Читать книгу Written In the Sky - Mark Carr - Страница 10
Оглавление5
COURSE OF THE CENTURY
1976 – 1977
SANGaaarzz!’
The cry was taken up through the antique wooden building – the Course Orderly had brought the evening tray of sangers (sandwiches) from the Cadets’ Mess. Doors banged and running feet reverberated on grey linoleum floors, vibrating throughout the wood of the old structure. Block 46 was an ancient two-storey building at the Royal Australian Air Force’s basic flying training base, Point Cook. The base sat to the west of Melbourne on Port Phillip Bay, where the air alternately carried the tang of salt and seaweed, industrial smells from Melbourne’s factories, and the occasional whiff of a huge sewage farm to the west. Skies were often grey and overcast, and produced a stiff cold breeze blowing off the bay.
My fellow midshipmen and I had just arrived at Point Cook in mid-1976 to join our air force counterparts on Number 100 Pilot’s Course. Like my navy group, the air force ‘Cadets Aircrew’ were a mixed bunch: boys just out of school, an ex-Queensland policeman, an older fellow who described his occupation as an ‘artificial inseminator’ (his previous job had been at an animal breeding research station), and a lawyer. There were also several counterparts of our ex-enlisted navy sailors, ‘airmen’ (as air force enlisted personnel as opposed to officers were described) and one officer, a flight lieutenant, who sported the half-wing of an Air Electronics Officer. They had been successful with applications to retrain as pilots. Phil, like me, was essentially straight out of school, but dry of wit and approachable.
Several older cadets had a good amount of flying experience with the civilian world. Some of the ‘crabs’ were brash and worldly, and what I would come to know as the usual jokes about the navy flew our way; there was cause for much hilarity in the showers that first night. The ex-sailors on our course had spent time at sea, and due to the hazard of scalding water and doubtful water pressure in the ships’ showers, it was de rigeur for them to call, ‘Watch your backs!’ when the taps were turned on or off. It was from that a natural progression for the air force to joke about ‘dropping the soap’. Many of them were just, as were we, little more than schoolboys.
In all, there were some forty of us. We were attached to Number One Flying Training School (1 FTS). The RAAF cadets had just completed their introductory officer training and, like us, were about to commence proper flight training. But there were shadowy references to names of others who were not now present, and we midshipmen learned that there had already been some dropouts, and a failure or two. The aim was to successfully complete some sixty hours of basic flying training at Point Cook. Those who made the standard would then proceed to advanced training on the Macchi jet trainer at Number Two Flying Training School (2 FTS) at RAAF Base Pearce, Western Australia.
Next morning, the air over the base was filled with two distinct sounds. A throaty roar from big, stocky Winjeel trainers, and a higher pitched snarl and buzz from other more streamlined but smaller machines – these were CT-4’s. The Winjeel was singing its swansong as a tool for training military pilots. Australian-designed, powered by an American ‘radial’ engine, the Winjeel dated back to the late 1950s, but as we were to later find, spoken of fondly by the instructors. Its engine had nine cylinders radiating from a central crankshaft and produced 450 horsepower. It stood imposingly on tail wheel-type undercarriage, its blunt nose upthrust. A man’s aeroplane! However, 100 Course was to fly the CT-4.
I caught glimpses of the CT-4s during the days of the initial ground lectures. Derived from an Australian design, these New Zealand-built machines sat on springy ‘tricycle’ landing gear, level on a nose wheel, which made for easy handling on the ground. I savoured the sight of a CT-4 taxiing, two white-helmeted figures under a glistening ‘bubble’ canopy which promised a great view of the earth and sky. A red beacon pulsed purposefully behind the cockpit. Unlike the gaudy silver and ‘DayGlo orange’ Winjeel, the CT-4 was mustard yellow on top with dark green lower surfaces, punctuated by the air force’s ‘kangaroo’ roundels and large ‘side numbers’. The wings were square and stubby. The engine’s horizontally-opposed six cylinders, three on each side, snarled through whiskery exhaust stacks. It would be thrilling to fly one of these machines: so modern in comparison with the old Auster, with me kitted out like a fighter pilot under a white helmet and spooky opaque black visor, encased in a fire-resistant green Nomex flying suit, gloves and a yellow ‘Mae West’ life jacket. But, before that would be ‘ground school’.
Air force cadets and by association, we naval midshipmen, were not treated with the grudging respect as trainee officers that we had been in Cerberus. 1 FTS students Messed (ate) with several hundred Air Force Academy students who were working towards degrees in Engineering or Science prior to aircrew training in a huge dining hall, which was at least of a modern construction, unlike our accommodation. I felt very insignificant among the forty odd members of 100 Pilots’ Course, the two senior courses and the masses of Academy cadets. There was, however, a Senior Naval Officer (SNO) assigned to 1 FTS who was also a working flying instructor, one or two other navy instructors, and a petty officer who attended to the administration of the midshipmen on the pilots’ courses. The navy instructors mixed and matched with those of the air force in exactly the same role, and trained air force students as well as the navy midshipmen. The SNO and the other navy instructors were reasonably approachable, but I was to find out that some of their air force counterparts would not be so easy to deal with.
It was initially a matter of doing what I had done in my last year of high school: study diligently, summarise, and prepare, prepare, prepare. The routine was: awake early after a fitful sleep on an ancient, sagging sprung-wire bedstead, downstairs to the communal shower and toilet, dress, cold eggs and greasy bacon cafeteria-style in the Cadets’ Mess, form up outside the accommodation block complete with bulging brief case of manuals and notes, then march off to lectures. One cadet or midshipman would be nominated as the Course Orderly (‘Course Horse’) for the week, responsible for punctual attendance at all lectures, and other menial responsibilities, including fetching the evening sangers from the Mess. Aircraft Operations (engine and airframe construction), Airmanship (rules and regulations, air traffic control), Aerodynamics, Navigation, Flight Instruments, Radio … each alone not a difficult subject for a motivated trainee military pilot, but the sheer volume of information was a challenge, along with the short time allocated to absorb it all and then to regurgitate it on an examination paper.
After a hurried lunch there would be afternoon lectures and possibly a physical training session or drill. We then marched back to Block 46 to study or chat with course-mates. We might have a few drinks before dinner in that vast Mess with the food slopped out of tureens that we would take back to bare wooden tables topped with blue plastic table mats. After dinner would be evening study in earnest. There was always an exam to prepare for and I was now well aware of the situation: a failure would result in just one re-test and if still unsatisfactory, the candidate would be ‘scrubbed’ even before flying training commenced. Later, the shout of ‘sangers!’ would result in the noisy stampede down the wooden stairs, the sandwiches devoured in an instant. Then more study for me until lights out with the clatters, door slams and bangs in the old wooden building slowly diminishing as my course-mates turned in.
Scrubbed. One can scrub a floor, dirty clothing, or scrub a sporting match or other event due to bad weather or change of plans. Since World War II, the word has been brutally applied to the removal of a pilot from his course after failure at RAAF flying training units. Course photographs displayed in various locations of the 1 FTS administration and operational areas baldly bore crosses through the faces of those students who had been scrubbed. Some faces were just white silhouettes after liberal use of correction fluid. Failed students would be offered the choice of other career paths in the air force, or a return to civilian life. One or two of the students on 100 Course were already starting to struggle, and the day came when a further one or two were scrubbed before they got near an aircraft. I recall despondent yet relieved faces that it was all over. It was usually the younger ones, like myself, and most would be off the base in a day or two. The training of a military pilot was expensive, and, while an individual student may have been intelligent and motivated, he had to come up to standard within the required time: the air force and navy had neither the budget nor the manpower for much remedial training. Failure of an air test would be followed by a session of remedial instruction, then one more, and only one, retest, known as a ‘scrub ride’. For the ground school, my previous avid reading, aviation background, motivation and diligent study habits kept my head above water, and my academic training results were good.
Interspersed with the aviation theory was drill (air force style) and occasional weapons training. We were issued with Self Loading Rifles (SLRs), 0.762 calibre weapons that were to be kept clean, used for drill and very occasionally, live firing. These were kept in racks in our rooms and subject to inspection. My room (there were no cabins in the air force) in the old block was a wooden world. Green-painted planks lined the walls down to a blue linoleum floor laid on second-floor boards that supported a small mat, an old wooden wardrobe, a tiny wooden desk and the ancient iron bedstead. It was of course kept in military neatness, but a few photographs and cuttings of military aircraft and one or two familiar books added a homely touch. Rooms and personal kit were inspected on Tuesday evenings, the air force colloquialism being ‘panic night’, and in fact ‘panic’ was also a verb in the air force: one ‘panicked’ one’s room before inspection by the Warrant Officer Disciplinary, or WOD. The WOD shadowed the courses like a predator, eying dress and drill standards, punctuality and discipline, ready to pounce on transgressors.
As with most high-pressure courses comprising young men, the ethos was ‘work hard play hard’. After a late afternoon trip to the canteen or private study in the classrooms, I often approached Block 46 to the increasing sounds of running water, shouts then a splash, swearing and laughter from the downstairs ablutions area, where semi-naked figures were chased by others wielding towels or metal waste paper bins full of water – it was horseplay at its finest.
One evening, when I was working upstairs in my wooden room, I heard the sounds of high-jinks downstairs that developed into a commotion. The noise brought me and others to the ground floor. There was blood and glass everywhere on the veranda outside. A naked ashen-faced cadet was being held with a reddening towel around an arm that was gashed from wrist to shoulder. While being chased he had accidentally thrust his arm through the glass door at the end of the passageway. At that moment, Schmitty, the laconic ex-lawyer, emerged from his room. He eyed the mess of water, blood and shards of glass for a moment and, referring to preparations for the forthcoming ‘panic night’, remarked, ‘Christ, who’s on verandas this week?’
Soon, actual flying training would begin. Now interspersed with the theory classes were ‘Mass Briefs’: lectures from the flying instructors on pure flying technique, stick and rudder, effects of controls, use of checklists and emergencies. Prior to the first Mass Brief and outfitting for flying equipment, we were marched to the Flight Operations area, directed into a classroom and told to sit. An imposing squadron leader strode in, and patches on his green flying jacket denoted that he had flown the American Phantom fighter bomber, a legendary brute of an aircraft that had up until recently been operated by the RAAF. He was one of the senior instructors, and his nickname was already known to us: ‘Scrubber’.
‘Stand fast!’ called the course orderly, and we sprang up to attention. He motioned for us to sit. An incongruously high-pitched voice emanated from the big man: ‘You’ll soon be coming down to “flights”, alrighty? You had better start putting the work in, get into those books. You’ve got to come up to standard in the required time, and if you don’t, you’ll be on your way out, alrighty?’
‘Point Tower, Dual Three Seven, taxi one, P.O.B. two for area famil, clockwise from above,’ Squadron Leader Heyfield radioed to Point Cook’s control tower. He had started the CT-4’s engine and remained in control of the aircraft, and I sat passively, trying to take it all in. The CT-4 did not smell of the Auster’s dope, leather and oil: a more sickening aroma of plastic and fuel permeated the cockpit. Even on a winter’s day it was hot under the Perspex canopy while clad in flying suit, gloves, life jacket (Mae West) stuffed with survival gear, and a helmet that seemed a size too large on my narrow head, but at least the helmet somewhat attenuated the rattle of the engine. The cockpit comprised metal panels with no soundproofing, in military grey. The pilots looked forward over a black painted nose and the view to the side was remarkable: the wings were tiny! I tried to follow the drills as Heyfield taxied, ran up the engine and carried out the before take-off checks. Then, after a brisk acceleration down the runway, for the first time I was airborne in a military aircraft.
Even this first flight was to be productive, because it was the Area Familiarisation. Several designated training areas had various boundaries, mainly roads, towns and coastlines of Port Phillip Bay, all of which, along with the altitude limits, were to be memorised. And this aircraft was no Auster. The CT-4 flew some fifty knots – or 92 km/hr – faster and Heyfield, a fighter pilot, purposefully manoeuvred it around the training areas, pointing out the boundaries and questioning me as to whether I was absorbing it all. He then started manoeuvring more violently, saying, ‘We’ll do a few aero’s before we go back’, and he commenced some aerobatics.
It is hard to describe ‘g-force’ (or just plain g to pilots) to someone who has not experienced it. As an aircraft moving rapidly through the atmosphere changes direction, the laws of physics dictate that it and its occupants will want to maintain their previous state of motion; that is, to continue in a straight line. As a turn steepens, or the nose of the aircraft is raised abruptly, one’s apparent weight will increase, as at the bottom of a high-speed elevator ride. But, unlike the elevator, a high-performance aircraft can maintain this change of direction, and the sensation is increased and prolonged. It is as if one is lying under a leaden quilt, with the force of the direction change pressing on every cell of one’s body, arms and legs. In extreme cases, ‘tunnelling’ of vision occurs as blood is momentarily drained from the visual centre of the brain (this is painless, and vision ‘opens out’ when the g is removed).
G came on as Heyfield pulled back on the control stick and pulled the nose to the sky to start a ‘wing over’, where he over-banked the wings to nearly vertical to the horizon. Off came the g and the nose ‘fell through’ in an arc downwards past the horizon, then more g came as he pulled up to regain level flight. The view of fields and houses when I looked outwards through the canopy and then filling the windscreen was unforgettable. Then we did a loop, with four g showing on the cockpit ‘g meter’. I felt a momentary violent weight of four times my normal: the nose sliced up into a clear blue winter sky and I felt a floating sensation over the top of the loop with my head back while I looked for the horizon to reappear, until the nose once again pointed down vertically at fields and rows of trees. The g came on again as Heyfield pulled the nose upward towards the horizon to complete the loop. The world then spun ahead of us in a roll. Nauseated by the manoeuvring and the smells of plastic and sloshing fuel yet exhilarated, I was given control of the aircraft for a short time, its controls highly responsive. I still could not get over how stubby those little wings looked. But the noise, the smell, the brusque, no-nonsense instructor, the equipment I was wearing, the g, and the academics that had to be applied to this … adequate performance in the class room was one thing. But now, Scrubber’s words: “You’ve got to come up to standard in the required time, and if you don’t, you’ll be on your way out, alrighty?” appeared ominous indeed.
Flying training began in earnest. Up at – oh – six-thirty, with breakfast, ground school, then flight – or flight, then ground school – before completing the day with evening study. It became obvious that this was a ‘pressure’ course. The aim was to weed out the academically weak, the airsick, the unassertive, the argumentative, that was, seemingly, almost everyone. Unlike Jack and Simon at Pilotmakers, these instructors were not teaching paying customers in a benign civilian environment. These men had all served on operational squadrons, and some had flown in the Vietnam war as helicopter, transport and bomber pilots. It became apparent – even now to a nineteen-year-old recent civilian – that many of them did not want to be at Point Cook. Some derided the comparatively dainty CT-4, calling it ‘The Plastic Parrot’, after having flown its predecessor that was still being used to train the senior course, the manly Winjeel with its bellowing engine of over twice the CT-4’s power. The Point Cook sky would still reverberate with the Winjeels’ rumble for a few months yet.
There were usually some three pilot’s courses at any one time at Point Cook, and at morning briefing, all students gathered in the briefing room, where a weather report was given and operational and administrative announcements made. The quiz officer would then rise and commence questioning, and on the cadet or midshipman being called, he was required to stand, snap to attention and answer the question, which usually regarded a procedure, an aircraft limitation, or an emergency drill. An incorrect answer would be responded to by a contemptuous, ‘Remain standing,’ and further victims were selected until the question was answered correctly. All instructors were ‘Sir’ on the ground and in the air. At any time a ‘squawk box’ in the students’ crew hut could rasp, ‘Spare student to Ops,’ requiring one of us for a menial task such as making the instructors cups of the ubiquitous powdery Service instant coffee, or running an errand.
My flying training started reasonably well. Heyfield was generally patient, but would become short with me when I muddled or forgot checklist items or procedures. I made progress with Turning, Climbing, Descending and Effects of Controls.
The instructor emphasised that each aircraft flight control does not just cover one axis of manoeuvring the machine. For example, pressing a rudder pedal induces its ‘primary’ effect of yawing the nose left and right in a flat plane, but it also induces banking, as each wing will move at a different air speed that has to be compensated for. There can also be ‘tertiary’ effects. ‘Trimming’ – almost never an issue when flying the slow old Auster – was essential. A change in airspeed or power results in different pressures on the flight controls, and it is essential that these are ‘trimmed out’ by switches, levers or wheels to reduce pilot workload and increase flying accuracy. The Point Cook instructors were red-hot on trimming from the first flight. They freely bandied about the slogan ‘Trim or fail’, and they were not joking. The CT-4’s engine did not have a straightforward throttle that controlled RPM like the Auster. The RPM of the propeller, and, therefore, the engine, was controlled by a separate propeller lever, and the actual engine power was ‘manifold pressure’, set by the throttle lever. Selecting an optimum RPM for a given manifold pressure is like gears on a bicycle or car, which greatly contributes to efficiency and fuel economy. There was also a ‘mixture’ control. Combinations of manifold pressure and RPM for the various phases like climb, cruise or aerobatics had to be memorised along with maximum and minimum acceptable readings on the engine instruments.
The old Auster had not been fitted with a radio. One was not required when flying in the uncontrolled air space around Moorooduc: pilots ‘saw and were seen.’ But, at Point Cook, as the air space was controlled and densely trafficked, radio calls had to be learned and made at the correct time using the exact phraseology.
There was an introduction to military aerodrome traffic ‘circuit’ procedures. I was mistaken if I thought I was familiar with circuits from my Auster flying. Military circuits were flown as tight ovals. The ‘crosswind’ leg turned into a continuous short downwind, followed by a curving base turn to line up on final approach with the nose facing the runway to land, 500 feet, 150 metres above ground. The result was almost constant manoeuvring, configuring and trimming of the aircraft with two military circuits flown in the time that would be taken to fly one civilian ‘square’ pattern.
Heyfield kept on at me about spacing, height control, where to turn ‘base’ and of course trimming the aircraft, and under his guidance I attained a reasonable standard but increasingly came frustrating instances of inconsistency, silly mistakes and ‘bad days’.
‘Have you heard the rumour? The CT-4s have been grounded!’
In-service failures had contributed to a decision to stop operating the CT-4s until these problems were rectified. There would be a hiatus for several weeks. It was decided that for our edification our course group would be deployed to operational bases for exposure: the air force cadets went to the various frontline airfields, but the navy students had only one: HMAS Albatross.
The town of Nowra, just inland from New South Wales’ south coast and south of Wollongong, is surrounded with remarkable lushness. To the east lies the green flood plain of the Shoalhaven River. Westward there are rolling hills, also verdant, dominated by conical ‘Nowra Hill’. Tucked next to this hill is HMAS Albatross, also known as Naval Air Station (NAS) Nowra. Further west lies deceptively-flat drab green eucalypt country on ground that inexorably rises towards the Great Dividing Range, riven by occasional great gorges. With ears ringing from the bellow of two massive radial engines, the midshipmen of 100 Pilots’ Course alighted from the air force’s dumpy green Caribou tactical transport, for an early visit to what would become the centre of our world, should we graduate. And what a world! As we walked away from the Caribou, Skyhawk tactical jets shrieked overhead while RAN Macchi jet trainers flew circuits in their smart blue and white livery. A Grumman Tracker snarled at full power for take-off, and there was the constant wup-wup-wup of the Fleet Air Arm’s four different types of helicopters. A miniature air force! The air hummed.
The tools used by this small air arm were potent and flexible. Australia was embroiled in the Cold War, its military geared to face the perceived threat from the Soviet Union and its client states. The Russians had no practical sea based naval aircraft, apart from a few helicopters, and the vast military-industrial complex of the United States ensured that America would be able to project superior power at sea through the medium of mighty aircraft carriers, conventional and nuclear-powered. Having participated in the proxy cold wars that became very hot in Korea and Vietnam, Australia also knew the value of sea-based air power and, using the resources this small, young nation had, it did its best to contribute with one small aircraft carrier: HMAS Melbourne and her air wing.
HMAS Melbourne was old, even then. Her construction began for Britain’s wartime Royal Navy as HMS Majestic in 1943. With the end of World War II, she remained in limbo until 1955 when she was commissioned into the RAN as HMAS Melbourne, her angled flight deck one of the first. Until then, carrier aircraft landed directly behind the ship, parallel with its axis. However, missing the ship’s arresting system or a late ‘wave off’ could be disastrous if aircraft, men or machinery were ranged near the bow in readiness for launching other aeroplanes or helicopters. The angled deck alleviated this problem and enabled almost simultaneous launching and recovery of naval aircraft by canting the rectangular landing area about five degrees to port (left), leaving the forward part of the ship clear for launching and ranging (parking) more aircraft. This design is still evident in the American ‘super carriers’ today, and Melbourne was among the first!
HMAS Melbourne was no super carrier. Her engines were entirely conventional, of the technology in use to power any British cruiser of the 1950s. Fuel oil and air were mixed in boilers, which produced steam to drive two Parsons turbines and, consequently, two propellers. This technology had changed little since the days of the Titanic. Designed to operate British piston-engine fighter and attack aircraft, Australia was very much stretching Melbourne’s capabilities by operating Skyhawk jet fighters, big Tracker anti-submarine aircraft and heavy Sea King and Wessex helicopters. Although the ship was made in Britain and was operated by a navy that still followed the traditions of ‘the mother country’, the frontline aircraft and the way they were flown and fought were overwhelmingly American.
The Douglas A-4G Skyhawk was as tiny as an attack aircraft could be. Despite this, the little jet packed powerful capability for aerial warfare both against other aircraft, and against sea and land targets. It could carry a special fuel tank under its wing that was equipped with a reel-out hose to enable buddy refuelling of other Skyhawks in the air. It was a capability that Australia’s air force did not have. All that, with the capability of going to sea, made it Australia’s most potent way of projecting power. However, operating the Skyhawk jets was not Melbourne’s main role. She was an ‘anti-submarine’ carrier.
The Soviet Union did not have any viable aircraft carriers, but they did have nuclear submarines aplenty. These steel sharks, along with their U.S. counterparts, prowled the oceans in two main guises: ‘hunter killers’ that attacked surface ships and other submarines, and huge missile carriers called ‘boomers’ that could mete out nuclear destruction from their missile silos. Anti-submarine warfare, ASW, was the most expensive form of warfare in the late twentieth century. The machinery involved in it tested the limits of man’s ingenuity and was extremely manpower intensive. Today, submarines are almost undetectable. An air arm can spend thousands of hours trying to detect one and still fail. Nuclear war aside, in a conventional war of the twentieth century, a submarine had to get reasonably close to its target and then, somehow, acquire it and come up with a firing solution. It would, just slightly, have to expose itself. And that’s where the aircraft came in.
By simply being there, at sea with the surface ships, anti-submarine and patrol aircraft made the submariner’s job difficult. Limiting the opportunities for submarines to raise a periscope, charge batteries (if the submarine was conventional) or surface to launch missiles, the Trackers of the Royal Australian Navy, ready to drop a depth charge or homing torpedo, played an important role in deterring, detecting, and, if necessary, attacking hostile submarines.
The Tracker’s powerful piston engines propelled a stubby airframe. Its pilots looked out through goggling windows to the side and through arched eyebrow-like windscreens ahead. Two sensor operators were crammed into spaces behind racks of electronics and instrument panels. Under the floor hung two homing torpedoes, and the wings could carry depth charges and rocket pods. A searchlight, radar and a magnetic detector helped the specialist observers in the hunt for their quarry. Like the Skyhawk, the Tracker was built to be tough and was jam-packed with equipment. It had minimal comforts for its crew. It could fly for over six hours, ranging far from the fleet, an eye in the sky for the Admiral and his staff, and a deterrent to the prowling submariner.
The Sea King helicopter was massive. Twin turbine engines powered a huge rotor atop its boat-like hull. Designed to operate closer-in to the ships that it was to protect, the Sea King carried a powerful sonar. This unit was lowered on a cable directly into the water from the hover, where it could passively listen for a submarine or, alternatively, ping sound waves off its hull. The massive helicopter also had a radar and carried torpedoes.
The Skyhawks, Trackers and Sea Kings were the frontline aircraft of the Royal Australian Navy. In secondary roles were the old British Westland Wessex helicopters used for utility purposes and, most importantly, rescue operations. Wessex crews and maintainers distinguished themselves after Darwin was destroyed by Cyclone Tracy. The helicopters operated from HMAS Melbourne to ferry people and supplies. Dainty little Kiowa training helicopters built up pilots’ skills, while the bigger Iroquois that were used in the Vietnam war provided army cooperation and support. RAN Iroquois pilots had operated in Vietnam as part of a detachment during that war alongside the Americans, to whom the Iroquois was known as the ‘Huey’. There were fixed-wing support aircraft as well. One type was the Macchi MB-326 jet trainer.
Macchis were operated in numbers by Australia’s navy and air force. Advanced training where we would fly the air force Macchis was, for us, the glittering prize for successfully completing our training at Point Cook. Unlike the orange and white training ‘Fanta cans’ of the air force, the Navy’s Macchis were blue and white with yellow flashes on the tail that proclaimed they belonged to VC 724 Squadron. These Macchis were used for advanced training in fighter tactics and weapons. They could carry rocket pods, practice bombs and machine guns beneath their wings.
There were other noteworthy aircraft at NAS Nowra. Belonging to VC 851 Squadron were two airliners. These were British Hawker Siddeley HS 748s, powered by two ‘turboprop’ engines (a turboprop is a jet engine which drives a propeller). The original civilian airliner design carried some forty passengers. Also operated by the air force for VIP carriage and navigator training, the HS 748s were used by the navy as general transports, navigation trainers and, importantly, to accustom new naval pilots to flying multi-engine aircraft, because the Tracker was considered challenging to control with one engine failed.
There was no midshipmen’s gunroom in HMAS Albatross. Accommodated in the officers’ wardroom and on our best behaviour, we rapidly unlearned the air force patois and hearkened back to our six weeks in HMAS Cerberus. We found that Fleet Air Arm squadrons, six in all, were smaller than their air force counterparts. Three were regarded as ‘frontline’, routinely embarked in Australia’s only aircraft carrier, Melbourne, with the three second-line squadrons devoted to training and fleet support. Although they carried traditional ex-British squadron numbers, the exigencies of the Cold War dictated that Australia’s military be more aligned with the United States. The traditional squadron numbers were prefixed with letters that denoted the squadron’s role. For example, frontline VS 816 was ‘fixed wing, anti-submarine’.
At this shore base, the naval aircraft were kept clean. The frontline Trackers and Skyhawks gleamed in glossy paint and were crammed in hangars to replicate the below-deck environment of the aircraft carrier for effective training. The Trackers’ 22-metre wingspan required that the wing panels, outboard of each engine, be folded overhead, Then the aircraft looked like honeybees, with the pilots’ side windows reminiscent of compound eyes. The curved delta wings of the Skyhawks were tiny, and did not need to fold. The hangar lights were reflected in the grey and white gloss of the Trackers and Skyhawks. They were resplendent, in colourful squadron crests and markings. ‘NAVY’ was printed in prominent black letters on the fuselages. Sailors (‘maintainers’) in grey-blue denims tended their charges under the watchful eyes of the petty officers.
Hosted by various squadrons, our group was shown around the station. We looked over the various aircraft, sat in the cockpits and listened attentively to ‘old and bold’ carrier pilots in the squadron crew rooms and in the wardroom bar. Many of them sported beards. The air force began as a branch of the army, so it restricts facial hair options to a neatly-trimmed moustache. Cultivating a beard is the prerogative of the navy, the ‘Senior Service’. However, there is a protocol to be followed. The prospective beard grower must approach his commanding officer who then assesses the candidate for facial hair-growing potential and if considered suitable, grants permission to cease shaving. Reassessed after a suitable period, if the beard is not of sufficient fullness or just wispy bum fluff, the order is to ‘shave off’. ‘Shave off!’ was also used as a derisive, dismissive term in various circumstances.
A ride in a Sea King helicopter, the pilots almost unintelligible through the intercom because of their throat-mounted microphones, was the introduction to naval flight for most of us. Having had a taste for what was to come should we successfully complete the pilot’s course, it was time to get back to work. At Point Cook, after one refresher training flight after the forced hiatus, I had to start showing that all-important trend of improvement at the required rate. And now I had a new instructor.
A tall, gingery ex-helicopter pilot with an outgoing personality, Flight Lieutenant Clough was a contrast to the stolid Squadron Leader Heyfield. I commenced training in aerobatics, forced landing practice and spinning. An aircraft can be spun deliberately, or when it is mishandled. The indications of a spin and the recovery procedure were drilled into us and often asked for at the morning quiz. A spin at low altitude can be catastrophic. Then there were the various types of circuits: after achieving a satisfactory standard with normal circuit patterns to ‘Sir’s’ satisfaction, we started on flapless, glide and low level circuits, each with its own considerations and visual picture. Flapless circuits simulated a failure of the electrically-driven wing flaps on the CT-4, leading to challenging speed control on a flatter approach, a higher nose attitude and a faster speed for landing. Glide circuits simulated the last part of a forced landing from what was called ‘low key’, which, at 1,500 feet – or 460 metres high – was adjacent to the touchdown point of a runway or selected field. Low-level circuits were for bad weather or the instructor’s enjoyment.
Despite the workload, the pressure, and the military discipline, there were a few opportunities for relaxation. During the seventies and eighties, Australia’s military services worked hard and played hard. The vast majority of officers and men were well below the age of forty. There was a culture of letting off steam at Mess Dinners, on Friday afternoons and Saturdays. The ex-airmen on our course organised get-togethers with groups of trainee ‘WAAFs’, as female members of the air force were called then. It was the ‘disco’ era, and at various pubs and nightspots we looked incongruous in the flared trousers and colourful shirts of the day but with short, military haircuts. I had no driver’s licence – much less a car – but many of my course-mates did. 100 Pilot’s Course was, with one or two exceptions, slowly becoming closer-knit and more supportive of each other.
I managed to travel home to Mornington by train a few times for weekends to catch up with friends and family, but already I was being absorbed by military life. Life ‘in civvies’ had little interest for me. But would I pass the training? Younger than most on my course, I was immature for my age and unworldly. My performance in the aircraft was becoming more and more inconsistent. However, Clough sent me solo. Flying the CT-4 without the weight of the instructor and feeling it leap into the air was very memorable for me, even though I had soloed the Auster on a few occasions. Now I was flying a military aircraft, alone, with the roundel – the red kangaroo in his blue circle- painted on each wing. But, on subsequent flights as more sequences and requirements were introduced, I began to slip further.
I had always been tense and nervous in the air, despite the magic of it all. My immaturity, combined with Clough’s outgoing and matter-of-fact manner and the workload of ground training, led to the deterioration of my performance. A forgotten checklist item, a missed radio call, incorrect speed or a wrong aircraft configuration could lead to a thump on the arm or helmet from Clough. On the downwind leg of one circuit, he began calling me names over the intercom in a calculated tirade. As I approached the base turn for final approach, my lips tightened under the boom microphone. I concentrated on flying accurately and tried to focus on the rest of the flight. It was an attempt to break me. An outburst or emotional collapse would have resulted in immediate course failure. I had been marked as too young, under-confident, and probably not suitable for further training as a military pilot. It would be up to me to prove them wrong.
Other course-mates were struggling too. As spinning and aerobatics were introduced, some were chronically airsick, and had to be contemptuously flown home by their instructors while they clutched paper bags. Most pilots – myself included – gradually became desensitised to motion sickness, except for an unlucky few. There was an establishment at Point Cook called the School of Aviation Medicine. The chronically sick students were grounded and sent to AvMed for a desensitisation program. This involved four sessions a day in the ‘Vertigon’, an enclosed box that rotated on a pivot with a simulated cockpit inside. The students sat in the box, its lid was closed, and various head movements had to be carried out while the Vertigon was rotated round and round, the occupant’s head moving up and down, to bring them to the point of vomiting. One or two fell by the wayside, while other determined students returned after a thoroughly unpleasant few days.
Most of us underwent ‘sight board runs’ at various stages of our training at Point Cook. A forgotten checklist or action, a whiff of overconfidence, a poor landing, and it was off to the sight board. One of the Point Cook runways was a sealed asphalt strip, but the rest were grass marked by white gable markers, and at the end of one of the runways was the infamous ‘sight board’. Steering the CT-4 straight down the centreline of the runway was important, and the large red and white checkerboard was set up at the strip’s far end as an aim point for the pilot nearly a kilometre away. The miscreant would have to run to the sight board, breeding magpies swooping, usually wearing a helmet, a parachute pack and a life jacket, very hot under all of the equipment. There could be no cheating by turning back early; he would have to sign his name on the board. The signature would be checked by the instructor later.
Another punishment was being ordered to get out of the aircraft immediately after landing and while the instructor taxied in, the student had to grip the aircraft’s wing tip and run to keep up, for onlookers to watch and to point at. To a nineteen-year-old, all of this was very character forming. Poor drill from the course when marching to lectures resulted in Scrubber following the squad close behind in a van while we ran ‘at the double’, briefcases bouncing, to lectures.
Life at Point Cook was not always grim. At one of the discos I had met a trainee WAAF with whom I spent occasional weekend afternoons. A small group of army officers had joined our course, in training as army pilots, and were mature and pleasant. Those of them who graduated from Point Cook would not proceed to the Macchi jets: they would go to their base at Oakey, Queensland, for specialist training on army aircraft. They lived in the Officers’ Mess, not our ancient cadets’ accommodation.
A separate course of students from Papua New Guinea (PNG) arrived. Good humoured members of the PNG Defence Force, the ‘PNGs’ were accommodated in a nearby block. Few could drive a motor vehicle, and they (and their flying instructors) had a hard road ahead. One of the first evenings after they arrived was Panic Night, where rooms had to be cleaned and polished for inspection by the WOD. This involved use of the 1960s vintage floor polishers that had huge single rotating bristle brushes that spun and throbbed while the operator clung to the handgrips. The PNGs had not experienced any form of floor-cleaning appliance before, and there was much hilarity and mock fear as the things came alive, with some of them jumping up onto their beds. Later, a group of PNG students purchased an old car that had been sitting up on blocks for months in the Cadets’ Mess car park. The fact that none of them could drive was not a problem for them: Friday afternoon’s entertainment was to sit in it while they worked through the contents of several cartons of beer. Many of these men passed their training at Point Cook and went on to successful careers in the PNG Defence Forces and later, with international airlines.
My battle with the CT-4 began to ease a little thanks to one bright spot: I was reasonably competent at ‘instrument flying’. It was becoming apparent that my feel for the aircraft was not great: my circuits were average, and I was not good at aerobatics (even the basic loops and rolls). We had begun navigation training, and my calculations and map reading were often muddled. Instrument flying was somewhat of a relief, because I did not have worry about what was going on outside! Most of the other students hated flying on instruments.
Simon at Pilotmakers had stressed the importance of looking at the aircraft’s ‘attitude’. It was vital to focus on the picture of the horizon, the attitude, in relation to the windscreen rather than chasing the needles on the instrument panel. But the air force made an art form of ‘attitude flying’ using the ‘selective radial scan’, like the spokes of a wheel: look at the horizon, then inside to one instrument, maybe the altimeter, back outside to the horizon, in to another instrument, say the air speed indicator, back out to the horizon, and so forth. Staring at one instrument for too long, or looking inside at other instruments, would inevitably lead to the aircraft’s attitude with respect to the horizon (and the surrounding airflow) changing, especially if the pilot had committed the cardinal sin of not trimming the aircraft properly. ‘Attitude plus power equals performance!’ This mantra joined ‘trim or fail’ from the instructors. ‘Select the correct attitude, set the required [engine] power, and you will get the [aircraft] performance you want,’ stressed the instructors. Instrument flying merely meant replacing the sometimes-vague horizon of earth and sky ahead through the windscreen with a small artificial one in the cockpit. And this instrument had numbers on it.
A diligent studier, all I had to do was to memorise the various attitudes (expressed in degrees), the power settings and the ‘by numbers’ instrument flying procedures, and the CT-4 would do my bidding. No need to look outside: in fact, we had hoods placed over our helmets to restrict vision. No need to look for, avoid and report to ‘Sir’ any other aircraft spotted in the vicinity. No harsh manoeuvring or aerobatics. The military were insistent on good instrument flying skills, because its pilots were required to not just fly but to ‘fight’ their aircraft in all weather conditions, day and night, in cloud or rain. Regardless of how good a student’s aerobatics or visual flying skills were, if his instrument work was not up to standard, he was finished. Most of 100 Course scraped through the rudimentary instrument flying at Point Cook: the basic manoeuvres, ‘homings’ and ‘let downs’ through ‘cloud’ directed by radio to overhead the fields at Point Cook and Laverton. But apart from the occasional silly procedural error, I did reasonably well at instrument flying. Then things looked up further: I had a new instructor.
‘Hawkeye’, another air force flight lieutenant, was as urbane as a Point Cook instructor could be, and less aggressive about mistakes. I had scraped through the early progress tests in circuits, aerobatics and practice forced landings, and did reasonably well in the flight devoted to assessing the candidate’s instrument flying. A junior course, Number 101, had arrived at Point Cook, and those who remained of the senior course, 99, were about to move on to the coveted jets at Pearce. There were more solo consolidation flights, the manoeuvres and requirements strictly laid out and monitored by a Duty Instructor in the control tower, and I experienced the joy of solo circuits and aerobatics. But I was still having good days and bad days. I was considered safe for a solo navigation exercise. The academic workload eased gradually as the exams were cleared, and the syllabus flights were counted down until the final one: the Basic Handling Test, or BHT. Pass this, and it was off to the golden west where the Macchi jets waited for us: advanced aerobatics and instrument flying, low level navigation, even formation flying!
An instructor known as Rocky was held in awe at Point Cook. A balding, shortish squadron leader with a round red face, he was older than most, possibly in his final years as an active air force officer. But he was an outstanding aerobatic pilot. Loops and rolls and so forth, by their nature require lots of vertical airspace. The general rule was that aerobatics had to be performed not below a height of 4,000 feet, or 1,200 metres above the ground. This allowed for errors such as ‘falling out’ of a manoeuvre or flicking into an unintentional spin. Exceptionally qualified and talented pilots are approved to do aerobatics closer to the ground, at ‘low level’, which leaves little room for error. Since man has flown, many pilots have been killed while performing low-level aerobatics. Rocky was qualified for, and very good at, low-level aerobatics in the CT-4 and Winjeel. Furthermore, he was not put off by ‘negative g’. Negative g is the force of hanging upside-down on trapeze rings or in the seat belts of an inverted aircraft. Unlike the crushing weight of ‘positive’ g, negative g forces blood to one’s brain. Your eyeballs feel as if they are about to pop. As negative g builds up through manoeuvring it becomes painful, it starts to feel like your head is bursting and your vision starts to ‘red out’. Through a painful red haze, the pilot eases off the negative g that he feels after the aircraft’s nose has been pushed rather than pulled, generally with relief, and even a large amount of subsequent ‘positive’ g can be a welcome change.
Rocky’s low-level aerobatic displays on most Friday afternoons were eagerly anticipated. Usually in a Winjeel, he would dive at high speed toward the tarmac then pull up into a huge loop, a barrel roll, and then vertically upwards, the aircraft gyrating until it would flop back down, its centre of gravity taking over to pivot the engine to point towards the earth. Then down into a half loop but holding the machine inverted, another half-roll and skywards again. The silver and orange Winjeel would flash past in another low pass with an immediate half roll. Inverted but pointing towards the sky, Rocky would be hanging in his straps, then a rapid push up to half an outside loop, several negative g’s forcing the blood to his upper body. Some of us would involuntarily groan in vicarious discomfort. More manoeuvres, then a final inverted pass. Hanging in his harness, he would kick the rudder pedals, yawing the upside-down Winjeel from side-to-side as if to wave goodbye, while working the control column to keep the wings level. Legend had it that the ground crews often found fluid leaking from the Winjeel’s battery due to Rocky’s unnatural and violent manoeuvres. Soon, he would land and in military aviation tradition, head to the Officers’ Mess bar. And every Friday afternoon, students were invited – in fact, expected – to attend the same.
Pilots learned much of their trade through the camaraderie of sharing alcohol. Tongues loosened by the cheap beer, with the usually free weekend of a training base in the offing, some of the instructors would show a slightly more human aspect. Many of these men had seen active service in Vietnam, and the occasional story or anecdote would have their students hanging onto every word. Flying wisdom and even the occasional hint or tip would be imparted. The students would begin to get a vision of an operational squadron and possibly what type of aircraft they would like to fly operationally … if they passed the course. The navy instructors talked of carrier landings and engaged in friendly banter with their air force counterparts. No. 100 was now the senior course at 1 FTS. Most of us were almost salivating at the prospect of flying the Macchi, with the erroneous notion that passing Point Cook would be the biggest hurdle. Once we got to 2 FTS, it would all be easy! I was still a very low-average student, but I was saved by my instrument flying ability. Hawkeye had put me up for the final assessment: the Basic Handling Test. This had to be successfully completed in order to go on to Pearce. And the instructor who would test me on the final scheduled flying day of the course at Point Cook, would be Rocky.
‘Taking over,’ called Rocky through the intercom.
It was the Basic Handling Test, and the CT-4 had been pointing earthwards in one of the training areas, accelerating downwards after a vicious flip backwards after hanging in the sky. I had been demonstrating my ability to recover from an ‘Unusual Attitude’ (UA), another vital aspect of military flight training. A UA can develop through disorientation, error or a botched aerobatic manoeuvre. This can occur when the nose is pointing skywards with no airspeed to give control or, conversely, by accelerating earthwards in a spiral dive or in a spin. High above the earth, Rocky had set me up in the standard manner, taking control, making sure my eyes were closed. His call ‘recover now’ was the prompt to open my eyes, take control of the aircraft, and return it to normal flight. Nose-high, with nothing but blue in the windscreen and the aircraft slowing against gravity’s pull, I had closed the engine’s throttle, centralised the flight controls and firmly held them as the aircraft fell backwards, the reversal of air over its elevators and rudder at the tail producing unnatural forces on the stick and pedals. I knew that the CT-4’s natural stability would prevail, and accordingly its nose flopped down, speed built up over its wings, and again I was in control, easing out of the dive.
‘Taking over,’ Rocky called.
In his opinion, I had applied the wrong recovery technique. He had expected me to increase the engine to full power and push the nose back down to the horizon, and he then proceeded to demonstrate what I should have done.
‘Handing over! Take me to Laverton for some circuits!’ he said.
‘Yes, sir,’ I replied.
Dutifully, I flew towards the satellite base of RAAF Laverton, with its crossed, sealed runways. Trying to focus on the remainder of the test, I set up for a standard ‘rejoin’ of Laverton’s traffic circuit, recited the appropriate checklist, radioed my intentions to Laverton Tower, and then concentrated on the required joining procedure.
‘Practice!’ Rocky called.
Rocky’s hand went to the engine’s throttle lever, simulating an engine failure. This was nothing new: it was almost expected, especially on this test. Practice Force Landings, PFLs, had been drilled into us from before ‘solo’. The instructors would, without warning, simulate an engine failure by throttling back the engine and call ‘Practice!’ over the intercom. The student was then expected to enter a gentle glide to earth, carry out the memorised troubleshooting and safety checks, select a landing area (a field, or an airstrip if close), and exercise his judgement to place the aircraft in a position from which it could land without engine power. Approaching the landing field, the instructor would command ‘Go round’ and with the engine power restored, the aircraft would be climbed away. If near a runway, the student would successfully complete the last stage of the ‘glide’ type of circuit and land the aircraft.
Laverton’s runway was not too far away, and I manoeuvred the little trainer towards an actual landing. Although I was a bit low, the aircraft passed over trees by the road that lay before the runway’s threshold. They were close, but a safe touchdown eventuated. I applied power for the usual rolling ‘touch and go’ procedure, lifted the aircraft back into the sky and waited for Rocky’s next instruction.
‘Taking over,’ he shouted. He wrenched the aircraft around in a tight turn. ‘I’m going to show you just how low over those bloody trees you were!’
He flew a low circuit, clearing the trees as I had done. Then, without a word, he pulled the aircraft around, hard, into another turn and flew it low and at high speed back to Point Cook. We roared low along the flight line, and then we fanned up into a climbing turn to join the circuit and land. Through all this, with the g periodically tugging at my body, I stared ahead, dejected.
Time had been of the essence because of the delays to our course’s training after the grounding of the CT-4s. Procedures for posting out of Point Cook for Western Australia had to be completed before the entire base shut down for Christmas. Even at 1 FTS, failure of the final flight test was relatively rare. This same day there was just enough time for one remedial flight, of which I remember little. Another flying instructor went over my weakest areas and I plodded through the exercises, aerobatics, circuits and another PFL. UA recoveries would have been practiced again to ensure that I would apply the correct technique. After landing, I found that I was to be given my one chance: a ‘scrub ride’ with Flight Lieutenant Edwards. It was to be on the following day, Friday, the last flying day of the working week at this training base before the Christmas stand-down commenced.
The Senior Naval Officer had been informed of my failure.
After my remedial flight that afternoon, there was an end-of-course bar session with the instructors, and I dutifully showed up. All my course-mates had completed their BHTs and were in various degrees of elation and relief, now focused on the final administrative procedures involved with clearing Point Cook and taking leave over Christmas before starting advanced training on the Macchi in Western Australia. I was still not through, and this time my inconsistent performance had reared its head on a test. Rocky approached me in the bar, a little softer in demeanour. He would have spoken to the instructor who had carried out my remedial flight. Almost apologetically, Rocky again ran through the points that he hadn’t liked, which was almost too much for me. I fought tears of frustration and self-pity as he spoke, and, at least believing my own words, could barely blurt out, ‘Thank you, sir, I’ll do my best tomorrow,’ and I retreated to the block.
The following morning was gorgeous: a deep, cloudless blue sky, the air cool for December and not a breath of wind, which was unusual for the area. Port Phillip Bay glinted beyond Point Cook’s runways. The flight line was quiet except for one other CT-4 starting up. In grim determination after a fitful sleep and desultory breakfast, I changed into my flying clothing and presented at Edwards’ briefing cubicle. Soon we were airborne, the flight lieutenant in the CT-4’s right seat.
After some general handling, Edwards said, ‘All right, Mark, show me your aero’s.’
In preparation, I cleared the area, diligently looking for other aircraft, and there was that other CT-4, also airborne, less than a kilometre to our left, its wings flashing yellow as it manoeuvred. I was rattled. Should I start aerobatics with that aircraft in sight? Was he too close? I waffled on with more ‘clearing turns’ and wingovers until Edwards, in frustration called, ‘Come on, get on with it.’ After the conclusion of some very average aerobatics, I took us back for some circuit work, flying the various types of pattern. Now we were climbing out after a touch and go on the grass runway.
‘OK, just fly one more “normal” and make it a “full stop”,’ Edwards directed.
I didn’t know what to think. No gross mistakes, but an uninspiring flight. Edwards hadn’t said much. Was that it? I supposed I would go for Observer training, or maybe Air Traffic Control. Maybe Seaman Officer – I liked ships. How would I tell my parents after throwing up Medicine for this? What would I tell my prospective girlfriend?
It was now time to complete the crosswind turn for that last circuit. Edwards yelled, ‘Practice!’ and cut the power, simulating an engine failure at a very awkward point that was past the far end of the runway. What would I do? There was no wind. My brain worked seemingly on a separate channel as I recited the simulated emergency checks. Nil wind! With no wind, it would not matter which way I landed the aircraft. If I could manoeuvre it to any runway, not just the ‘duty’ runway designated for operations by the control tower, I could land.
‘If I turn now, I’m in a position to land on the other runway, sir,’ I said.
This would give me the full length of the longer runway to use – if I could pull it off successfully. Edwards just sat there, blank under his black helmet visor. I spiralled down tightly, careful not to let the speed decrease in the simulated glide. With no wind, and the only other aircraft flying on this exceptionally quiet Friday morning still out in the training area, the airfield was mine. With those circumstances, application of training and by blind luck, I flew a safe approach and the wheels kissed the asphalt.
My successful practice forced landing had salvaged the ‘scrub ride’. Of the entire flight, it was the only exercise that had impressed Edwards. After his debrief, there was an interview with Scrubber. My ground school results, fortunately, were solid and I showed promise with the all-important instrument flying. But, Scrubber told me, ‘You had better get comfortable in the air, it’s not that strange an environment, alrighty? You need to show some confidence and ability.’ To him, I was immature and not military pilot material. But, against his better judgement, he advised the Senior Naval Officer that I was suitable for further training.
Nearly half of my course-mates had already been failed on this brutal course. However, notwithstanding reservations from the navy and the air force about my ability and just three months into my nineteenth year, I was off to the jets with the other boys.
