was a rather callow trainee pilot - all ears, baggy flying suit and oversize boots, and he was approaching that most memorable moment for any trainee pilot - his first solo.
A young aviator’s first hero is the Flying Instructor, particularly his instructor. Now we’d all like to think - (particularly we old instructors) - that all instructors are John Wayne or Tom Cruise clones. But in reality, instructors come in all shapes and sizes - and to say that our hero’s instructor was a little overweight would be an understatement.
For a trainee’s first solo, the instructor first flies a couple of circuits with him. If he is happy with what he sees, he tells the student to taxi back to the threshold of the active runway. That taxi back to the threshold the first time as ‘Sir’ unstraps himself, perhaps passing on some last gem of advice, (“Now don’t bloody kill yourself, Bloggs, I couldn’t handle the paperwork!”), is the most exhilarating to date of his flying career. Moments later it is surpassed as he gets airborne with that empty back seat, and without the drone of Sir’s voice in the headset.
But Sir is not far away, because for those first few solo trips, he watches closely, and sometimes a little nervously, from ‘the Pie Cart’, a multi-coloured, radio-equipped trailer parked right beside the runway threshold. From there, each instructor can give help or advice to his particular student should it be required.
On the day in question, our hero finally demonstrated to Sir that he could consistently land the aircraft more or less safely, and Sir gave that fateful order, “Make it a full stop and take me to the Pie Cart.”
In those days, aircrew were issued with a personal parachute, an ungainly bundle which doubled as the seat cushion. Years of exhaustive testing had ensured that its oversized buckles protruded excruciatingly into every part of the pilot’s anatomy that touched the parachute bum pack.
To walk erect wearing a bum pack parachute was only possible with the crotch straps loosened. Uncomfortable as this may have been, it was far easier than carrying the heavy parachute in your hands. Consequently, our overweight instructor left his parachute loosely fastened as he climbed out of the aircraft and into the Pie Cart to observe his boy’s first solo, which usually consisted of two circuits – i.e., after the first landing, the student would apply power and immediately take off again to make a second, this time full stop landing.
Our hero got airborne successfully, and approached for his first solo landing. All went well, but as he applied power on his touch and go, the Wirraway’s reputation for ground looping was once again reinforced. The aircraft started to swing, corrected, and swung again into a tightening ground loop, the instructor watching helplessly from the Pie Cart.
As far as ground loops go, this one was a doozey. The aircraft’s wing tip dug into the ground, the tail rose and the aircraft rolled sideways, completely destroying the wings, propeller, and tail. With bits of airframe flying in all directions and the whole scene swathed in a growing pall of dust, Sir leapt from the Pie Cart, and with his parachute banging against his buttocks, sprinted - for the first time in ten years - to where the remains of the aircraft were finally coming to rest.
On arriving, he was confronted by a battered cigar shape of the fuselage becoming visible as the dust settled. Inside the shattered cockpit sat our hero - completely unscathed. Fearful of fire, Sir extricated him from the cockpit and led him away from the aircraft.
Adrenaline fast draining, Sir’s body at last got the message through to his brain that three-minute miles were a bit beyond it, thank you very much. He promptly collapsed exhausted upon the ground beside his rather bemused student.
At this moment, the Fire Engines and Ambulance screeched to a halt beside the two pilots, and taking in the scene in a moment - the injured pilot lying on the ground, pulled from the wreckage by his heroic colleague seen running to the rescue - the Medicos went into their act. As they lifted the still panting instructor onto a stretcher, he went into a creditable outboard motor impersonation (“But, but, but...!”).
However, knowing the dangers of shock, the doctor, who had arrived at the scene within seconds of the Ambulance and Fire Engines, injected him with a sedative sending the already exhausted body quickly into a narcotic sleep.
Our hero meanwhile was left standing among the chaos of fire hoses, foam, and disappointed Firemen (no fire!).
As the crowd gathered, the Chief Flying Instructor joined the throng. Espying our hero, in a moment he took in what had happened. (CFIs are like that.) He realised that if our hero was given any time to think about what had happened, he would almost certainly baulk at ever getting into an aeroplane again. After ensuring that the boy was unharmed, the CFI got him into another aircraft immediately, took him up for a circuit, was happy with what he saw, and sent him solo - again.
Most people on the base that day agreed that the events of the day were a little extraordinary. After standdown that day, all retired to the bar where our hero was plied with congratulatory drinks by all. After all, it’s not often a young man goes solo, totally writes off an aeroplane, and goes solo a second time, and all in the one day!
By around 9 pm, sobriety amongst the off-duty personnel on the base was in short supply. By that time, the instructor had at last recovered from the well-meaning attention of the Base Medical Section, and been able to convince them that they had the wrong body in their hospital. It is standard procedure to keep an accident victim in hospital overnight for observation. Consequently, at 9 pm, the doors of the Mess bar swung open as two stretcher-bearing medical orderlies trotted into the bar, grasped Our by now very rubber-legged Hero, lay him upon it, and took him off to the Sick Bay for the night.
I am led to believe that he was feeling no pain and did not require a sedative.