Pilot Error

Charles had cautiously agreed to enter as a contestant in an air show. Not exactly a contestant, just a participant in a flypast of various types in an outlying country district.

He wasn’t overkeen; after all, he was still flying on a Restricted ticket. However, he wouldn’t be breaking any rules, as he’d be flying within coo-ee of the circuit area all the time.

The entries for the flypast included a variety of types, on that hot. unstable Summer day. there were the usual Tiger Moths, a Chipmunk, your coveys of Cessnas and Pipers with a Beechcraft or three thrown in.

The airfield was already thick with people, families kneed _ eep in candy floss, balloons flying bravely in tiny fists, sideshow alley with its attendant music, blasts of super-sound from some stalls, and souvenirs for sale, when Charles arrived over the place with his three high-spirited passengers.

He could feel the turbulence building up as he neared the end of his base leg, marshalled in by officials on the other end of his r/t.

Despite the heat and waffles. Charles sat the little Cherokee down neatly after nuzzling his way through ground effect and keeping the speed down low enough to avoid a super float.

He felt quite pleased when that expensive squeaking sound drifted sharply in through the cockpit floor, and he compensated with a commendable reaction to a swinging gust as the speed dropped off.

Outside the parked aircraft, the heat hit almost physically. Despite the urge to get a cool drink of some sort, Charles got the little aircraft refuelled before relaxing. “Might as well get the tanks topped up – we’ll be going back home after the flypast and it’ll save a bit of trouble coming down again to get extra fuel. . . he mused, as the big hose trembled against the tanker side.

The morning passed quite pleasantly – as pleasantly as millions of flies would allow. The inevitable scenery of heathazed gums lining the strip paddocks shimmering beyond the boundary. aircraft snarling in the throes of aerobatics. vintage models flying past with almost a tangible effort in the strengthening wind.

All pilots reported unstable conditions and the first feelings of a sudden change after they’d got down from the upper atmosphere. But things still looked fair for the big flypast. . .

Lunch passed without event – more pleasantly than it would have been if one of Charles’ passengers not found a tin of insect repellent.

As the time neared for the flypast. Charles left his passengers to walk around to the briefing tent. He took studious, serious notes of the order of take-off.

Because of timings, two older aircraft were given the first two slots in the take-off pattern. One was to make an intersection take-off, the second was to use the full runway length and Charles was to follow as No. 3 with an intersection take-off.

The rest of the field would follow in assorted order.

Noticing his concern, other pilots assured him via the Manual that the strip length was more than adequate for takeoff, even with three passengers and full tanks.

“Just your usual take-off, old chap,” breezed one pilot. “I’d be looking at about 10 degrees of flap if I were you.”

Charles still wasn’t satisfied; he checked with his instructor who was also at the pageant. He got the same answer – no sweat, just a normal take-off with bags of room to spare.

Despite these assurances. Charles felt nervous as the time neared to board his aircraft for the big event. He told himself quite seriously not to be a clown, as the butterflies rose in his guts.

His passengers caught nothing of his concern. They felt important, people of some consequence who were actually taking part in a flypast.

Pre-flight over. Charles motioned his passengers aboard. The heat was stifling in the cabin. Sweat began inching down his back, his cheeks. Beside and behind him there were mutters of, “Let’s fly . . . ” and, “Be glad when we get out of here. up there where it’s cooler . .  . .

The man in the righthand seat Fred was busy chasing an errant fly around the windscreen. He continued poking. flapping his hand until Charles, who could feel his inner tension building up, told him quite abruptly to stop.

“For Pete’s sake stop that, Fred I’m trying to concentrate,” exploded Charles in an outburst of uncharacteristic irritation.

“Sorry mate,” said Fred who added to Charles· edginess by aiming a lethal squirt of aerosol insect spray at the aerobatic fly. Normally it would have been funny but the spray left a small mark on the windscreen which looked to Charles like a miniature Charlie Bravo.

He muttered something unintelligible as he carefully wiped the spray off the hot screen.

“Start engines,” came the order through the Cherokee’s open door. Charles stomach did a lomcevak as he began his pre-start actions.

Truth was that he didn’t really like this business, although he’d done a full load check with honours. Something niggled in the back of his mind about heat, lack of lift, full fuel and full load.

He had half opted out of the flypast during lunch, only to be rubbished by his passengers.

Anyway, he was committed. The Piper’s engine burst into life, sending a small spray of dirt and dust into the cockpit until Fred shut the door. He’d wanted to leave it open, but Charles was playing it strictly by the book.

He did his runup carefully on the move as he taxied after a butterfly-like Tiger Moth to the intersection holding point. Nothing wrong there: he exercised the flaps at the end of his drill and set the handlebar control to the first notch of the flap in case he forgot later.

The Tiger Moth swung onto the runway and opened up The dainty little tail lifted, and swung more violently than Charles could have guessed. A quick correction by the Tiger’s pilot and the tiny biplane was off the deck, weathercocking into a sudden wind shift.

“Wind’s shifting,”  came the Tiger pilot’s voice over the radio. ”All aircraft. I suggest you watch for wind shifts.”

Sure enough. the sock at one end of the strip was standing out quite sharply, suddenly as though some invisible giant had pulled it on like a stocking.

The second aircraft off, while Charles and his eager passengers watched in the hot cockpit, was a Chipmunk.

Odd sort of take-off, thought Charles, as the Chipmunk’s tail lifted quite sharply. He at first expected bits of prop to go hurtling into the hot air, but the little monoplane’s pilot corrected for the abrupt nose-down attitude and a definite swing.

The Chipmunk roared past him as he waited at the intersection. He felt he could almost experience the prop wash as the Chipmunk got airborne, pointing its delicate derriere at him.

He was next. . .

He’d already looked at the windsock; the shift was there right enough, but only to a crosswind extent. He turned in his seat: “Everyone OK – all strapped in?”

A chorus of assent.

Charles concentrated on his accurate turn onto the duty runway. checking right and left. If only he’d looked at that sock as a last check, he would have seen it swinging yet again…

He opened the throttle and concentrated on tracking truly, doing things properly.

What he didn’t know was that he was taking off with a rapidly increasing tailwind.

It felt suddenly wrong. mushy speed built up well enough. but the little Cherokee was reluctant to leave the ground. He checked the flaps down one notch – all OK. Speed increased, and the aircraft bored on towards the end of the strip. beyond which stretched a line of telephone and power wires. He’d been warned by other pilots about the wire but all agreed it would be at least 100ft below them when they crossed that point.

Panic began rising in him, while that old electric taste sharpened in his mouth. The aircraft should have left the ground by now.

Whether or not he saw the sock in his peripheral vision we’ll never know. What happened was that Charles coaxed the aircraft soggily off the ground with speed dangerously low.

He missed the wires.

But he obviously got behind the power curve, that point where one runs on forever but doesn’t gain height, or speed.

The Cherokee waffled on, over the first paddock. gaining no height. Charles fought the first urge to pull the nose up, over the nearing line of scraggy gums. He needed speed – but he was reluctant to overcome the natural tendency to pull up, and let the speed build up in a level attitude, even pulling down some more flap to get enough height to clear those trees.

Watchers on the ground saw the Cherokee get closer to the gums. . .

In the cockpit, Charles passengers began yelling. “What the heck’s up Charles?” shouted Fred, as he watched the gums get closer, on the same level as the noisy cockpit.

Charles didn’t answer. He was a good pilot. despite his woeful inexperience. He tried so hard to keep the nose fairly well down, but his feet were apparently frozen on the rudder.

There was a lurch, not much noise above the howling engine, as the branch of one of the gum’s top hamper whammed into the Cherokee’s port wing root, snapping the branch off cleanly.

Charles didn’t even see it whistle past as he fought with all his nerve to stop himself from pulling up the nose. The flap handle lay unthought of.

The Cherokee. for some reason, began a slow half-climb to the right. Funny, thought Charles, it should have veered left. Then he froze – panic had taken charge.

Buffet. buffet – stall. It happened; the little aircraft’s nose dropped sharply and the brown stubble of a hard paddock loomed terrifyingly large in the windscreen.

It would not be fair or just to describe what happened in the cockpit just before impact. Suffice it to say that the Cherokee, its occupants mercifully killed on impact, went up like a torch.

There was much talk after that day. about insufficient warnings of wind shifts. responsibility of letting an inexperienced pilot take off in shifting winds. and many other things.

But all the talk didn’t bring Charles. Fred and the other two occupants back to life. . .