During my time [1942-1943] in Navy flight training, we trainees were ranked as Aviation Cadets. The rank was equal to Midshipman legally, but to some observers, me included, the AvCad rank was lower than scum. This observation was based on the miserable way we were treated in the early stages. Pre-flight school was the first phase.
Pre-Flight was ninety days of physical torture designed to get us into shape physically with a little ground school folded in. For instructors, the Navy had recruited and commissioned a bunch of oversized, bulging physical education teachers. Blessed by Satan they had carte blanche to exercise their mean streaks, these muscle-bound bullies took full advantage. They had us playing soccer as though it was football. Tackling was not only allowed but encouraged. Do that on a college team, and you would be sacked. Basketball was like soccer, and football was mayhem. Every couple of days the Bullies would take us in platoon formation on a cross-country run. An ambulance followed to pick up and treat the fallen. Sometime one ambulance wasn’t enough.
A few guys were injured beyond repair in this maddening ordeal. They were washed out without ceremony and sent scurrying without a word of thanks or sympathy straight to their draft boards for immediate dispatch to the foot-slogging Army. One guy in my platoon went bonkers and had to be hauled away in a straight jacket. He disappeared so fast that we didn’t get the details. But all-in-all we survived the 90 days. And fortunately that was the end of the physical exercise. Looking back, maybe the Bullies weren’t so bad after all. At least we were made physically capable of handling the forthcoming, wild-ass aerobat flying — even the insane, violent, disorienting maneuver called the inverted tailspin.
The next phase was primary flight training. I was sent with our group to Anacostia, a base near Washington, D.C. We were divided into two formations called Wings. We had a Right and Left Wing. I was selected as a Cadet Officer and appointed the head cadet of my wing. At first I thought the assignment was some kind of special for something good I had done. Not so. It was more likely the opposite. I was told that my job was to muster the group twice daily, count noses, do bed checks every night, snitch on wrong doers, keep track of who were on liberty and who wasn’t and report daily to the Commanding Officer’s office without fail or else.
Finally, we got to fly. The airplanes were called Stearmen. They were sturdy biplanes, each with two open cockpits in tandem and a 225 horsepower radial engines up front. The cadet student sat in the rear seat and instructor in front. Communication was one way from instructor to cadet through a flexible tube which ran from the instructor’s mouth to the ears of the student. What with loud engine noise (no mufflers) and wind going by at 100 mph, to say that understanding one’s instructor was difficult would be a mastery of understatement. My instructor had a West Virginia twang which made matters worse. Each cadet was given eight hours of instruction and expected to solo. I made it with difficulty. Those that didn’t were unceremoniously washed out.
Still at Anacostia, the next step in primary training was called “B Stage” where we learned to slip the plane to a landing within a 50-foot circle painted on the runway. We also learned formation flying, night flying and aerobatics. One night two cadets collided while landing. One plane landed on top of the other. It was bloody and deadly. The poor guy on the bottom was carved up by the propeller from the plane on top. The rest of us were terrified as we wondered how we could avoid such an experience once our night flying sessions started. No one had a good idea.
Formation flying was not too difficult, because we were pretty well along. Our skills were forming. But the possibility of midair collisions haunted us on every flight. By now we had learned aerobatics — loops, slow rolls, snap rolls, barrel roles, normal tail spins and finally inverted spins. In a normal tail spin the plane is made to slow until the lift on the wings is lost. Then its stalls. That means it quits flying. The nose drips abruptly. As the plane plunges downward as it starts spinning violently. The wind blasts through the wings and surges through the cockpits. Falling like a rock, the plane goes completely out of control. If something isn’t done, the plane will strike the ground, destroy itself and kill all those aboard. But—the remedy is clear cut. The pilot pushes the joystick forward and applies rudder opposite to the direction of rotation. The rotation stops. The plane picks up speed. Lift returns to the wings and the pilot eases the plane back to level flight and control.
The inverted spin is something else. Aerobrutality would describe it. My instructor demonstrated the maneuver by suddenly inverting the airplane. The nose snapped down and in a split second, the plane flipped upside down and seemed to be moving backwards as it fell. The noise was deafening. Crumpled cigarette packages, candy wrappers, dust, other debris and whatever else that has been residing inside the plane floated around the cockpit to add distraction. Then, suddenly, the plane stalled out and started violent rotation as it plunged earthward upside down. Gravity yanked my arms up over my head. By now I am completely disoriented. Suddenly the plane stopped rotating but the nose aimed itself straight down and picked up speed. It shook and shuddered and finally started flying again. All of this happened in about ten seconds to leave me struggling to recall just what the hell had happened.
Finally the distorted voice of the instructor coming through the tube explained the control procedure. Then he said, “Okay now! You do it!” I did it, and that’s how I learned to do inverted spins. It wasn’t fun, but the training probably saved my life. Years later, while flying a fighter, I did something stupid and the machine presented me with an inverted spin. I knew what to do and recovered promptly.
By this time most of us felt pretty cocky. I didn’t know then that as people learning to fly approach 250 hours of flight time, they enter the dangerous period. Overconfidence preempts good judgment. I learned that after scaring myself thoroughly a number of times.
From primary we went to Pensacola for final training and eventual commissioning with the coveted Navy Wings of Gold.
Chapter 1
From Norbert, 02 June 2008:
During my time [1942-1943] in Navy flight training, we trainees were ranked as Aviation Cadets. The rank was equal to Midshipman legally, but to some observers, me included, the AvCad rank was lower than scum. This observation was based on the miserable way we were treated in the early stages. Pre-flight school was the first phase.
Pre-Flight was ninety days of physical torture designed to get us into shape physically with a little ground school folded in. For instructors, the Navy had recruited and commissioned a bunch of oversized, bulging physical education teachers. Blessed by Satan they had carte blanche to exercise their mean streaks, these muscle-bound bullies took full advantage. They had us playing soccer as though it was football. Tackling was not only allowed but encouraged. Do that on a college team, and you would be sacked. Basketball was like soccer, and football was mayhem. Every couple of days the Bullies would take us in platoon formation on a cross-country run. An ambulance followed to pick up and treat the fallen. Sometime one ambulance wasn’t enough.
A few guys were injured beyond repair in this maddening ordeal. They were washed out without ceremony and sent scurrying without a word of thanks or sympathy straight to their draft boards for immediate dispatch to the foot-slogging Army. One guy in my platoon went bonkers and had to be hauled away in a straight jacket. He disappeared so fast that we didn’t get the details. But all-in-all we survived the 90 days. And fortunately that was the end of the physical exercise. Looking back, maybe the Bullies weren’t so bad after all. At least we were made physically capable of handling the forthcoming, wild-ass aerobat flying — even the insane, violent, disorienting maneuver called the inverted tailspin.
The next phase was primary flight training. I was sent with our group to Anacostia, a base near Washington, D.C. We were divided into two formations called Wings. We had a Right and Left Wing. I was selected as a Cadet Officer and appointed the head cadet of my wing. At first I thought the assignment was some kind of special for something good I had done. Not so. It was more likely the opposite. I was told that my job was to muster the group twice daily, count noses, do bed checks every night, snitch on wrong doers, keep track of who were on liberty and who wasn’t and report daily to the Commanding Officer’s office without fail or else.
Finally, we got to fly. The airplanes were called Stearmen. They were sturdy biplanes, each with two open cockpits in tandem and a 225 horsepower radial engines up front. The cadet student sat in the rear seat and instructor in front. Communication was one way from instructor to cadet through a flexible tube which ran from the instructor’s mouth to the ears of the student. What with loud engine noise (no mufflers) and wind going by at 100 mph, to say that understanding one’s instructor was difficult would be a mastery of understatement. My instructor had a West Virginia twang which made matters worse. Each cadet was given eight hours of instruction and expected to solo. I made it with difficulty. Those that didn’t were unceremoniously washed out.
Still at Anacostia, the next step in primary training was called “B Stage” where we learned to slip the plane to a landing within a 50-foot circle painted on the runway. We also learned formation flying, night flying and aerobatics. One night two cadets collided while landing. One plane landed on top of the other. It was bloody and deadly. The poor guy on the bottom was carved up by the propeller from the plane on top. The rest of us were terrified as we wondered how we could avoid such an experience once our night flying sessions started. No one had a good idea.
Formation flying was not too difficult, because we were pretty well along. Our skills were forming. But the possibility of midair collisions haunted us on every flight. By now we had learned aerobatics — loops, slow rolls, snap rolls, barrel roles, normal tail spins and finally inverted spins. In a normal tail spin the plane is made to slow until the lift on the wings is lost. Then its stalls. That means it quits flying. The nose drips abruptly. As the plane plunges downward as it starts spinning violently. The wind blasts through the wings and surges through the cockpits. Falling like a rock, the plane goes completely out of control. If something isn’t done, the plane will strike the ground, destroy itself and kill all those aboard. But—the remedy is clear cut. The pilot pushes the joystick forward and applies rudder opposite to the direction of rotation. The rotation stops. The plane picks up speed. Lift returns to the wings and the pilot eases the plane back to level flight and control.
The inverted spin is something else. Aerobrutality would describe it. My instructor demonstrated the maneuver by suddenly inverting the airplane. The nose snapped down and in a split second, the plane flipped upside down and seemed to be moving backwards as it fell. The noise was deafening. Crumpled cigarette packages, candy wrappers, dust, other debris and whatever else that has been residing inside the plane floated around the cockpit to add distraction. Then, suddenly, the plane stalled out and started violent rotation as it plunged earthward upside down. Gravity yanked my arms up over my head. By now I am completely disoriented. Suddenly the plane stopped rotating but the nose aimed itself straight down and picked up speed. It shook and shuddered and finally started flying again. All of this happened in about ten seconds to leave me struggling to recall just what the hell had happened.
Finally the distorted voice of the instructor coming through the tube explained the control procedure. Then he said, “Okay now! You do it!” I did it, and that’s how I learned to do inverted spins. It wasn’t fun, but the training probably saved my life. Years later, while flying a fighter, I did something stupid and the machine presented me with an inverted spin. I knew what to do and recovered promptly.
By this time most of us felt pretty cocky. I didn’t know then that as people learning to fly approach 250 hours of flight time, they enter the dangerous period. Overconfidence preempts good judgment. I learned that after scaring myself thoroughly a number of times.
From primary we went to Pensacola for final training and eventual commissioning with the coveted Navy Wings of Gold.
More later.