Gaining An R.A.F Pilots Brevet In WW II
Danny 42C:
Danny if you stop posing questions and interpretations then who else is likely to do so? The one really positive advance in Flight Safety in my time has been the introduction of Crew Resource Management (nee Cockpit Resource Management, nee Flight Deck Management) started in civil aviation as a response to pilot error accidents occasioned by the "God sits in the LHS" syndrome. It is now making uncertain but continuing moves into Military Aviation. What is it about? You could say it is about the boy who is the only one prepared to say what everyone else can see, ie that the Emperor has no clothes!
If you can see in retrospect seeming inconsistencies in the US interpretation of neutrality then I am sure that is right. Lease Lend was scarcely an established traditional neutral position. Actively defending convoys far out into the Western Atlantic was scarcely an established traditional neutral position. Offering training facilities for thousands of Allied Aircrew was scarcely an established traditional neutral position. Yet the USA did all this and more as a neutral power, at a time when there was great opposition from within from both pro-Axis and Isolationist pressure groups. It would be only natural for a certain amount of back-tracking and regional variations to occur given these pressure I would suspect. Like Chamberlain's Britain the USA needed time to gear up for the inevitable war that it would have to face. Appeasement gave us that precious time, neutrality before 7/12/1941 gave the USA the same thing. I would submit that on the whole both nations made good use of that time, which was well spent.
It's strange, but your tale so far invokes in me a relevance not so much to my own early RAF days but rather to those spent living in a Nissan hut as an RAF CCF Cadet at Thruxton (The Wiltshire School of Flying) on a Flying Scholarship. Like you I was taught to fly bi-planes (Tiger Moths and Jackaroos). Like you we put up with many impositions (rising at dawn as Duty Cadet to walk out to the well on the far side of the airfield to start the water pump for morning ablutions and breakfasts, sweltering in the summer sun in our serge BD's until the Chief Flying Instructor allowed us to revert to shirt sleeve order) just as long as we could learn to fly! I especially relate to your celebration of open cockpits, though it was only for the aerobatic, stalling and spinning dual instruction phases that we were allowed to swap the Jackaroo's cabin for the Tiger's cockpit. You remember well, for the grass did indeed show up as individual blades at round out. That is the sort of detail that Ernest K Gann would have observed!, Well, that and the sound of Cows pissing on tin roofs to describe a tropical downpour!
More please Danny, much more! Oh, and please keep pondering on the many contradictions. That is what makes your tale one of reality rather than fiction.
My own stupid fault for trying to be a historian! No more!
If you can see in retrospect seeming inconsistencies in the US interpretation of neutrality then I am sure that is right. Lease Lend was scarcely an established traditional neutral position. Actively defending convoys far out into the Western Atlantic was scarcely an established traditional neutral position. Offering training facilities for thousands of Allied Aircrew was scarcely an established traditional neutral position. Yet the USA did all this and more as a neutral power, at a time when there was great opposition from within from both pro-Axis and Isolationist pressure groups. It would be only natural for a certain amount of back-tracking and regional variations to occur given these pressure I would suspect. Like Chamberlain's Britain the USA needed time to gear up for the inevitable war that it would have to face. Appeasement gave us that precious time, neutrality before 7/12/1941 gave the USA the same thing. I would submit that on the whole both nations made good use of that time, which was well spent.
It's strange, but your tale so far invokes in me a relevance not so much to my own early RAF days but rather to those spent living in a Nissan hut as an RAF CCF Cadet at Thruxton (The Wiltshire School of Flying) on a Flying Scholarship. Like you I was taught to fly bi-planes (Tiger Moths and Jackaroos). Like you we put up with many impositions (rising at dawn as Duty Cadet to walk out to the well on the far side of the airfield to start the water pump for morning ablutions and breakfasts, sweltering in the summer sun in our serge BD's until the Chief Flying Instructor allowed us to revert to shirt sleeve order) just as long as we could learn to fly! I especially relate to your celebration of open cockpits, though it was only for the aerobatic, stalling and spinning dual instruction phases that we were allowed to swap the Jackaroo's cabin for the Tiger's cockpit. You remember well, for the grass did indeed show up as individual blades at round out. That is the sort of detail that Ernest K Gann would have observed!, Well, that and the sound of Cows pissing on tin roofs to describe a tropical downpour!
More please Danny, much more! Oh, and please keep pondering on the many contradictions. That is what makes your tale one of reality rather than fiction.
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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!
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.
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""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."
Had this been the case in flying training in the UK our 6 week EFTS course in 1941 would have lasted 6 months.
The first flight each morning was flown by an instructor as a Weather Check and, if we could see him from the ground, it was declared fit for flying Most of our flying was over broken cloud, and it was a great delight to chase other pupils through the valleys between the cumulous. The Balloon Barrage at Brooklands was pointed out as a good reference point and we learned the bearing and distance from it to Fairoaks. In the second week of flying we were caught in a sudden summer storm. We were soaked to the skin and landed like a Flying Boat. The worst consequence was that my instructor caught pneumonia, which upset my training programme.
The Signal Rockets and the Signal Mortar were demonstrated from the signals square, but I only ever saw then fired “in anger” when I was caught in a violent storm at night, a year later. We had been unable to land and had lost wireless contact. After calling “Darky” I got a very indistinct answer, so I asked for Rockets, then Mortar signals which the airfield had already been firing, When we saw a Mortar shell burst, we lost height until we could see the Airfields Drem system and could land.
Fredjhh.
Danny. We must have been at Babbacombe at about the same time. What made the powers that be decide who went to USA, or who stayed at home?
When The Arnold Scheme was outlined to us, we were told the married men would train at home and the single men would go abroad. The married men were moved first and we followed a day later, -to Fairoaks. A married friend wrote from Marshalls' Field at Cambridge before posting to Canada.
Fred
Had this been the case in flying training in the UK our 6 week EFTS course in 1941 would have lasted 6 months.
The first flight each morning was flown by an instructor as a Weather Check and, if we could see him from the ground, it was declared fit for flying Most of our flying was over broken cloud, and it was a great delight to chase other pupils through the valleys between the cumulous. The Balloon Barrage at Brooklands was pointed out as a good reference point and we learned the bearing and distance from it to Fairoaks. In the second week of flying we were caught in a sudden summer storm. We were soaked to the skin and landed like a Flying Boat. The worst consequence was that my instructor caught pneumonia, which upset my training programme.
The Signal Rockets and the Signal Mortar were demonstrated from the signals square, but I only ever saw then fired “in anger” when I was caught in a violent storm at night, a year later. We had been unable to land and had lost wireless contact. After calling “Darky” I got a very indistinct answer, so I asked for Rockets, then Mortar signals which the airfield had already been firing, When we saw a Mortar shell burst, we lost height until we could see the Airfields Drem system and could land.
Fredjhh.
Danny. We must have been at Babbacombe at about the same time. What made the powers that be decide who went to USA, or who stayed at home?
When The Arnold Scheme was outlined to us, we were told the married men would train at home and the single men would go abroad. The married men were moved first and we followed a day later, -to Fairoaks. A married friend wrote from Marshalls' Field at Cambridge before posting to Canada.
Fred
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Fred (#2351) Greetings,
Your question: "What made the authorities decide who went to the States, and who didn't?" Absolutely no idea! We had both married and single people with us out there. I think they spun a coin.
Only once, in nearly thirty years, did the RAF ask me what I'd like by way of posting. It was in 62, I was coming home from Germany. An air trafficer then, I'd done my stint in the Flying Training saltmines. "Anywhere you like", I said, "Any Command" - but please not that again! Guess what? (I don't have to tell you, do I?) Linton-on-Ouse!
Mercifully, I only had to do eighteen months before they put me out to grass as an Instructor at Shawbury.
Cheers!,
Danny
Your question: "What made the authorities decide who went to the States, and who didn't?" Absolutely no idea! We had both married and single people with us out there. I think they spun a coin.
Only once, in nearly thirty years, did the RAF ask me what I'd like by way of posting. It was in 62, I was coming home from Germany. An air trafficer then, I'd done my stint in the Flying Training saltmines. "Anywhere you like", I said, "Any Command" - but please not that again! Guess what? (I don't have to tell you, do I?) Linton-on-Ouse!
Mercifully, I only had to do eighteen months before they put me out to grass as an Instructor at Shawbury.
Cheers!,
Danny
Last edited by Danny42C; 26th Feb 2012 at 23:00.
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Ahh Danny, I really enjoyed your thoughts on open cockpit flying - and you write so eloquently too.
I only have a dozen or so hours in a Tiger Moth and they remain the highlight of my (very much recreational) flying to date - it did feel very much like learning to fly all over again though!
Fantastic stuff, keep it coming!
Adam
I only have a dozen or so hours in a Tiger Moth and they remain the highlight of my (very much recreational) flying to date - it did feel very much like learning to fly all over again though!
Fantastic stuff, keep it coming!
Adam
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To Adam, Chugalug, Cliff, Fred and all the others who have welcomed me so warmly and been so complimentary with my efforts so far,
Don't imagine that my calls for "back up" are simply fishing for plaudits for myself -. although I'm naturally only too pleased to get them - but the danger to this thread is that the contributors, who by definition must all be 90 or very near it, will drop off their perches before much longer. It is for this reason that I beg all my contemporaries (who are reading this. and shyly waiting on the sidelines, as I did for six months) to come aboard before it's too late, and so keep the show on the road.
I am very taken with the suggestion, made by Cliff a few Posts ago (and remember all this is his doing, for he started the whole Thread off years ago) that the Moderators might be asked to broaden the scope of this thread to include our wartime service, our postwar service (for those who managed to stay, or wangle their way back in) and perhaps even the odd bit of civil life if relevant or amusing. I have noticed that they (the Moderators) cut us no end of slack in this respect already: (think what a loss it would have been if (the sorely missed) Reg's tale had been chopped off when he got his wings). What came after our training is usually more interesting than the training itself - this must necessarily be "variations on a theme") between individuals.
We could keep the title of the Thread, or pick a new one (how about "Great Grandad's Air Force"?) Here Cliff must have the last word - as indeed he must over the whole idea put forward - it's his baby, after all. I throw it open for discussion.
Danny42C
Don't imagine that my calls for "back up" are simply fishing for plaudits for myself -. although I'm naturally only too pleased to get them - but the danger to this thread is that the contributors, who by definition must all be 90 or very near it, will drop off their perches before much longer. It is for this reason that I beg all my contemporaries (who are reading this. and shyly waiting on the sidelines, as I did for six months) to come aboard before it's too late, and so keep the show on the road.
I am very taken with the suggestion, made by Cliff a few Posts ago (and remember all this is his doing, for he started the whole Thread off years ago) that the Moderators might be asked to broaden the scope of this thread to include our wartime service, our postwar service (for those who managed to stay, or wangle their way back in) and perhaps even the odd bit of civil life if relevant or amusing. I have noticed that they (the Moderators) cut us no end of slack in this respect already: (think what a loss it would have been if (the sorely missed) Reg's tale had been chopped off when he got his wings). What came after our training is usually more interesting than the training itself - this must necessarily be "variations on a theme") between individuals.
We could keep the title of the Thread, or pick a new one (how about "Great Grandad's Air Force"?) Here Cliff must have the last word - as indeed he must over the whole idea put forward - it's his baby, after all. I throw it open for discussion.
Danny42C
Last edited by Danny42C; 11th Mar 2012 at 00:25.
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Basic School
GUNTER FIELD, MONTGOMERY, ALABAMA.
"And stars fell in Ala-bama...that night" (popular song of the day)
Stars didn't fall in Alabama while we were there. Snow did, and it caused just as much of a shock. The white stuff hadn't been seen for a long time so far south. There wasn't enough of it to stop us flying, but it made a nice change after the heat of Florida. We'd come up here at the beginning of November for the second (Basic) stage of our flying training. Sixty hours on the Stearman at Primary School, seventy hours here on the Vultee BT-13 ("Valiant"), and a final seventy on the North American AT-6A ("Harvard") at Craig Field, Selma (also Alabama); that was our training with the US Army Air Corps in the States.
It totalled 200 hours in the air. At that time the RAF's curriculum (at all the Empire flying schools) was only 120 hours to Wings standard. (EDIT: This is questionable, we've had various opinions about this in recent Posts, shall we guess at an average of 150?) Which begs the question; what did the US get for the extra third of time and money it was putting in? The answer seems to be - not a lot.
We furnished ideal guines-pigs for a direct comparison. Starting with the same raw material, both syllabi finished with identical products, as far as anyone could see. It was never claimed that the USAAC-trained pilot was any better than his RAF-trained counterpart. Our Operational Training Units, which took our training on to its final stage, found no difference in the material with which they had to work. So where was the slack in the USAAC system? Here, at Basic School! The RAF (and later BFTS in the US) simply did without a "Basic" intermediate stage. They had an Elementary Flying Training School, which equated with the US "Primary", and a "Service Flying Training School" corresponding to their "Advanced", but no "Basic". At the time I wondered what point there was in Basic School at all, other than in finding a use for a training aircraft which was best forgotten (and largely has been). It might have been designed to show the student how cross-grained an aircraft can be, and yet fly.
It was a metal low-winged monoplane with fixed undercarriage and a Wasp Junior 450 hp engine driving a two-speed propeller. It had flaps, but these had to be wound down by hand. We had R/T and intercom. Instructor and student's cockpits, in tandem, had a "glasshouse" canopy to protect them from the elements. I'm sure that it was the same canopy that Vultee fitted on their "Vengeance" a year later. These two aircraft shared another family resemblance in the outline of the fin and rudder.
The BT-13 was very awkward in the air. You started a turn to the left with a bit of left stick and ease back. The thing skidded and you had to use rudder to bring the nose round. Then the nose would drop, and you had to take off bank to avoid losing height. It left you with crossed controls (left rudder and right stick), crabbing round uncomfortably. And in right turns, vice versa. This aircraft should never have gone into production. I have never flown anything with worse harmonised controls. It had a lot of dihedral and a big fin, so it was stable enough. Straight and level flight was fine. Turns were the problem.
In Florida, they'd never trusted us out of sight of the field, but here they started us on practical navigation, doing cross-country runs. Map-reading our there was easy. Weather was usually perfect, roads and railways were far apart, and you could always be sure that you had the right one in sight. Not like the UK, where you could fly over three railways in as many minutes, pick what you hoped was the right one to follow, then see it vanish into a tunnel!
From Gunter we were sent on triangular cross-countries, one of the turning points sticks in memory
- Chattanooga, Tennessee, of the "Choo-choo" song. On these trips, the long straight "legs" could be boring, and one of our chaps thought he would enliven a (solo) exercise. Following a long, straight country road, he dropped down onto it and roared along with his wheels on the tarmac. He could shoot off into the air if he saw anything coming, so it wasn't really dangerous. And he would have got away with it too, if there hadn't been a telephone linesman up a pole. He was justifiably shaken by the sight of this thing flying past beneath him, took its number and reported it. Our friend was on the next train back to Canada, sadder and wiser.
We started night flying, and night cross-countries. I've already mentioned the "Radio Ranges", which airliners (mostly DC-3s) used for navigation between towns (but we didn't have the radio frequencies to be able to use them). But the tracks of these "beams" were the forerunners of today's airways, and extra help was laid on at night. Every 15 miles along the track of the beam was a light beacon. On a clear night you could see 30 miles ahead from 5,000 ft, and have two of these beacons in sight all the time. You couldn't go wrong, it was just like driving down the High Street!
My final night flying session ended with the one (and only) false entry in my Log Book. I needed only another twenty minutes to complete the total night hours for the Gunter part of the Course. Taxying out for take-off, I reached the end of the runway, but the Tower told me to hold. It seemed that bad weather was moving in; there was discussion among the instructors as to whether night flying should continue. They cancelled. I taxied down the runway back to the flight line. "Hell", said my instructor, "Put in twenty minutes flight time!" So I did.
That raises a question, which has never officially been answered - as far as I know, up to the time I finished flying (1954). How should flying time be measured? The obvious answer is the time between take-off and landing, when you're actually in the air. That's the only time you're flying, isn't it? Wee-ell, yes, I suppose so. But what about the time spent taxying out and in? That can add up to quite a bit on a busy airfield when there's a lot of holding. Taxying often needs more care and skill from the pilot than flying straight and level. It's not like driving down a motorway. In some cases (eg Spitfire) a particular technique has to be learned. And spare a thought for the captain of your 747 Jumbo, rounding corners on a narrow taxyway, worrying what his sixteen main wheels (a long way behind him) are doing.
To my mind, there is a clincher - at least as far as the RAF was concerned. Have an accident when you're taxying, and you'll soon see whether you were flying or not! A taxying accident was treated just the same as a flying one, reported on the same form (F765C), investigated with the same rigour, and punished with the same severity. So most people logged their time "chock to chock", ie from the time they left the flight line until they parked again. It makes sense to book all the time that you're wholly responsible for an aircraft moving under its own power, and I always did so.
Goodnight, all.
Danny
Gravity never lets up.
"And stars fell in Ala-bama...that night" (popular song of the day)
Stars didn't fall in Alabama while we were there. Snow did, and it caused just as much of a shock. The white stuff hadn't been seen for a long time so far south. There wasn't enough of it to stop us flying, but it made a nice change after the heat of Florida. We'd come up here at the beginning of November for the second (Basic) stage of our flying training. Sixty hours on the Stearman at Primary School, seventy hours here on the Vultee BT-13 ("Valiant"), and a final seventy on the North American AT-6A ("Harvard") at Craig Field, Selma (also Alabama); that was our training with the US Army Air Corps in the States.
It totalled 200 hours in the air. At that time the RAF's curriculum (at all the Empire flying schools) was only 120 hours to Wings standard. (EDIT: This is questionable, we've had various opinions about this in recent Posts, shall we guess at an average of 150?) Which begs the question; what did the US get for the extra third of time and money it was putting in? The answer seems to be - not a lot.
We furnished ideal guines-pigs for a direct comparison. Starting with the same raw material, both syllabi finished with identical products, as far as anyone could see. It was never claimed that the USAAC-trained pilot was any better than his RAF-trained counterpart. Our Operational Training Units, which took our training on to its final stage, found no difference in the material with which they had to work. So where was the slack in the USAAC system? Here, at Basic School! The RAF (and later BFTS in the US) simply did without a "Basic" intermediate stage. They had an Elementary Flying Training School, which equated with the US "Primary", and a "Service Flying Training School" corresponding to their "Advanced", but no "Basic". At the time I wondered what point there was in Basic School at all, other than in finding a use for a training aircraft which was best forgotten (and largely has been). It might have been designed to show the student how cross-grained an aircraft can be, and yet fly.
It was a metal low-winged monoplane with fixed undercarriage and a Wasp Junior 450 hp engine driving a two-speed propeller. It had flaps, but these had to be wound down by hand. We had R/T and intercom. Instructor and student's cockpits, in tandem, had a "glasshouse" canopy to protect them from the elements. I'm sure that it was the same canopy that Vultee fitted on their "Vengeance" a year later. These two aircraft shared another family resemblance in the outline of the fin and rudder.
The BT-13 was very awkward in the air. You started a turn to the left with a bit of left stick and ease back. The thing skidded and you had to use rudder to bring the nose round. Then the nose would drop, and you had to take off bank to avoid losing height. It left you with crossed controls (left rudder and right stick), crabbing round uncomfortably. And in right turns, vice versa. This aircraft should never have gone into production. I have never flown anything with worse harmonised controls. It had a lot of dihedral and a big fin, so it was stable enough. Straight and level flight was fine. Turns were the problem.
In Florida, they'd never trusted us out of sight of the field, but here they started us on practical navigation, doing cross-country runs. Map-reading our there was easy. Weather was usually perfect, roads and railways were far apart, and you could always be sure that you had the right one in sight. Not like the UK, where you could fly over three railways in as many minutes, pick what you hoped was the right one to follow, then see it vanish into a tunnel!
From Gunter we were sent on triangular cross-countries, one of the turning points sticks in memory
- Chattanooga, Tennessee, of the "Choo-choo" song. On these trips, the long straight "legs" could be boring, and one of our chaps thought he would enliven a (solo) exercise. Following a long, straight country road, he dropped down onto it and roared along with his wheels on the tarmac. He could shoot off into the air if he saw anything coming, so it wasn't really dangerous. And he would have got away with it too, if there hadn't been a telephone linesman up a pole. He was justifiably shaken by the sight of this thing flying past beneath him, took its number and reported it. Our friend was on the next train back to Canada, sadder and wiser.
We started night flying, and night cross-countries. I've already mentioned the "Radio Ranges", which airliners (mostly DC-3s) used for navigation between towns (but we didn't have the radio frequencies to be able to use them). But the tracks of these "beams" were the forerunners of today's airways, and extra help was laid on at night. Every 15 miles along the track of the beam was a light beacon. On a clear night you could see 30 miles ahead from 5,000 ft, and have two of these beacons in sight all the time. You couldn't go wrong, it was just like driving down the High Street!
My final night flying session ended with the one (and only) false entry in my Log Book. I needed only another twenty minutes to complete the total night hours for the Gunter part of the Course. Taxying out for take-off, I reached the end of the runway, but the Tower told me to hold. It seemed that bad weather was moving in; there was discussion among the instructors as to whether night flying should continue. They cancelled. I taxied down the runway back to the flight line. "Hell", said my instructor, "Put in twenty minutes flight time!" So I did.
That raises a question, which has never officially been answered - as far as I know, up to the time I finished flying (1954). How should flying time be measured? The obvious answer is the time between take-off and landing, when you're actually in the air. That's the only time you're flying, isn't it? Wee-ell, yes, I suppose so. But what about the time spent taxying out and in? That can add up to quite a bit on a busy airfield when there's a lot of holding. Taxying often needs more care and skill from the pilot than flying straight and level. It's not like driving down a motorway. In some cases (eg Spitfire) a particular technique has to be learned. And spare a thought for the captain of your 747 Jumbo, rounding corners on a narrow taxyway, worrying what his sixteen main wheels (a long way behind him) are doing.
To my mind, there is a clincher - at least as far as the RAF was concerned. Have an accident when you're taxying, and you'll soon see whether you were flying or not! A taxying accident was treated just the same as a flying one, reported on the same form (F765C), investigated with the same rigour, and punished with the same severity. So most people logged their time "chock to chock", ie from the time they left the flight line until they parked again. It makes sense to book all the time that you're wholly responsible for an aircraft moving under its own power, and I always did so.
Goodnight, all.
Danny
Gravity never lets up.
Last edited by Danny42C; 27th Feb 2012 at 20:00.
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For all the others who, like me, are captivated by these anecdotes and tales of WW2 aviation; I've found this:
RAAF Museum: Air Crew Association's Donated Archive
Which is a collection of similar tales from the RAAF...
I would also like to join with Danny42C in asking for everyone who was there, or knows anyone who was there, to add as much as possible to this peerless record of times past. Contributions from aircrew other than pilots would also expand the thread; there seems to be little available anywhere from Air Gunners, Wireless Operators, Navigators and Air Bombers...we have Cliff's accounts of Flight Engineer, with his contemporaneous training notes, which makes it all so real. I would be fascinated to read accounts of the training and operational experiences of those who risked everything in the other crew positions.
RAAF Museum: Air Crew Association's Donated Archive
Which is a collection of similar tales from the RAAF...
I would also like to join with Danny42C in asking for everyone who was there, or knows anyone who was there, to add as much as possible to this peerless record of times past. Contributions from aircrew other than pilots would also expand the thread; there seems to be little available anywhere from Air Gunners, Wireless Operators, Navigators and Air Bombers...we have Cliff's accounts of Flight Engineer, with his contemporaneous training notes, which makes it all so real. I would be fascinated to read accounts of the training and operational experiences of those who risked everything in the other crew positions.
....... and it would be splendid to hear from former members of what was once British Airways Limited - the guys (and especially the girls!) of the Air Transport Auxiliary.
Danny, your incisive take on what must have been a demanding and anxious time (because every extra hour that it took to gain your wings was another hour in which you could face the "chop") is very interesting. You present the differences between a country at war and one which isn't. One where everything had to be pared to the bone and another where there was an abundance of everything, including that most precious of all commodities, time. Did that not tend to irritate at the very least? Did you feel at the time that your training was unnecessarily drawn out, or was it only in retrospect that you came to that conclusion? Perhaps being young though you were more interested in soaking up all your new experiences; different countries, different customs, different climates, and left all the higher direction of affairs to those higher up the ladder?
The Valiant certainly doesn't sound much use for anything, let alone a possibly unnecessary course. Do you think that was the rationale that let it through? "The basic course isn't really crucial whereas the elementary and advanced ones are, so they won't do any harm". Some recommendation!
You are absolutely right in your Call to Arms to your other compatriots, be they of any aircrew discipline (and perhaps the groundcrew might be welcome also?). The massive challenge of recruiting and training up all these skills in such huge numbers is one of the uncelebrated keys to ultimate Victory. How on earth was it all managed? Was there a central registry where each individual's progress was monitored and future planned? Presumably you were ostensibly on the charge of RAF Training Command so one would suppose it to be there. Perhaps someone with knowledge of the then CoC would inform us.
Oh, far be it for me to speak for the Mods, but I think you will find that the fairly loose reins that they use on the Military Forum are very loose indeed in your case. This is your thread, ie WW2 RAF/FAA veterans. If you decide that the title needs changing then no doubt it can be (no idea how, but I'm sure that PPRuNe Pop will oblige), but personally I wouldn't worry. Let it be yet another British idiosyncrasy that a thread about pilot brevets includes all other ones as well, as well as none at all! Well why shouldn't it?
The Valiant certainly doesn't sound much use for anything, let alone a possibly unnecessary course. Do you think that was the rationale that let it through? "The basic course isn't really crucial whereas the elementary and advanced ones are, so they won't do any harm". Some recommendation!
You are absolutely right in your Call to Arms to your other compatriots, be they of any aircrew discipline (and perhaps the groundcrew might be welcome also?). The massive challenge of recruiting and training up all these skills in such huge numbers is one of the uncelebrated keys to ultimate Victory. How on earth was it all managed? Was there a central registry where each individual's progress was monitored and future planned? Presumably you were ostensibly on the charge of RAF Training Command so one would suppose it to be there. Perhaps someone with knowledge of the then CoC would inform us.
Oh, far be it for me to speak for the Mods, but I think you will find that the fairly loose reins that they use on the Military Forum are very loose indeed in your case. This is your thread, ie WW2 RAF/FAA veterans. If you decide that the title needs changing then no doubt it can be (no idea how, but I'm sure that PPRuNe Pop will oblige), but personally I wouldn't worry. Let it be yet another British idiosyncrasy that a thread about pilot brevets includes all other ones as well, as well as none at all! Well why shouldn't it?
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Chugalug,
Thank you for the last post. Your point about our leaving it all to the Powers that Were (in the trusting faith that they knew what they were doing) is spot-on. Much later on in my "Jottings" (from which my Posts are filleted), I put it like this: "We lived a carefree life, going where we were sent and flying whatever they gave us to fly when we got there, not worrying our heads about the aircraft's political background or production history". It is only now, looking back with seventy years' hindsight, that I can see that we perhaps should have asked a few more questions at the time. But you don't think of it when you're young, do you? As Kipling's old soldier, going home after a lifetimes' service said (in "For to Admire"):
"The things that was that I 'ave seen,
In barrick, camp an' action too,
I tells 'em over to meself,
And sometimes wonders if they're true.
For they was odd, most awful odd."
In the same way, the BT-13 and Basic School were there, and that was all there was to it. Ours not to reason why!
On reflection, you're quite right about my name-change idea. When it's not necessary to change, it's necessary not to change!
Danny
Thank you for the last post. Your point about our leaving it all to the Powers that Were (in the trusting faith that they knew what they were doing) is spot-on. Much later on in my "Jottings" (from which my Posts are filleted), I put it like this: "We lived a carefree life, going where we were sent and flying whatever they gave us to fly when we got there, not worrying our heads about the aircraft's political background or production history". It is only now, looking back with seventy years' hindsight, that I can see that we perhaps should have asked a few more questions at the time. But you don't think of it when you're young, do you? As Kipling's old soldier, going home after a lifetimes' service said (in "For to Admire"):
"The things that was that I 'ave seen,
In barrick, camp an' action too,
I tells 'em over to meself,
And sometimes wonders if they're true.
For they was odd, most awful odd."
In the same way, the BT-13 and Basic School were there, and that was all there was to it. Ours not to reason why!
On reflection, you're quite right about my name-change idea. When it's not necessary to change, it's necessary not to change!
Danny
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Things are about to change.
Danny is still at Gunter Field.
Montgomery was quite a pleasant little town, but I quickly found that the Civil War was far from over. "Goddam Yankee" was the most charitable description for anyone resident north of the Mason-Dixon line. The annual football match between the "Blue and the Grey" roused the supporters of both sides to a passion which made the Celtic/Rangers affair look like a vicarage tea-party. To whistle even a few bars of "Marching through Georgia" invited instant assault and battery.
I got a shock one night. Solo, on a cross- country, I was happily cruising down a light-line. I was near the end of the trip, not far from home and the navigation exercise was "in the bag". I couldn't get lost now if I tried, so I relaxed. I was running up to Birmingham; there was no blackout in the States, and I could see the city lights spread out in front of me.
What I didn't know was that this was a major steel town. As I was running up to it, they chose that moment to take the top off a blast furnace (probably to put in a fresh charge). A tremendous blaze lit up the clouds and the sky, blinding me and knocking out my night vision. I jumped out of my skin, certain my last hour was come. Luckily this was in the pre-atomic era, otherwise I would have thought "Armageddon". But before I could decide whether to bale out or start praying (or both), they slipped the lid back on the furnace, and all was dark once more. My heart thudded back into place, I started to see the instruments again, and was breathing almost normally by the time I landed.
Half way through our time there came the 8th December 41 - "a day that will live in infamy" (Roosevelt) - and all changed with Pearl Harbor. The effect on the American public was as dramatic as the open blast furnace had been on me. They were shocked out of their wits. Their only consolation was that they now had us as their Gallant Ally (for what that was worth). And they only had that because Hitler took the decision out of their hands and declared war on them. We became Flavour of the Month overnight. The southern belles suddenly found our English accents attractive (Ah jest lurve to hear yo' voice talk!")
Our instructors caught War fever, and decided they had to do something. They suspended training and organised patrol flights, day and night, over Alabama and Georgia. What they thought they were looking for, and what they might do (unarmed) about it if they found it, nobody seemed to know. Eventually they came to realise that their nearest enemy was thousands of miles away and quite unable to do them any harm.
"The wisest thing, we suppose
That a man can do for his land
Is the work that lies under his nose
With the tools that lie under his hand"
(Kipling)
The best thing to do was to get on with what they were already doing, and our pilot training resumed as normal. Allies now, I suppose we could have worn RAF uniform if we wanted, although my recollection is that we carried on as before, wearing overalls all the time. No RAF officers or NCOs appeared, and our aviation cadet status continued for want of a better idea. Gunter Field was an Army post, and our instructors were all USAAC 1st or 2nd Lieutenants. A joke of the time was that there was nothing in the US Army Air Corps except Lieutenants and Generals!
While on the subject, it's worth mentioning a curious anomaly in US officers' rank badges. It sometimes crops up in a pub quiz, or in "Casual Pursuit" - type questions: "Where is silver worth more than gold?". It's here, a US 2nd Lieut. wears a single gold bar on collar, shoulder or tin hat, a 1st Lieut. a silver one. There is a gold oak leaf for a Major, but only a silver one for a Lieutenant Colonel. Why - Lord only knows!
There must have been a full Colonel (a silver eagle - a "Boid Coinel") somewhere around at Gunter, but I don't recall seeing him. Above full Colonel, you're in "Star" territory. These insignia are common across all four Services: a Navy Captain in shirt-sleeve order on his bridge wears the same silver eagles on his shirt collar as an Army or Marine Colonel would do.
(By the way, let me point out that the USAAC (and USAF) has Bases, the RAF has Stations - a fact seemingly lost on today's Newsreaders and TV Documentary producers, although "returning to base" and the like - in a general sense - is all right).
While I'm at it, let's clear another thing up. Do you "bale out" or "bail out", when you have to "hit the silk"? The words seem to be treated as synomymous. But they're not. When you find your leaky dinghy half full of water, you use a "baler" to "bale" the water out over the side. The analogy with jumping out of your aircraft (baling yourself out) is obvious. On the contrary, to "bail" a person out is something quite different - to put up cash to secure his release from jail or otherwise get him out of trouble. "Bale" is clearly the better word, and I always use it. (No, I've never had to "bale" out myself - the flames would have to be licking my toes before I'd leave a perfectly good aeroplane - I don't like heights!)
I think I've tried Mr Moderator's patience enough tonight.
Goodnight, all.
Danny42C
It's just the way the mop flops.
Montgomery was quite a pleasant little town, but I quickly found that the Civil War was far from over. "Goddam Yankee" was the most charitable description for anyone resident north of the Mason-Dixon line. The annual football match between the "Blue and the Grey" roused the supporters of both sides to a passion which made the Celtic/Rangers affair look like a vicarage tea-party. To whistle even a few bars of "Marching through Georgia" invited instant assault and battery.
I got a shock one night. Solo, on a cross- country, I was happily cruising down a light-line. I was near the end of the trip, not far from home and the navigation exercise was "in the bag". I couldn't get lost now if I tried, so I relaxed. I was running up to Birmingham; there was no blackout in the States, and I could see the city lights spread out in front of me.
What I didn't know was that this was a major steel town. As I was running up to it, they chose that moment to take the top off a blast furnace (probably to put in a fresh charge). A tremendous blaze lit up the clouds and the sky, blinding me and knocking out my night vision. I jumped out of my skin, certain my last hour was come. Luckily this was in the pre-atomic era, otherwise I would have thought "Armageddon". But before I could decide whether to bale out or start praying (or both), they slipped the lid back on the furnace, and all was dark once more. My heart thudded back into place, I started to see the instruments again, and was breathing almost normally by the time I landed.
Half way through our time there came the 8th December 41 - "a day that will live in infamy" (Roosevelt) - and all changed with Pearl Harbor. The effect on the American public was as dramatic as the open blast furnace had been on me. They were shocked out of their wits. Their only consolation was that they now had us as their Gallant Ally (for what that was worth). And they only had that because Hitler took the decision out of their hands and declared war on them. We became Flavour of the Month overnight. The southern belles suddenly found our English accents attractive (Ah jest lurve to hear yo' voice talk!")
Our instructors caught War fever, and decided they had to do something. They suspended training and organised patrol flights, day and night, over Alabama and Georgia. What they thought they were looking for, and what they might do (unarmed) about it if they found it, nobody seemed to know. Eventually they came to realise that their nearest enemy was thousands of miles away and quite unable to do them any harm.
"The wisest thing, we suppose
That a man can do for his land
Is the work that lies under his nose
With the tools that lie under his hand"
(Kipling)
The best thing to do was to get on with what they were already doing, and our pilot training resumed as normal. Allies now, I suppose we could have worn RAF uniform if we wanted, although my recollection is that we carried on as before, wearing overalls all the time. No RAF officers or NCOs appeared, and our aviation cadet status continued for want of a better idea. Gunter Field was an Army post, and our instructors were all USAAC 1st or 2nd Lieutenants. A joke of the time was that there was nothing in the US Army Air Corps except Lieutenants and Generals!
While on the subject, it's worth mentioning a curious anomaly in US officers' rank badges. It sometimes crops up in a pub quiz, or in "Casual Pursuit" - type questions: "Where is silver worth more than gold?". It's here, a US 2nd Lieut. wears a single gold bar on collar, shoulder or tin hat, a 1st Lieut. a silver one. There is a gold oak leaf for a Major, but only a silver one for a Lieutenant Colonel. Why - Lord only knows!
There must have been a full Colonel (a silver eagle - a "Boid Coinel") somewhere around at Gunter, but I don't recall seeing him. Above full Colonel, you're in "Star" territory. These insignia are common across all four Services: a Navy Captain in shirt-sleeve order on his bridge wears the same silver eagles on his shirt collar as an Army or Marine Colonel would do.
(By the way, let me point out that the USAAC (and USAF) has Bases, the RAF has Stations - a fact seemingly lost on today's Newsreaders and TV Documentary producers, although "returning to base" and the like - in a general sense - is all right).
While I'm at it, let's clear another thing up. Do you "bale out" or "bail out", when you have to "hit the silk"? The words seem to be treated as synomymous. But they're not. When you find your leaky dinghy half full of water, you use a "baler" to "bale" the water out over the side. The analogy with jumping out of your aircraft (baling yourself out) is obvious. On the contrary, to "bail" a person out is something quite different - to put up cash to secure his release from jail or otherwise get him out of trouble. "Bale" is clearly the better word, and I always use it. (No, I've never had to "bale" out myself - the flames would have to be licking my toes before I'd leave a perfectly good aeroplane - I don't like heights!)
I think I've tried Mr Moderator's patience enough tonight.
Goodnight, all.
Danny42C
It's just the way the mop flops.
Last edited by Danny42C; 4th Mar 2012 at 15:02.
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Ah yes........I remember it well.
I like to think of being on this thread this way: I'm in my early twenties once again; we're in the Squadron crew room in an old Laing or Nissen hut; I'm in a tatty old armchair, one of two or three chucked out of a Mess. The place stinks of cigarette smoke (but then, so did everywhere else those days and we didn't even notice it, it was so normal). A battered old table is covered with the last month or two's "Flight", "Aeroplane" and "Autocar". Always "Tee Emm" and a copy or two of "Pilot's Notes". Odd bits of flying kit hang on hooks or are draped over empty chairs. Among the full ashtrays and over the floor would be the "Daily Mirror" (always open at the "Jane" page, or the "Two Types"). Question, did Captain Reilly-Ffoull - clearly a member of the Blackadder clan - come out during the War?
There would be a tea bar in the corner, with "honesty" jam jar and half full milk bottle - I don't think powder coffee had come in then, but we had "Camp" (bottled concentrated coffee). I'm pretty sure we had primitive electric kettles; the hut wiring might be overloaded, but hey, we can get at the fusebox and find a six-inch nail, can't we? Would there be bar stools? (a 500 lb bomb fin container was the perfect size, did we have them in the UK or was it just in India?) The walls would be festooned with Aircraft Recognition Silhouettes and the latest veiled threats from Group. (Outside, usual filthy UK weather - get the cards out, chaps! - poke the stove!)
I'm nattering to the other blokes (but is it just a dream?) I'll be lucky to get this past the Moderator!
Danny
There would be a tea bar in the corner, with "honesty" jam jar and half full milk bottle - I don't think powder coffee had come in then, but we had "Camp" (bottled concentrated coffee). I'm pretty sure we had primitive electric kettles; the hut wiring might be overloaded, but hey, we can get at the fusebox and find a six-inch nail, can't we? Would there be bar stools? (a 500 lb bomb fin container was the perfect size, did we have them in the UK or was it just in India?) The walls would be festooned with Aircraft Recognition Silhouettes and the latest veiled threats from Group. (Outside, usual filthy UK weather - get the cards out, chaps! - poke the stove!)
I'm nattering to the other blokes (but is it just a dream?) I'll be lucky to get this past the Moderator!
Danny
Last edited by Danny42C; 1st Mar 2012 at 13:16.
Danny42C. American ranks are graded from the centre of the earth to the stars.
Gold is found deeper then silver so you start with gold.
Leaves are on the trees.
Eagles are in the air.
Stars are above the Earth
Gold is found deeper then silver so you start with gold.
Leaves are on the trees.
Eagles are in the air.
Stars are above the Earth
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Fareastdriver, thanks a lot - that's really clever! I've never heard that explanation of their insignia before. With all the time I spent with them in training, seeing a lot of them in India, and meeting quite a few after the War, that one's completely new on me! Just shows, you're never too old to learn!
Cheers,
Danny
Cheers,
Danny
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I'll be lucky to get this past the Moderator!
Adam
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Danny,
I don't think you need worry about any moderation of this thread; I wouldn't be surprised if the Mods are simply taking a back seat and enjoying the ride along with the rest of us!
Also delighted to read of your care with words ("bail", vs. "bale")! As a proud pedant (one of many on this forum, it seems) it's a pleasure to see a story written so well. Your description of a crew room is wonderfully evocative, and I suspect that you'd find many similarities between the crew rooms of your era and those of today (except the smokers - we make them go outside now!).
All the best,
Tom
I don't think you need worry about any moderation of this thread; I wouldn't be surprised if the Mods are simply taking a back seat and enjoying the ride along with the rest of us!
Also delighted to read of your care with words ("bail", vs. "bale")! As a proud pedant (one of many on this forum, it seems) it's a pleasure to see a story written so well. Your description of a crew room is wonderfully evocative, and I suspect that you'd find many similarities between the crew rooms of your era and those of today (except the smokers - we make them go outside now!).
All the best,
Tom
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TommyOv,
Tom, thanks for the last Post. I've put a bit more detail into the old crewroom. It would be typical of those times, Players and Gold Flake ruled, there might be the odd aesthete with "Balkan Sobranie": he would be looked at askance!
Danny
Tom, thanks for the last Post. I've put a bit more detail into the old crewroom. It would be typical of those times, Players and Gold Flake ruled, there might be the odd aesthete with "Balkan Sobranie": he would be looked at askance!
Danny
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Allies, now!
Our instructors were not happy bunnies. All creamed off from last year's graduation classes, they would have much preferred assignments to a "Pursuit" or "Bombardment" Group. Their classmates from Flight School would soon be going overseas into action, winning glory and promotion (and dying like flies in the 8th Air Force first B-17 mass daylight raids into Germany).
It was said that they didn't need to navigate on the way back - just follow the smoke trail from burning aircraft on the ground. The casualty rate was appalling. I remember a good book on the subject: "A Fall of Fortresses" by one of their navigators (can't recall author or publisher). But all this was well in the future, meanwhile our people were stuck in the back of their BT-13s, chanting the patter all day, and it might be finished before they got there. It was like the "It'll be all over by Christmas" cry in 1914. In the end of course, there would be plenty of War for everyone, and a bit too much for some.
The consequence was that our officers didn't have the professional attitude of the civilian instructors we had had at Primary School. So we got, I don't say rougher, but certainly less patient treatment. Not only that, but you chopped and changed instructors, and that never makes for smooth learning. Nevertheless, we all got through, except for one or two like the road runner, who'd really asked for trouble and pushed their luck too far.
The BT-13 had a full set of blind flying instruments, and we sweated away in cloud, or "under the hood" , in the front cockpit. "Never mind the goddam ship - fly that goddam panel!", Lieutenant Akin hammered into me. And on "power let-downs", "Your stick controls your goddam airspeed - your throttle controls your goddam rate of descent!" (counter-intuitive, but true). And always the mantra "needle-ball-airspeed". Put in practice, this is much like herding cats (not that I've ever had to do that), inasmuch as: as fast as you corralled one, the other two had got away from you.
And we started formation flying, too, but I can't remember much about any other exercises. The only other thing I can recall about the BT-13 is the one helpful trick it could play for its pilot. Landings were always off a glide approach, and you could trim the thing to glide "hands-off" very nicely at 70 mph. On final approach (from a square circuit), you started high, looking over the nose well into the field, and then slowly hand-cranked the flaps down. As you did so, your glide grew steeper, but the 70 mph stayed rock-steady on the clock. You cranked away until the fence (or runway threshold) came into view just over the nose. Stop cranking, and "every time a winner". Touch-down would always be in exactly the right spot.
We witnessed an interesting (on the ground, of course) experiment one day. Two of our instructors decided to see whether it was feasible, wearing parachutes, to abandon the aircraft via the front and back knock-out side panels in the canopy. Perhaps a five-dollar bill was riding on the outcome. They were not the mountainous Americans you see today, but wiry young men. One got hopelessly jammed half way, like Pooh Bear, and it took a lot of manhandling to push him back into the cockpit. The other got out, but it took over five minutes. The moral was clear - get the hood open, or jettison it, for you'll never get through it! As i've mentioned, I came across the same canopy on a "Vengeance" a year later, so it was very useful experience for me.
I can't remember any Christmas festivities, bu I suppose there must have been some. Our hosts were still in a state of shock from being pitchforked into war a fortnight before, and were in no mood for jollification. For that matter, my twentieth birthday had gone unnoticed (except by Mother) the month before.
It was at Gunter that I first met that magnificent American military facility, the Post Exchange ("PX"). In our service stations overseas, the "NAAFI Shop" is the equivalent, but a very poor one. The Americans start with this principle: that their Armed Forces should have the best that money can buy (I'm afraid we tend to take the opposite view). So, if you're going to run a Camp Shop for your troops and their families, it has to be a first-class one. The goods on sale were always of high quality, and usually far cheaper than in the town shops. I bought quite a good wrist watch at Gunter for five dollars. It flew with me on all my "ops" in Burma, and I relied on it for all my hit-and-miss navigation out there until 44, when I stupidly took my eye off it, and it was stolen from a train compartment.
For the same money, I bought my first pair of "Ray-Bans", then the standard aviator's sunglasses, which were necessary in the blinding sunshine of the southern States, and in India/Burma. Now that I had left the open cockpit and flying helmet of the Stearman, we flew (in the States) just with forage cap and headset, so you could wear sunglasses quite comfortably.
Years later in 61, I spent a short time in Berlin, where there was a magnificent PX for American forces and their dependents. It was really a huge department store, where "white goods" and every conceivable electrical item of household equipment was on sale at half the price in Britain. They were quite happy to sell us this stuff, but we couldn't take advantage of the opportunity - it was no use to us, as it all worked on 115v. Berlin (and the rest of West Germany) was on 240v (like the UK), but the Americans had organised a special 115v mains electricity supply just for themselves from the Berlin municipality. Truly: "to the victor, the spoils".
All in all, my two months in Gunter were largely forgettable. At the end, I happily put the name "Vultee" out of mind, not knowing that it would come back to me (literally) "with a Vengeance", on the far side of the world the following year. Next stop would be quite close by - Craig Field, Selma (still in Alabama).
More soon,
Danny.
Pass right down the car, please!
It was said that they didn't need to navigate on the way back - just follow the smoke trail from burning aircraft on the ground. The casualty rate was appalling. I remember a good book on the subject: "A Fall of Fortresses" by one of their navigators (can't recall author or publisher). But all this was well in the future, meanwhile our people were stuck in the back of their BT-13s, chanting the patter all day, and it might be finished before they got there. It was like the "It'll be all over by Christmas" cry in 1914. In the end of course, there would be plenty of War for everyone, and a bit too much for some.
The consequence was that our officers didn't have the professional attitude of the civilian instructors we had had at Primary School. So we got, I don't say rougher, but certainly less patient treatment. Not only that, but you chopped and changed instructors, and that never makes for smooth learning. Nevertheless, we all got through, except for one or two like the road runner, who'd really asked for trouble and pushed their luck too far.
The BT-13 had a full set of blind flying instruments, and we sweated away in cloud, or "under the hood" , in the front cockpit. "Never mind the goddam ship - fly that goddam panel!", Lieutenant Akin hammered into me. And on "power let-downs", "Your stick controls your goddam airspeed - your throttle controls your goddam rate of descent!" (counter-intuitive, but true). And always the mantra "needle-ball-airspeed". Put in practice, this is much like herding cats (not that I've ever had to do that), inasmuch as: as fast as you corralled one, the other two had got away from you.
And we started formation flying, too, but I can't remember much about any other exercises. The only other thing I can recall about the BT-13 is the one helpful trick it could play for its pilot. Landings were always off a glide approach, and you could trim the thing to glide "hands-off" very nicely at 70 mph. On final approach (from a square circuit), you started high, looking over the nose well into the field, and then slowly hand-cranked the flaps down. As you did so, your glide grew steeper, but the 70 mph stayed rock-steady on the clock. You cranked away until the fence (or runway threshold) came into view just over the nose. Stop cranking, and "every time a winner". Touch-down would always be in exactly the right spot.
We witnessed an interesting (on the ground, of course) experiment one day. Two of our instructors decided to see whether it was feasible, wearing parachutes, to abandon the aircraft via the front and back knock-out side panels in the canopy. Perhaps a five-dollar bill was riding on the outcome. They were not the mountainous Americans you see today, but wiry young men. One got hopelessly jammed half way, like Pooh Bear, and it took a lot of manhandling to push him back into the cockpit. The other got out, but it took over five minutes. The moral was clear - get the hood open, or jettison it, for you'll never get through it! As i've mentioned, I came across the same canopy on a "Vengeance" a year later, so it was very useful experience for me.
I can't remember any Christmas festivities, bu I suppose there must have been some. Our hosts were still in a state of shock from being pitchforked into war a fortnight before, and were in no mood for jollification. For that matter, my twentieth birthday had gone unnoticed (except by Mother) the month before.
It was at Gunter that I first met that magnificent American military facility, the Post Exchange ("PX"). In our service stations overseas, the "NAAFI Shop" is the equivalent, but a very poor one. The Americans start with this principle: that their Armed Forces should have the best that money can buy (I'm afraid we tend to take the opposite view). So, if you're going to run a Camp Shop for your troops and their families, it has to be a first-class one. The goods on sale were always of high quality, and usually far cheaper than in the town shops. I bought quite a good wrist watch at Gunter for five dollars. It flew with me on all my "ops" in Burma, and I relied on it for all my hit-and-miss navigation out there until 44, when I stupidly took my eye off it, and it was stolen from a train compartment.
For the same money, I bought my first pair of "Ray-Bans", then the standard aviator's sunglasses, which were necessary in the blinding sunshine of the southern States, and in India/Burma. Now that I had left the open cockpit and flying helmet of the Stearman, we flew (in the States) just with forage cap and headset, so you could wear sunglasses quite comfortably.
Years later in 61, I spent a short time in Berlin, where there was a magnificent PX for American forces and their dependents. It was really a huge department store, where "white goods" and every conceivable electrical item of household equipment was on sale at half the price in Britain. They were quite happy to sell us this stuff, but we couldn't take advantage of the opportunity - it was no use to us, as it all worked on 115v. Berlin (and the rest of West Germany) was on 240v (like the UK), but the Americans had organised a special 115v mains electricity supply just for themselves from the Berlin municipality. Truly: "to the victor, the spoils".
All in all, my two months in Gunter were largely forgettable. At the end, I happily put the name "Vultee" out of mind, not knowing that it would come back to me (literally) "with a Vengeance", on the far side of the world the following year. Next stop would be quite close by - Craig Field, Selma (still in Alabama).
More soon,
Danny.
Pass right down the car, please!
Last edited by Danny42C; 1st Mar 2012 at 17:15.