Pilot Error – Two of a Kind

But on this Drover at least, David was determined that the rot would go no further –  if he had his way it would be one of the best Drovers still operating in the country. Already he had refurbished the cabin to a fair semblance of the type’s original airline configuration, and the weathered duralumin fuselage and wings were beginning to respond to repeated.

applications of Turco powder and elbow grease. The aeroplane was beginning to look like an airliner – a thing David considered important for passengers conditioned to 727 and DC-9 travel.

The only trouble was that the Drover, with its three Gipsy engines, needed a good deal of maintenance. Although David was authorised to do a lot of the minor, work himself, the Drover had to be flown to Albury or Wagga for anything more than this, and far too much of his earnings were going in wasteful ferry time.

This morning, with the school holidays now over, and tourist business beginning to taper off in Tullaberga, David had resolved not to do any flying. The Drover had been working hard over the past weeks and was due for some much-needed tidying up – including a good look inside the cowlings and an oil change on all three engines. There was also the recurring problem of a sticky valve in the starboard engine – something that should have been attended to a week or more ago. But with so much flying, there just hadn’t been time for the half day’s work it involved.

Anyway, today wasn’t a particularly good day for flying. There was a strong southerly blowing which, as well as whipping up big seas and a lot of spray, could make things decidedly uncomfortable for passengers at sight-seeing altitude along the coast.

That at least had been the David felt. But now as he answered the telephone and an authoritative voice enquired about a flight, David felt his resolve weakening.

Stuart McAllister, a man whose name David knew as a senior company executive in Melbourne, wanted the Drover to take a party of nine passengers up the coast to Merimbula and return. David found it hard to refuse. It was good business, with the chance of furthering his reputation, and the trip would take up very little of the day.

In fact McAllister wanted to leave as soon as he could, and David found himself being pressured into nominating a departure in half an hour’s time. It would barely allow him to get the Drover back into flying condition, let alone complete a full pre-flight inspection, but he’d flown several trips the previous day and all had been as it should be. David had pulled the Drover from the hangar, tested the tanks for water and was checking the oil levels, when the cars drew up in the parking area. The passengers, obviously a family party, ranged from an elderly matriarch to a precocious schoolboy full of questions, but they boarded the Drover with the assurance of travellers well accustomed to flying.

David pulled away the steps, climbed in himself and closed the cabin door behind him. Latching it, he made his way forward past the passengers already busy securing their belts.

McAllister himself, sitting on the starboard side and holding an eight-millimetre cine camera, stopped him.

“Can we open any of these windows? I want to get some footage of the wrecks near Cape Howe and also the spot where the “Lyee Moon” went down. Do you know where I mean?” David nodded. The wild coastline between Cape Howe and Twofold Bay was littered with the bones of ships that had succumbed to its treachery, but the wreck of the old steamer “Lyee Moon” and the lonely windswept graves of its victims not far from the lighthouse on Green Cape was better known than most. “I’ll do a low run over the Cape and a shallow turn around the light. When I lower a bit of flap you can open that hatch opposite the door at the rear of the cabin – it was put there for supply dropping when this was a flying doctor aircraft. Just make sure you latch it when you’re finished – when I hear it close I’ll put on power to climb. ” Leaving the tiny cockpit door open so that his passengers could see something of what he was doing, David settled himself in the left hand seat and fastened his harness.

The port and centre engines started normally, settling down to their characteristic chatter, but as he pressed the starter button for the starboard engine, David felt it jump quickly over the intermittent weak compression.

Sticky exhaust valves are not uncommon in Gipsy Major engines but will often clear themselves as the engine warms up. David continued with the start, expecting the problem to cure itself, as it had each day over the past week.

With his passengers aboard and ready to go, there wasn’t much choice. The only remedy entailed pulling off the rocker gear and exhaust manifold, pushing the valve up into the cylinder and passing a reamer gently through the valve guide. The engine fired, coughed once or twice, then ran, vibrating in its mountings under the effect of the misfiring cylinder, as David throttled it back to 1000rpm.

There was no immediate sign of the misfiring clearing – clearly the problem was getting worse. But not relishing the alternative, David released the brakes and taxied to the runway threshold.

At the holding point he waited again. The engine was still running like a chaff-cutter but was at least showing signs of clearing itself. While he waited, David completed the take-off check list and ran up the port and centre engines. Yet still the starboard engine wasn’t right. It would run smoothly for a few seconds then, as the throttle was opened further, the offending valve would stick again.

Back in the cabin, some of the passengers, realising this was an unusually long run-up, were beginning to look at one another questioningly. No one would blame him, David knew, if he simply taxied back and told them the ai craft was unserviceable.

Yet he was reluctant to abandon the flight. Apart from needing the money, his customers were clearly influential people whose word might be the making or breaking of further business of this sort. And surely, David thought, the engine would come good in a minute or so.

At length it did, but not before the Drover had been at the holding point for a full 20 minutes.

Running the starboard engine up once more to full power with no further sign of hesitation, David took a final look around, and turned the Drover into wind. Slowly now, more than usually alert for the slightest sign that he should discontinue the take-off, David opened the throttles together. The cho,rus of the engines rose to a crescendo and the Drover surged forward, gathering speed. But this time all was well, and the aircraft lifted off normally, climbing away steeply under the effect of the stiff headwind. Playing it safe, David continued the climb straight ahead until he was sure there would be no further problem with the engine. At 1500 feet, he turned down-wind over the sea, set­ ting course for Gabo Island and Cape Howe, a heading which would. take the aircraft just to seaward of the beached wreck of the old “Riverina”. At this altitude too, they were clear of the turbulence the southerly gale was producing in the lee of the exposed headlands and hills.

Twenty minutes later, crossing Disaster Bay as the Drover approached the jagged finger of coastline that is Green Cape, David ti1rottled back and eased the aircraft into a shallow des­ cent. At 500 feet he lower. ed some flap and banked into a shallow turn around the lighthouse and the little group of headstones nearby all that now remained to show that these rocks had once been party to a disastrous shipwreck.

A sudden rush of air at the rear of the cabin told David that McAllister had opened the hatch for his filming. Glan­cing behind, David saw that most of his passengers were out of their seats, eyes glued to the starboard windows.

Allowing them time to take in the view, David held the aircraft in a wide descending orbit around the headland, crossing the Cape for the second time 200 feet above its scrub-covered surface. The turbulence here wasn’t too bad, but he would need to climb again before the aircraft got too dose to the higher country further north.

Good as his word, McAllister closed the hatch promptly and, as the Drover swung back on to its original heading, David pushed the throttles forward and raised the flap.

He was still trimming the aircraft into the climb when he felt the sudden yaw and heard the smooth bellow of the engines drop into an unsynchronised beat. Instinctively he corrected with rudder as his mind flew back to the rough run­ ning before take-off. But no – this time it was the engine on the other side. His eyes flicked over the panel – the port tachometer had dropped to 1200rpm.

Impulsively, he reached over and thrust the throttles of the two live engines forward to full power. Immediately, the starboard engine began to leap in its mountings as the chronic misfiring manifested itself again.

David’s heart missed a beat and he felt the colour drain from his face. What a fool he was to get himself in this mess. Here he was with a full load of passengers, less than 500 feet above a wild sea, with one engine out and another running roughly. With its fixed pitch propellers, the Drover wouldn’t have a hope of maintaining height on its one good engine. There was nothing for it but a forced landing back on the Cape.

A bush airstrip of sorts had been bulldozed from the scrub a mile inland from the lighthouse, but it was hardly adequate for a Drover. The fish-spotter pilots from Merim­ bula used it sometimes when they were flying for salmon in their Super Cub, but as well as being short, it ran downhill into the south towards the cliffs overlooking Disaster Bay.

David shuddered at the thought. Well he’d just have to ground loop the Drover, even if it meant writing off the under-carriag . He’d never be able to stop otherwise. And he’d have to watch the approach too. The telephone line to the lighthouse crossed the northern end much too close to the threshold for comfort. Even so, the strip was preferable to the precipitous and heavily-timbered coastline that extended for miles north and south of the Cape. He’d just have to get down there somehow – and quickly too. If the aircraft got too far downwind in this southerly, he mightn’t be able to complete a 180 degree turn and make it back to the Cape before the Drover sank below the level of the cliffs.

David swung around to face his passengers. “Fasten your seat belts please,” he commanded, hoping he sounded calmer than he felt.

Catching a glimpse of the lighthouse beyond the cabin windows, he was dismayed to see how far the strong tail wind had already carried them from the comparative safety of the Cape. They could be in real trouble. Full of fear now, with his heart beating wildly, David had to force himself to concen­trate. If there were not going to be more lonely graves on that headland, it would only be because of his flying ability now. Making a deliberate effort to relax his tense grip of the control wheel, he trimmed out the nose-up pressure he’d been holding instinctively and studied the instruments. The airspeed had fallen to 65 knots and the altimeter was very gradually unwinding. The loss of height was slow, but he knew that as soon as he tried to turn, the increased drag would sink the aircraft like a stone.

Desperately he went through his emergency drill for the ailing port engine, checking fuel, mixture and magneto – all without effect. Oil pressure was still registering, though a lit­tleon the low side, but no amount of throttle pumping would vary the engine’s steady 1200rpm. It was plain that the linkage had parted somewhere and the throttle had closed itself.

He looked again at the misfiring starboard engine. It had been running well enough until he put on full power after the other engine failed. Would it pick up again if he was game enough to ease back the throttle? If the gamble didn’t work they’d lose precious height even more quickly. But he really had nothing to lose – the way things were they’d descend into the sea anyway.

Heart in mouth, David slowly retarded the lever. At 1600rpm the misfiring ceased and the engine ran smoothly. Forcing himself to remain calm, he advanced it again gingerly, and the engine responded. He felt the aircraft surge as the power came on – 1950rpm, 2000, 2050. Suddenly, as the tacho needle reached 2100, the smooth engine note collaps­ ed again into misfiring vibration.

Quickly David pulled the throttle back until the rough running ceased, edged it forward again until the tachometer was reading 2000, and tightened the friction nut.

Already now the aircraft felt better. With the unnerving vibration gone from the airframe and the starboard engine delivering close to cruising power, they might have a fighting chance.

David checked the flight instruments again. His experi­ ment had cost them 100 feet, but the altimeter was no longer unwinding and if they could hold the height they had left now, they’d make the airstrip with about 150 feet to spare. Encouraged, he eased the aircraft into a gentle turn to port. Turning in the direction of the dead engine wasn’t good asymmetric practice but this time he had no choice.

Holding the nose up as much as he dared, David was astonished to find that the Drover was not only maintaining height during the turn, but was actually gaining a few feet. Then he realised that the trickle of power still being delivered by the failed engine was probably sufficient to offset the drag of the windmilling propeller, if not actually providing a small amount of thrust.

• But even as he exulted in the relief this brought, it faced him with a new dilemma. Should he still go ahead and land on the Cape with the near-certainty of crashing or, now that the aircraft was able to stay in the air, should he try and continue to Merimbula 20 odd miles further up the coast? There was little time to make a decision. Once he com­pleted the turn into wind and came over the Cape at low level he was virtually committed to land. It would be foolish to risk another low-level 180 degree turn at reduced airspeed in.