大象传媒

The pupils` crewroom echoes with the forced banter of a school locker-room. Only sixteen, we are still learn颅ing how to deal with tension. Some are quiet. All wish to show that they are not afraid. Today is our equivalent to a pilot`s first solo flight. We are being taught to be wireless operator mechanics, which embraces both ground and flying du颅ties, and today we are to be examined.

I am to take off in a two-cockpit aeroplane and be a re颅spon颅sible, to the pilot, for all commu颅nications. The R.A.F has yet to adopt radiotelephony. We have found getting up to speed in morse code very difficult. Senior pupils have told us that old hands, on the ground, will tease us by sending messages too fast for us to read. More formally, we have been told that our pilots will depend on us for instructions from base regarding compass bearings and other flight information.

We have already been through the flying-classroom part of the course. That had been in a Vickers Valencia, a large biplane that bridges the gap between the old, open cockpit originals and those with totally enclosed cabins. The navigator, wire颅less operator and passengers are carried inside but the pilot has his own open cockpit outside! There had been six of us in the airborne class and the lessons had been somewhat contrived. Our briefing had been brief. When we were flying around, tak颅ing our turns to communicate with base, the instructor鈥檚 monitor颅ing ensured that we all passed the tests.

I am having some difficulty pulling on the stiff, windproof, Sid颅cot flying overall and zipping it closed. Now it is the turn of the para颅chute harness. A webbing strap goes over each shoulder that leaves the third strap, with the tongue of the metal quick- re颅lease buckle, dangling between my legs. By swinging my backside to and fro I can catch the other half of the buckle, pull it up and click it in with the others. The instructor checks that all is well. He gives me a pad of message cards and glances at the pencil I have tied to my Sidcot with a short piece of string. As I fasten the mes颅sage pad to my knee my name is called for the first flight. I am apprehensive, not be颅cause of flying, but because I wonder whether I can cope, as a lone wireless operator, on this first cross country flight. During les颅sons it had been stressed that we should 鈥渒eep a sharp look颅-out鈥� and also remember prominent landmarks to help in navi颅gation. As if working the temperamental receiver and trans颅mitter and sending and receiving real navigational mes颅sages, in morse code, is not enough.

As I walk, behind the pilot, towards the aeroplane, I feel a bit better, even a little proud of myself. As we reach the 鈥榩lane the pilot turns, points to the pad at my knee, and says, 鈥淵ou`ll need to use those!鈥�

Our instructors had said the message pad was a last resort. I feel confused. He casually climbs on to the lower wing and swings his legs into the front cockpit. I follow, awkward and fearful lest I put my foot through the thin, linen fabric covering the wing. The foothold on the fuselage seems so high up and the foot markers on the wing so far away. The unwritten rule, that he who puts his foot through the fabric mends it, worries me less than the scorn of the ground crew. We had been taught how to prepare a linen patch and paste it over a hole with doped paint. However, the 鈥渇abric bashers鈥� had left us with no illusions of what they thought about 鈥榬ookies鈥� who damaged their 鈥渒ites.鈥�

The cockpit seems larger than the mock-up in the classroom. It has more bits and pieces in it. I stow my parachute and fix the 鈥渕onkey chain鈥�. This is a two feet length of flexible steel cable, fas颅tened to the bottom of the cockpit, which clips on to the ring at the base of my harness. It is to prevent me fal颅ling out during aerial ma颅noeuvres!

I look to the wireless sets but already the pilot is banging on the side of the fuselage to attract my attention and asking, with his thumb and eyes, if I am ready for take off. We have been taught to use the Go颅sport tubing to talk to each other. This is a piece of stiff rub颅ber tubing between the cockpits with a whistle fitted into each end. The whistle, in the other cockpit, is sounded by removing one鈥檚 own whistle, blowing into the tube and then listening, at the tube, for a response. The receiver removes his whistle and, putting the tube to his ear, indicates that he is ready to receive a message. It calls for considerable co-ordination. A blast of air in the pilot`s ear does little to ce颅ment good relationships. It appears that my pilot does not like Gosport tubing.

I give the thumbs up signal, feeling a little foolish. The pilot gives a similar signal to the man standing to one side of the pro颅peller. He responds by grasping the propeller with both hands and pulling it round as far as he could. He does this twice and shouts:

`Sucking in!`

Then, looking up, he shouts:

`Magneto ON!`

The pilot switches the magneto ON and gives the thumbs up signal. The mechanic swings the `prop` with gusto and the engine splut颅ters into life.

鈥淐hocks away!鈥�

We bump across the grass, turn into wind and race towards the perimeter hedge. The wind pushes my head back, the whole `plane is shaking and vibrating and we are off! As the flying wires be颅tween the wings take over from the landing wires, the bumping and shaking is replaced by a pleas颅anter whining sound but the vibration continues. The wings are moving too, not only from the vibrations, but also from the strains of buffeting through the breeze. I know that this is nor颅mal. The pilot half turns and signals for me to carry on. I tighten the strap under my chin to reduce the noise in my ears, plug in the selected frequency coils and register our position with base. As I had anticipated, the ground operator sends morse faster than necessary and feigns some irritation.
The pilot seems bored with it all and leaves me to go through some standard air颅borne exercises. When I receive the message 鈥淩eturn to base鈥� I scribble it to on a message card from my knee pad, struggle up and bang on the outside of the fuselage. The pilot turns and takes the card, almost losing it in the slip-stream. He glances at it and signals the `O.K.`

Now I can relax and enjoy the trip. I lean against the side of the cockpit `keeping a sharp lookout`. It seems a long way down. I see the railway line through Sleaford, a church with a steeple, a cross-roads with a farm nearby and I hope that I can remember enough for the instructor`s debrief颅ing. Suddenly the plane is rocking from side to side in a frightening way. The whistle is blowing. I pull it out and put the end piece to my head. This is useless. My helmet and headphones are in the way. I pull the chin straps loose and hear the pilot saying:

鈥淧repare to abandon aircraft. Do not jump until I order you to. Repeat. DO NOT jump until I order you to. Acknowledge!鈥�

My stomach muscles tighten. I feel a bit sick. What did they say I was to do in such an emergency?

At first the parachute will not click into the clips on my harness breast. Now it`s O.K. The whistle. blows. Oh God! What next?

鈥淲ireless operator here!鈥�

My voice sounds weak and strange.
鈥淎re you ready?鈥�
鈥淵es, ready!鈥�

Now what is he saying?

鈥淒O NOT, repeat NOT abandon aircraft. This is a training exercise only. Acknowledge!鈥�

I flop down on to my little seat. Relief flows over me.

I will think twice before I volunteer to make a parachute jump.

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