Open Cockpit Problems
Open cockpits do, however, bring their own difficulties. Things fall out when the aircraft is upside down - usually the student's loose change, much to his instructor's amusement. The whole student would fall out but for his harness, and the first up-ending sees arms and legs dangling helplessly. It needs conscious muscular effort to keep feet on the floor, and arms down, and everybody gets caught out first time. There is a bright side to this, if you have a canopy. I remember my instructor dropping his pencil into the bottom of a Harvard cockpit, then inverting the aircraft to pick it off the "roof".
The student's cockpit on the Stearman had a map case down the side, to hold Air Corps Form 1. This was the aircraft's maintenance record book, or at least a copy, for the original must stay on the ground (an Accident Investigator will want to see it). The RAF equivalent is the Form 700, and we have a "travelling" F.700, too.
One careless lad forgot to check that the Form 1 case flap was secure. He did a nice slow roll, and his Form 1 was on its way down to the Everglades. Rolling out horrified, he spotted it fluttering down a hundred feet below him. Down he went (he had plenty of height), and was seen by reliable witnesses flying circles underneath it, trying to grab it each time round. It was hopeless, like airshow balloon-bursting, it looks easy - but isn't - to fly onto a small object in the air. As for managing that, and then catching the thing as it went past him at 70 mph, well...... But he deserved full marks for trying (the alligators got the Form 1 - I don't know what they made of it).
One thing an open cockpit did have in its favour - you could throw-up over the side if you had to. If your instructor spotted this (in his mirror) in time, he'd kick on rudder to yaw the aircraft away, and save a hosepipe job when they got
down. It only happened to me once, it was my own fault, I'd been stuffing myself with my favourite confectionery "Peter Paul's Mounds" (which we know today as "Bounty" bars) before we went up. We had very little trouble with air-sickness, and that only in the first two or three days. Oddly enough, I never heard of anyone making himself airsick, it only seems to happen when someone else is flying you.
When flying dual, you had to keep an eye on the country below, and remember where the wind was, all the time. For at some point in your lesson, the throttle snapped shut. "Forced Landing", your instructor called. You went into a glide and picked a field you thought would do. Now the wind was important, for you must land into it. He'd leave you with your guesses of speed, height, distance, wind and obstacles until the very last moment before opening up and climbing away. He didn't need to tell you how well (or how badly) you'd done. It would be painfully obvious what would have happened if it had been "for real".
It was a useful exercise and might come in handy one day. Engine failures were rare even then, but aviation had developed fast over the previous two decades, and the era of "barnstorming" with rickety ex-service planes from WW1 was still fresh in memory. The motors of these old warhorses were guaranteed to break down regularly, and their pilots (often US mail carriers) accepted unscheduled arrivals in some farmer's field as all part of the day's work. Nowadays, I don't suppose the chances are even considered. But old habits die hard, and for a long time, travelling by road or rail into strange territory, we'd make a mental note: "Good (or bad) forced landing country!"
One afternoon, a vision of our future flew in, in the shape of a North American AT-6A . This we know as the "Harvard", on which most of the Empire's pilots were trained in WW2. We crowded round respectfully, and in turn climbed carefully up to have a look at the cockpits. We jumped down aghast. How could mere mortal men cope with a machine of such fiendish complexity? It was clearly impossible, and there was no hope for us. All in good time!
They didn't teach us any instrument flying at Primary School, so our Stearman cockpits had a bare minimum of "clocks". As skies were clear and blue every day, we didn't need them. We flew about in blissful ignorance. If there was more than a cloud or two in the sky, solo flying was cancelled.
One morning they got caught out. A dozen solos were wandering about above the Everglades, intent on their various exercises, when a raft of small cumulus rolled in from the Gulf at 2,000 ft. Most of the students were above this. Suppose the clouds gathered into a solid sheet? There was no radio in the Stearman. What might happen? Some of them would have the sense to get down under it before the gaps closed, but you couldn't rely on them all. Others might come to grief trying to get through the cloud, or get lost looking for a break in it and run out of fuel. You could end up with Stearmans strewn all over the State.
At home, RAF EFTSs were prepared for this. A "mortar" fired an enormous firework up to 2,000 ft, exploding with a mighty bang into a brilliant red ball visible for miles. This was the recall for all Tiger Moths. We had nothing like that. Every spare instructor grabbed an aircraft, and shot off into the sky to hunt down lost sheep. Finding one, he'd haul alongside and signal him to follow. All were safely gathered in.
Our flying at Carlstrom was very safe. Whether on account of the excellent instruction, or the perfect weather, or the strength of the Stearman, or just luck, I cannot recall any serious accidents while I was there. Two months passed, and it was time to move on. I was genuinely sorry to say "goodbye" to Bob Greer. He was the best flying instructor I ever had, and the only civilian.
Enough for the time being.
Goodnight, all.
Danny42C
Entitled ? - You're only entitled to eighteen inches of space in the ranks, lad, and six feet of earth to bury you in!
Last edited by Danny42C; 26th Feb 2012 at 00:31.