After a fair amount of flying — formation and night flying and more ground school, we were transferred back to the main base where we were introduced to two new phases of aviation that we would face forever more. One was called Instrument Flying or flying blind. The other was called Retractable Landing Gears. An appropriate nickname for that would be “Better Down than Up When Landing.”
On my first flight with the Instrument Training instructor, as we were climbing to altitude, I was given an oral description of the retractable landing-gear system. Then, without warning, the instructor suddenly cut the power and a horn blasted a deafening sound in my ear. Its knifelike message seemed within inches of my skull. The plane headed downward, and then as the instructor restored the power the horn stopped blowing. This was a demo of a warning system designed to prevent “gear-up” landings from happening. The horn blew because the landing gear was up. So — we all were supposed to have learned what to do if at some future time when the horn on final approach to a landing. Voila! Neat idea. Simple, straight forward and foolproof. Wow! Great to be associated with such bright people. Or so I thought.
The instrument-flying training was done “under the hood” with the instructor out in the open, hopefully steering clear of midair collisions. Bear in mind that there were from fifty to a hundred SNJs in the air at the same time. The “hood” was an enclosure which blocked all outside view. While so entrapped I was introduced to disorientation and the consequent vertigo. These extremely unpleasant experiences lead rapidly to what they call the “grave-yard spiral.” This is a steep, out-of-control, fatal dive. To avoid this pilots learning instrument flying have to resolve ongoing conflicts every minute.
This conflict could be described as one sharp difference of opinion after another. For example, at any given instant your bodily sensations convince you that the plane is banking to the left, but the instruments tell you it is banking to the right. If you make a correction based on the message from your body, you will throw the plane into a deadly grave-yard spiral. The message from the instruments is the correct one no matter how compelling your physical sensations are. I learned that lots of practice in intense concentration is required to develop skills necessary to become a reliable instrument pilot. The motto: Trust the instruments without question. This was hard for most of us, because we had never heard of anything mechanical that didn’t break while in use. Practice, practice, practice and finally instrument flying becomes second nature.
After a few weeks as I was getting used to the idea of instrument flying, I commented to my instructor on the horn, saying that this fool-proofing idea must have eliminated gear-up landings. “Not so,” he said. And then he told me about a Cadet at this very field who was on final approach with his gear up. The Control Tower was yelling at him over the radio, and, at the same time shining the red spotlight in his eyes. Nothing got a response. He continued his descent, came over the end of the runway, flared and the plane stalled at about ninety miles per hour four feet above the runway. The plane fell to the runway and skidded amid a huge shower of sparks created by the spinning propeller as it dug its blades into the runway and by the scraping of the metal fuselage on the runway. The plane veered off to one side of the runway and took out several substantial landing lights located on the edge. This caused the plane to spin around several time before it came to a stop. The Cadet jumped out and ran like a scalded cat. Fortunately there was no fire, but the plane was totaled. An investigation followed immediately in the CO’s office. The Cadet was asked why he didn’t respond to the frantic radio warning that his gear was up. He said that he could not hear the radio, because the horn made too much noise. That’s Common Sense. Right! Gotcha!
That same day when I returned to the barracks I discovered that the cadet-officer plague had followed me. I had been appointed Cadet Ensign. My protests were ignored. I was once again responsible for bed checks and various other menial tasks. One benefit was that I didn’t have to muster with the others and march to the mess hall. I was promoted weekly — first to Cadet Lieutenant Junior Grade, then to Cadet Lieutenant and so on until I became Cadet Commander of the base. All without knowing why or how. But — when I became Cadet Commander I was ordered to join Admiral Murray, the big cheese, in making the weekly welcoming speeches to the incoming classes of Cadets. The main benefits were that I no longer was responsible for much of anything. I could come and go as I wished. I had unlimited liberty. So — as long as I showed up at the welcoming event, I was okay except that I had to pass the ground-school courses and the flight training.
And then came the last segment of training. It was called final squadron where we were to specialize in one of five programs: Fighters, Dive Bombers, Torpedo Bombers, Multi-Engine or Scout Observation. We could express a preference but we would have to accept the assignment. Being washed out at this stage was unlikely, because the Navy had a huge investment in each of us. At least now our Wings of Gold were almost but not quite within grasp.
Chapter 1
From Norbert
After a fair amount of flying — formation and night flying and more ground school, we were transferred back to the main base where we were introduced to two new phases of aviation that we would face forever more. One was called Instrument Flying or flying blind. The other was called Retractable Landing Gears. An appropriate nickname for that would be “Better Down than Up When Landing.”
On my first flight with the Instrument Training instructor, as we were climbing to altitude, I was given an oral description of the retractable landing-gear system. Then, without warning, the instructor suddenly cut the power and a horn blasted a deafening sound in my ear. Its knifelike message seemed within inches of my skull. The plane headed downward, and then as the instructor restored the power the horn stopped blowing. This was a demo of a warning system designed to prevent “gear-up” landings from happening. The horn blew because the landing gear was up. So — we all were supposed to have learned what to do if at some future time when the horn on final approach to a landing. Voila! Neat idea. Simple, straight forward and foolproof. Wow! Great to be associated with such bright people. Or so I thought.
The instrument-flying training was done “under the hood” with the instructor out in the open, hopefully steering clear of midair collisions. Bear in mind that there were from fifty to a hundred SNJs in the air at the same time. The “hood” was an enclosure which blocked all outside view. While so entrapped I was introduced to disorientation and the consequent vertigo. These extremely unpleasant experiences lead rapidly to what they call the “grave-yard spiral.” This is a steep, out-of-control, fatal dive. To avoid this pilots learning instrument flying have to resolve ongoing conflicts every minute.
This conflict could be described as one sharp difference of opinion after another. For example, at any given instant your bodily sensations convince you that the plane is banking to the left, but the instruments tell you it is banking to the right. If you make a correction based on the message from your body, you will throw the plane into a deadly grave-yard spiral. The message from the instruments is the correct one no matter how compelling your physical sensations are. I learned that lots of practice in intense concentration is required to develop skills necessary to become a reliable instrument pilot. The motto: Trust the instruments without question. This was hard for most of us, because we had never heard of anything mechanical that didn’t break while in use. Practice, practice, practice and finally instrument flying becomes second nature.
After a few weeks as I was getting used to the idea of instrument flying, I commented to my instructor on the horn, saying that this fool-proofing idea must have eliminated gear-up landings. “Not so,” he said. And then he told me about a Cadet at this very field who was on final approach with his gear up. The Control Tower was yelling at him over the radio, and, at the same time shining the red spotlight in his eyes. Nothing got a response. He continued his descent, came over the end of the runway, flared and the plane stalled at about ninety miles per hour four feet above the runway. The plane fell to the runway and skidded amid a huge shower of sparks created by the spinning propeller as it dug its blades into the runway and by the scraping of the metal fuselage on the runway. The plane veered off to one side of the runway and took out several substantial landing lights located on the edge. This caused the plane to spin around several time before it came to a stop. The Cadet jumped out and ran like a scalded cat. Fortunately there was no fire, but the plane was totaled. An investigation followed immediately in the CO’s office. The Cadet was asked why he didn’t respond to the frantic radio warning that his gear was up. He said that he could not hear the radio, because the horn made too much noise. That’s Common Sense. Right! Gotcha!
That same day when I returned to the barracks I discovered that the cadet-officer plague had followed me. I had been appointed Cadet Ensign. My protests were ignored. I was once again responsible for bed checks and various other menial tasks. One benefit was that I didn’t have to muster with the others and march to the mess hall. I was promoted weekly — first to Cadet Lieutenant Junior Grade, then to Cadet Lieutenant and so on until I became Cadet Commander of the base. All without knowing why or how. But — when I became Cadet Commander I was ordered to join Admiral Murray, the big cheese, in making the weekly welcoming speeches to the incoming classes of Cadets. The main benefits were that I no longer was responsible for much of anything. I could come and go as I wished. I had unlimited liberty. So — as long as I showed up at the welcoming event, I was okay except that I had to pass the ground-school courses and the flight training.
And then came the last segment of training. It was called final squadron where we were to specialize in one of five programs: Fighters, Dive Bombers, Torpedo Bombers, Multi-Engine or Scout Observation. We could express a preference but we would have to accept the assignment. Being washed out at this stage was unlikely, because the Navy had a huge investment in each of us. At least now our Wings of Gold were almost but not quite within grasp.