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A touching article, I am sure those who have tasted the flight will relish. I received it from an other forum, felt like sharing it here for many to have the pleasure of read.
___________________________________________________________
(Written in 2000)
By John Laming
All pilots vividly remember their primary flight instructor, but most of us lose touch with our original mentors as we pursue our aviation careers. John Laming is a striking exception. This former Royal Australian Air Force fighter and bomber pilot and retired airline captain writes a poignant account of the day when he had the chance to offer his old military flight instructor -- aged over 80 and nearly blind -- the left seat of a Piper Cherokee aeroplane, and talked him through the final takeoff and landing of his life.
This touching story was written as a present on his instructor's 84th birthday subsequently.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
How I Met Sid
Shortly after, I joined the RAAF to be a pilot, and it was during my early training that I first met Flight Lieutenant Sidney Gooding DFC. He had been a Lancaster pilot in World War II, and after the surrender of Japan in 1945, had stayed in the RAAF, and was posted to Japan as part of the Allied Occupation forces. There he flew Mustangs and an occasional Spitfire. Later he flew Lincoln bombers against the communist terrorists in Malaya, after which he returned to Australia to become a QFI (qualified flying instructor).
At the time, I was one of 45 trainee pilots on No 8 Post War Pilot's Course, sent to Uranquinty in April 1952 to start basic training on Tiger Moths and Wirraways. Sid became my Flight and Groundschool instructor there.
Groundschool
Besides flying, Sid Gooding gave class lectures on airmanship. Our first impression was of a genial smiling man with a battered pipe and a wry sense of humour. On his uniform was the purple and white striped ribbon of the Distinguished Flying Cross. We all wondered how he had won this decoration for bravery, but in those days it was not the done thing to ask. His officer's cap was set at a rakish angle and he looked entirely at ease. Conforming to RAAF discipline and good manners, the class stood up as he entered the room. He would thank us for the gesture and tell us to be seated.
After introducing himself, Sid unfolded a large blueprint and pinned it to the blackboard. With a grave expression he then explained that he enjoyed inventing things, and that the blueprint was of a pair of steam-driven roller skates, with a tiny firebox built into the heels and the wheels driven by pistons rather like a steam locomotive. To a surprised classroom of trainee pilots, he proceeded to go into the details of its design. This was far better than the dry formulae of aerodynamics and Sid soon got our attention. Minutes later, he put away his blueprint and talked about the real subject of his lecture, which was carburetor icing.
Each lecture would be preceded by the blueprint of yet another invention before getting on to more serious matters such as cockpit drills, propeller swinging, thunderstorm penetration, engine handling and aircraft captaincy.
We never quite knew if Sid was serious or having us on! But I do know that no one ever went to sleep in Sid's lectures, for fear of missing the good gen on airmanship or his inventions.
Flight Training
Each instructor was allotted four students, and those that had drawn Sid were indeed fortunate, as he proved to be kind and patient with even the most backward students. In the back of our minds was the constant worry of being scrubbed from flying because of perceived lack of ability. Those unfortunates who failed flying tests were posted away to undergo a navigator's course at East Sale, while others were discharged from the RAAF altogether and sent to back civilian life. I was nineteen years old, and with no home and no job to return to, the prospect of being scrubbed was terrifying and made me work all the harder.
But with a good instructor in the back seat and the willingness to burn the midnight oil, the chances of not making the grade were greatly reduced. Sid's students were usually successful. Fortune smiled upon me, and I received my pilot's wings in December 1952.
An RAAF Pilot...At Last
After graduating as a pilot, I did a short spell on Mustangs and Vampires before being posted to fly Lincolns with No.10 Squadron at Townsville. The Lincoln was a more powerful version of the well known Lancaster four engine heavy bomber. Among the aircrew were veterans of bombing raids over Europe, including navigators, gunners and radio operators wearing the gold eagle badge of the Pathfinders.
While collecting my tropical kit and parachute at the clothing store, I was surprised and delighted to run into Sid Gooding again. He had been with the squadron for a few months as the Qualified Flight Instructor, and was responsible for the conversion of new crews to the Lincoln.
When we met, he was exchanging a scorched and battered flying helmet and goggles for a new set. On seeing my raised eyebrows, he pointed across the airfield to the burnt out wreckage of a Lincoln bomber. Sid had been converting an experienced Dakota pilot and while demonstrating a landing with one propeller feathered, he got into difficulty when the aircraft drifted off the runway just before touch down. Sid decided to go around, and applied full power on the remaining three Rolls Royce engines. Even with full rudder applied, he was unable to stop the Lincoln from yawing into the dead engine.. He managed to keep it in the air for the next 20 seconds before the left wingtip hit a power pole and spun the huge aircraft into the ground. The three crew members managed to escape from the wreckage before it went up in flames. The only casualty was the radio operator who broke his nose during the final impact.. Just before the plane blew up, Sid decided to return to the wreckage to find his wallet, which had dropped from his pocket as he ran. Fortunately, he had second thoughts on the matter, because 2,000 gallons of fuel from the ruptured tanks ignited a few seconds later.
Sid returned to the scene of the accident the next day, and posed for the unit photographer. The photo was a classic. It reminded me of the scene of a lion hunter posing, rifle in hand, and with one foot placed triumphantly on the dead beast. In this case Sid had one foot on the wreckage of the Lincoln, his pipe in hand, and service cap jauntily tilted on his head. The caption was "All my own work!" (see photograph attached)
The first time Sid gave me a Lincoln's controls for take off. I was delighted to have a go, and managed to keep straight with much juggling of throttles and rudders.. The Lincoln was a tailwheel aircraft, and was tricky to fly. During my first take off, Sid did not touch the controls.
Instead he told me I was a good enough pilot to do it on my own and he would just talk me through the take off and landing.
My worries diminished. I was suddenly determined to do well and not make Sid take the controls although I am sure that he was ready to pounce on the controls and take them from me if I had slipped up beyond a point. But he didn't show it and that made all the difference to me. Instead, Sid talked me through the take off, the circuit and the landing, always encouraging me with small comments and being equally kind and gentle when pointing out my mistakes and suggesting rectifications.
I didn't make the best of takeoffs or landings but felt on top of the world.I had done it! I had flown a large, complex plane for the first time, one with a reputation for not forgiving pilots' mistakes easily.
While building hours on the Lincoln, I flew later with captains of varying abilities, but my favourite was always Sid Gooding. In later years as an instructor, I tried to model my own technique around his patient and laid back approach. His helpful attitude was in marked contrast to that of the many supercilious and pompous check captains that I encountered in my airline career.
In that era it was considered good manners to thank the captain for giving away the landing to a first-timer, although that old world courtesy seems to have disappeared in modern times. Certainly I never saw it happen in the airlines. As we taxied back after my first flight, I thanked Sid for giving me the landing as well. "
That's quite alright," he replied, "It was a pleasure."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Forty Years Later...
The years passed, and I heard that Sid had left the RAAF to become a schoolteacher. Faced with the inevitable desk job, I too regretfully left the RAAF after 18 happy years. The pages of my logbooks filled up with civilian flying hours with the airlines, and on reaching age 60, I was faced with compulsory retirement from flying Boeings. To earn a crust, I renewed I became an instructor on small planes like the Piper Cherokee and Cessna.
Then, from a colleague came the news that Sid had retired from teaching and lived in Numurkah in country Victoria. I found his address and was soon on the phone. His voice sounded older but his manner brought back happy memories of our flights together nearly forty years ago.
Sid was over 80, and his eyesight was fast fading. He welcomed my suggestion that I could fly up to see him, saying that he would arrange a picnic for my arrival at a nearby airstrip. The next day was sunny, and I hired a Cherokee and flew to Numurkah.
Circling the airstrip, I could see two people with a car waiting in the shade of some trees. The wind was calm and the touch down slightly bouncy. After many hours in Boeings, I still had trouble nailing the round out in light aircraft.
As I climbed from the Cherokee, I recognized Sid immediately. He looked younger than his real age, although by now his hair was very white. Having said that, I felt conscious of my own balding head and middle-aged spread ! We talked of old times, and I mentioned that I had a photograph of him standing on the wreckage of his crashed Lincoln. He asked me with a mischievous twinkle to his eye to examine the photo closely to see if his wallet was there. I thought that with time, I must have imagined the story of Sid's wallet, but happily it was still true.
While Doreen his wife arranged the sandwiches and tea, I finally asked Sid how he won the DFC. He said that he had been on a 1,000-bomber night raid over Germany when another Lancaster collided with his aircraft. With part of the right wing torn away and the outboard engine demolished, Sid needed full rudder and aileron to hold altitude. He considered jettisoning his bombs and returning home, but realized that this meant flying back into the outbound bomber stream. A midair collision was a near-certainty in the dark, so he decided it would be safer to continue to the target with his crippled Lancaster than risk a turn back. His big worry was that if a German night fighter locked on to him, he would be unable to take evasive action. In the event, he dropped his bombs on the target, and returned safely after flying seven hours with full control deflection. For this he was awarded the DFC.
As we talked, it was clear to me that his eyesight was bad, because he was unable to see the photographs that I brought with me. He told me that his wife read books to him, and that sometimes he obtained talking books from a Melbourne library. All too soon the time came to say farewell, and on impulse I asked Sid would he like to come on a short flight with me before I left for Melbourne. He was delighted with the idea. A plan began to form in my mind. After helping him on to the wing of the Cherokee, I offered him the left seat and strapped him in. I stepped off the plane and went up to his wife who was standing to one side watching us quietly. She politely declined my invitation to join us . But she told me quietly, holding back her tears, that Sid had hoped earlier that I would offer to take him up.
"Feel up to flying again Sid?", I asked him. "Why not", he replied with a grin, "As long as you promise to keep an eye on me and give me directions".
I knew there was no way that Sid could see the instruments clearly; he could only just discern the horizon as a very vague general blur between sky and ground. I started the engine and, after releasing the brakes, asked Sid to taxi the aircraft. I gave giving him directions -- left rudder, right rudder, now rudder central -- and we taxied to the end of the field and lined up for take-off. I had begun to feel easier. Sid had controlled the taxiing as though he had never stopped flying. It was evident his instincts were all there, unbelievably sharp and accurate.
I put his hand on the throttle and asked him to move it to take off power. As we started to roll, I kept my hands hovering by the controls, ready to take over at the first sign of trouble. I gave Sid corrections to keep us straight down the runway as we accelerated to rotation speed.. Even before I could prompt him, he eased into the take off with uncanny sense and pitched the nose up just right by instinct, feel and experience. He was at one with an aeroplane again. Sid had always been at one with any aeroplane he flew. I felt strangely choked and humbled. Suddenly it was back to being a student for me, marvelling at how the instructor could fly like he could. How exactly the same feelings welled up after all these years was unreal. I stole a glance at Sid. The excited, satisfied look on his face said it all. Maybe he was just a little tense but then aren't all pilots supposed to be when taking off and landing especially?
He could not see either the altimeter or airspeed indicator. I told him to level out. He set power for cruise where he thought it felt right and probed his way with small control inputs to getting the nose lowered just right. Again, he held attitude accurately and smoothly purely by feel and instinct, helped except in a very small way by the blur that was the horizon. His turn to downwind as I talked him through it minimally was smooth and beautiful to watch. I found myself going way back in time when I had watched Sid execute a perfect asymmetric circuit after losing and feathering an engine on the four-engined Lincoln. I asked him could he see the airstrip now on his left, at all.. He had no hope, he said. Would he like to do the approach and landing, I said. He said he would happy to give it a go. By this time we had gone a fair way downwind, and I lost sight of the grass strip behind us. Talk about the blind leading the blind!
Talk-Down
In the RAAF, we used to fly practice GCAs (Ground-Controlled Approaches). These were radar approaches conducted by ground controllers, sometimes known as "talk-downs." The controller sat in a radio truck and guided the radar target down the course and glidepath marked on his screen. As the aircraft came over the threshold, the radar controller would say, "Touch down, touch down ... NOW!" and seconds later the wheels would hit the runway. GCAs were very effective in thick fog, but unreliable in heavy rain due attenuation of the radar screen. Today there was no fog or rain -- just a fine sunny afternoon and perfect for a GCA. But first I had to locate the strip again.
I told Sid I would talk him down like a GCA controller using RAAF terminology with which we were both familiar. He had flown radar controlled approaches in Mustangs and Spitfires, so he was no stranger to the technique. Sure, he lacked currency after forty years, but he could still pick an attitude and the corresponding power setting to hold it there despite being nearly blind. I knew that I was seeing a perfect example of a pilot who had never lost the touch for seat-of-the-pants flying - the true measure of a pilot.
His circuit height was remarkably accurate as I asked him occasionally to add more or less power and pitch to maintain cruise altitude and airspeed. Finally I spotted the strip and turned Sid on to a long final approach. "All right Sid," I said, "The runway is three miles dead ahead. Bring back the power to set up a gentle descent that will take us all the way to touchdown and hold this heading". Sid eased the throttle back to what he felt would be the right descent rate for the altitude and distance. I could see that we were going to land a little further down the runway. Who was the instructor here, I felt myself asking; I who was talking Sid down, or Sid who had instinctively set up a classic approach as he would have done countless times to show a student that in the initial stages it was always better to land long than wrestle with an aircraft that was going to touch down short?
Sid had become his own instructor.
He held the attitude with few excursions as I gave him instructions to keep the airstrip dead ahead and talked him through the descent. I told him that when landing was imminent, I would call him to flare and close the throttle. From experience, he knew the rate at which to keep coming back on the wheel during hold off. Any problems, I told him, and I would take over control.
Thirty seconds to round-out; I could see Doreen walk from the shade of the trees to watch the landing. I think she knew that Sid would be on the controls.
"Five, four, three, two, and NOW, Sid," I called, and held my breath, my hands poised to take over. "We're almost at six inches above the grass, Sid ... hold it there." Sid held off beautifully then greased it on, maintaining the aircraft right down the centre of the strip. I found I no longer had to give him corrections as he steered it with tiny inputs of rudder to keep it tracking straight. He applied the brakes gently, and we stopped.
"Want me to taxi it back?" I asked. "Could you direct me back to where Doreen is waiting?" he replied. "I'd like to end this flight there", his voice nearly breaking as he tried to keep his emotions in check. We taxied back to the trees and stopped. I switched off the engine. In the silence that followed, I saw that Sid had leaned his head back against the seat, his nearly-sightless eyes closed as he re-lived the last ten minutes that had made up what was surely his final flight as a pilot.
My mind went back in time to when Sid had given me my first take off and landing in a Lincoln. I was glad that I could return the favour, albeit forty years later. For me too, it had perhaps become one of the most touching moments of my life.
I helped Sid out of the plane. Doreen came up to meet him. He held her hand and they quitely walked a few steps away. Sid began to talk to her in a low voice. But I could sense the excitement in it, or was it satisfaction? Exhilaration? Nostalgia? Or all of these and something more too? But for the moment he had flown a plane again after all these years and By God he had flown it well. I slipped away and busied myself with checking the plane before my departure.
We shook hands and said our farewells.. As I was about to step on to the wing to get to the cockpit, Sid touched me on the shoulder. I turned around.
"Thanks for the landing, John", he said softly.
"That's alright, Sid," I replied. "It was a pleasure."
@Slav Defence @fatman17 @Rashid Mahmood @Spring Onion @Imran Khan @Azlan Haider @Syed.Ali.Haider @Horus @Stealth @Arsalan @Major Sam
___________________________________________________________
(Written in 2000)
By John Laming
All pilots vividly remember their primary flight instructor, but most of us lose touch with our original mentors as we pursue our aviation careers. John Laming is a striking exception. This former Royal Australian Air Force fighter and bomber pilot and retired airline captain writes a poignant account of the day when he had the chance to offer his old military flight instructor -- aged over 80 and nearly blind -- the left seat of a Piper Cherokee aeroplane, and talked him through the final takeoff and landing of his life.
This touching story was written as a present on his instructor's 84th birthday subsequently.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
How I Met Sid
Shortly after, I joined the RAAF to be a pilot, and it was during my early training that I first met Flight Lieutenant Sidney Gooding DFC. He had been a Lancaster pilot in World War II, and after the surrender of Japan in 1945, had stayed in the RAAF, and was posted to Japan as part of the Allied Occupation forces. There he flew Mustangs and an occasional Spitfire. Later he flew Lincoln bombers against the communist terrorists in Malaya, after which he returned to Australia to become a QFI (qualified flying instructor).
At the time, I was one of 45 trainee pilots on No 8 Post War Pilot's Course, sent to Uranquinty in April 1952 to start basic training on Tiger Moths and Wirraways. Sid became my Flight and Groundschool instructor there.
Groundschool
Besides flying, Sid Gooding gave class lectures on airmanship. Our first impression was of a genial smiling man with a battered pipe and a wry sense of humour. On his uniform was the purple and white striped ribbon of the Distinguished Flying Cross. We all wondered how he had won this decoration for bravery, but in those days it was not the done thing to ask. His officer's cap was set at a rakish angle and he looked entirely at ease. Conforming to RAAF discipline and good manners, the class stood up as he entered the room. He would thank us for the gesture and tell us to be seated.
After introducing himself, Sid unfolded a large blueprint and pinned it to the blackboard. With a grave expression he then explained that he enjoyed inventing things, and that the blueprint was of a pair of steam-driven roller skates, with a tiny firebox built into the heels and the wheels driven by pistons rather like a steam locomotive. To a surprised classroom of trainee pilots, he proceeded to go into the details of its design. This was far better than the dry formulae of aerodynamics and Sid soon got our attention. Minutes later, he put away his blueprint and talked about the real subject of his lecture, which was carburetor icing.
Each lecture would be preceded by the blueprint of yet another invention before getting on to more serious matters such as cockpit drills, propeller swinging, thunderstorm penetration, engine handling and aircraft captaincy.
We never quite knew if Sid was serious or having us on! But I do know that no one ever went to sleep in Sid's lectures, for fear of missing the good gen on airmanship or his inventions.
Flight Training
Each instructor was allotted four students, and those that had drawn Sid were indeed fortunate, as he proved to be kind and patient with even the most backward students. In the back of our minds was the constant worry of being scrubbed from flying because of perceived lack of ability. Those unfortunates who failed flying tests were posted away to undergo a navigator's course at East Sale, while others were discharged from the RAAF altogether and sent to back civilian life. I was nineteen years old, and with no home and no job to return to, the prospect of being scrubbed was terrifying and made me work all the harder.
But with a good instructor in the back seat and the willingness to burn the midnight oil, the chances of not making the grade were greatly reduced. Sid's students were usually successful. Fortune smiled upon me, and I received my pilot's wings in December 1952.
An RAAF Pilot...At Last
After graduating as a pilot, I did a short spell on Mustangs and Vampires before being posted to fly Lincolns with No.10 Squadron at Townsville. The Lincoln was a more powerful version of the well known Lancaster four engine heavy bomber. Among the aircrew were veterans of bombing raids over Europe, including navigators, gunners and radio operators wearing the gold eagle badge of the Pathfinders.
While collecting my tropical kit and parachute at the clothing store, I was surprised and delighted to run into Sid Gooding again. He had been with the squadron for a few months as the Qualified Flight Instructor, and was responsible for the conversion of new crews to the Lincoln.
When we met, he was exchanging a scorched and battered flying helmet and goggles for a new set. On seeing my raised eyebrows, he pointed across the airfield to the burnt out wreckage of a Lincoln bomber. Sid had been converting an experienced Dakota pilot and while demonstrating a landing with one propeller feathered, he got into difficulty when the aircraft drifted off the runway just before touch down. Sid decided to go around, and applied full power on the remaining three Rolls Royce engines. Even with full rudder applied, he was unable to stop the Lincoln from yawing into the dead engine.. He managed to keep it in the air for the next 20 seconds before the left wingtip hit a power pole and spun the huge aircraft into the ground. The three crew members managed to escape from the wreckage before it went up in flames. The only casualty was the radio operator who broke his nose during the final impact.. Just before the plane blew up, Sid decided to return to the wreckage to find his wallet, which had dropped from his pocket as he ran. Fortunately, he had second thoughts on the matter, because 2,000 gallons of fuel from the ruptured tanks ignited a few seconds later.
Sid returned to the scene of the accident the next day, and posed for the unit photographer. The photo was a classic. It reminded me of the scene of a lion hunter posing, rifle in hand, and with one foot placed triumphantly on the dead beast. In this case Sid had one foot on the wreckage of the Lincoln, his pipe in hand, and service cap jauntily tilted on his head. The caption was "All my own work!" (see photograph attached)
The first time Sid gave me a Lincoln's controls for take off. I was delighted to have a go, and managed to keep straight with much juggling of throttles and rudders.. The Lincoln was a tailwheel aircraft, and was tricky to fly. During my first take off, Sid did not touch the controls.
Instead he told me I was a good enough pilot to do it on my own and he would just talk me through the take off and landing.
My worries diminished. I was suddenly determined to do well and not make Sid take the controls although I am sure that he was ready to pounce on the controls and take them from me if I had slipped up beyond a point. But he didn't show it and that made all the difference to me. Instead, Sid talked me through the take off, the circuit and the landing, always encouraging me with small comments and being equally kind and gentle when pointing out my mistakes and suggesting rectifications.
I didn't make the best of takeoffs or landings but felt on top of the world.I had done it! I had flown a large, complex plane for the first time, one with a reputation for not forgiving pilots' mistakes easily.
While building hours on the Lincoln, I flew later with captains of varying abilities, but my favourite was always Sid Gooding. In later years as an instructor, I tried to model my own technique around his patient and laid back approach. His helpful attitude was in marked contrast to that of the many supercilious and pompous check captains that I encountered in my airline career.
In that era it was considered good manners to thank the captain for giving away the landing to a first-timer, although that old world courtesy seems to have disappeared in modern times. Certainly I never saw it happen in the airlines. As we taxied back after my first flight, I thanked Sid for giving me the landing as well. "
That's quite alright," he replied, "It was a pleasure."
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Forty Years Later...
The years passed, and I heard that Sid had left the RAAF to become a schoolteacher. Faced with the inevitable desk job, I too regretfully left the RAAF after 18 happy years. The pages of my logbooks filled up with civilian flying hours with the airlines, and on reaching age 60, I was faced with compulsory retirement from flying Boeings. To earn a crust, I renewed I became an instructor on small planes like the Piper Cherokee and Cessna.
Then, from a colleague came the news that Sid had retired from teaching and lived in Numurkah in country Victoria. I found his address and was soon on the phone. His voice sounded older but his manner brought back happy memories of our flights together nearly forty years ago.
Sid was over 80, and his eyesight was fast fading. He welcomed my suggestion that I could fly up to see him, saying that he would arrange a picnic for my arrival at a nearby airstrip. The next day was sunny, and I hired a Cherokee and flew to Numurkah.
Circling the airstrip, I could see two people with a car waiting in the shade of some trees. The wind was calm and the touch down slightly bouncy. After many hours in Boeings, I still had trouble nailing the round out in light aircraft.
As I climbed from the Cherokee, I recognized Sid immediately. He looked younger than his real age, although by now his hair was very white. Having said that, I felt conscious of my own balding head and middle-aged spread ! We talked of old times, and I mentioned that I had a photograph of him standing on the wreckage of his crashed Lincoln. He asked me with a mischievous twinkle to his eye to examine the photo closely to see if his wallet was there. I thought that with time, I must have imagined the story of Sid's wallet, but happily it was still true.
While Doreen his wife arranged the sandwiches and tea, I finally asked Sid how he won the DFC. He said that he had been on a 1,000-bomber night raid over Germany when another Lancaster collided with his aircraft. With part of the right wing torn away and the outboard engine demolished, Sid needed full rudder and aileron to hold altitude. He considered jettisoning his bombs and returning home, but realized that this meant flying back into the outbound bomber stream. A midair collision was a near-certainty in the dark, so he decided it would be safer to continue to the target with his crippled Lancaster than risk a turn back. His big worry was that if a German night fighter locked on to him, he would be unable to take evasive action. In the event, he dropped his bombs on the target, and returned safely after flying seven hours with full control deflection. For this he was awarded the DFC.
As we talked, it was clear to me that his eyesight was bad, because he was unable to see the photographs that I brought with me. He told me that his wife read books to him, and that sometimes he obtained talking books from a Melbourne library. All too soon the time came to say farewell, and on impulse I asked Sid would he like to come on a short flight with me before I left for Melbourne. He was delighted with the idea. A plan began to form in my mind. After helping him on to the wing of the Cherokee, I offered him the left seat and strapped him in. I stepped off the plane and went up to his wife who was standing to one side watching us quietly. She politely declined my invitation to join us . But she told me quietly, holding back her tears, that Sid had hoped earlier that I would offer to take him up.
"Feel up to flying again Sid?", I asked him. "Why not", he replied with a grin, "As long as you promise to keep an eye on me and give me directions".
I knew there was no way that Sid could see the instruments clearly; he could only just discern the horizon as a very vague general blur between sky and ground. I started the engine and, after releasing the brakes, asked Sid to taxi the aircraft. I gave giving him directions -- left rudder, right rudder, now rudder central -- and we taxied to the end of the field and lined up for take-off. I had begun to feel easier. Sid had controlled the taxiing as though he had never stopped flying. It was evident his instincts were all there, unbelievably sharp and accurate.
I put his hand on the throttle and asked him to move it to take off power. As we started to roll, I kept my hands hovering by the controls, ready to take over at the first sign of trouble. I gave Sid corrections to keep us straight down the runway as we accelerated to rotation speed.. Even before I could prompt him, he eased into the take off with uncanny sense and pitched the nose up just right by instinct, feel and experience. He was at one with an aeroplane again. Sid had always been at one with any aeroplane he flew. I felt strangely choked and humbled. Suddenly it was back to being a student for me, marvelling at how the instructor could fly like he could. How exactly the same feelings welled up after all these years was unreal. I stole a glance at Sid. The excited, satisfied look on his face said it all. Maybe he was just a little tense but then aren't all pilots supposed to be when taking off and landing especially?
He could not see either the altimeter or airspeed indicator. I told him to level out. He set power for cruise where he thought it felt right and probed his way with small control inputs to getting the nose lowered just right. Again, he held attitude accurately and smoothly purely by feel and instinct, helped except in a very small way by the blur that was the horizon. His turn to downwind as I talked him through it minimally was smooth and beautiful to watch. I found myself going way back in time when I had watched Sid execute a perfect asymmetric circuit after losing and feathering an engine on the four-engined Lincoln. I asked him could he see the airstrip now on his left, at all.. He had no hope, he said. Would he like to do the approach and landing, I said. He said he would happy to give it a go. By this time we had gone a fair way downwind, and I lost sight of the grass strip behind us. Talk about the blind leading the blind!
Talk-Down
In the RAAF, we used to fly practice GCAs (Ground-Controlled Approaches). These were radar approaches conducted by ground controllers, sometimes known as "talk-downs." The controller sat in a radio truck and guided the radar target down the course and glidepath marked on his screen. As the aircraft came over the threshold, the radar controller would say, "Touch down, touch down ... NOW!" and seconds later the wheels would hit the runway. GCAs were very effective in thick fog, but unreliable in heavy rain due attenuation of the radar screen. Today there was no fog or rain -- just a fine sunny afternoon and perfect for a GCA. But first I had to locate the strip again.
I told Sid I would talk him down like a GCA controller using RAAF terminology with which we were both familiar. He had flown radar controlled approaches in Mustangs and Spitfires, so he was no stranger to the technique. Sure, he lacked currency after forty years, but he could still pick an attitude and the corresponding power setting to hold it there despite being nearly blind. I knew that I was seeing a perfect example of a pilot who had never lost the touch for seat-of-the-pants flying - the true measure of a pilot.
His circuit height was remarkably accurate as I asked him occasionally to add more or less power and pitch to maintain cruise altitude and airspeed. Finally I spotted the strip and turned Sid on to a long final approach. "All right Sid," I said, "The runway is three miles dead ahead. Bring back the power to set up a gentle descent that will take us all the way to touchdown and hold this heading". Sid eased the throttle back to what he felt would be the right descent rate for the altitude and distance. I could see that we were going to land a little further down the runway. Who was the instructor here, I felt myself asking; I who was talking Sid down, or Sid who had instinctively set up a classic approach as he would have done countless times to show a student that in the initial stages it was always better to land long than wrestle with an aircraft that was going to touch down short?
Sid had become his own instructor.
He held the attitude with few excursions as I gave him instructions to keep the airstrip dead ahead and talked him through the descent. I told him that when landing was imminent, I would call him to flare and close the throttle. From experience, he knew the rate at which to keep coming back on the wheel during hold off. Any problems, I told him, and I would take over control.
Thirty seconds to round-out; I could see Doreen walk from the shade of the trees to watch the landing. I think she knew that Sid would be on the controls.
"Five, four, three, two, and NOW, Sid," I called, and held my breath, my hands poised to take over. "We're almost at six inches above the grass, Sid ... hold it there." Sid held off beautifully then greased it on, maintaining the aircraft right down the centre of the strip. I found I no longer had to give him corrections as he steered it with tiny inputs of rudder to keep it tracking straight. He applied the brakes gently, and we stopped.
"Want me to taxi it back?" I asked. "Could you direct me back to where Doreen is waiting?" he replied. "I'd like to end this flight there", his voice nearly breaking as he tried to keep his emotions in check. We taxied back to the trees and stopped. I switched off the engine. In the silence that followed, I saw that Sid had leaned his head back against the seat, his nearly-sightless eyes closed as he re-lived the last ten minutes that had made up what was surely his final flight as a pilot.
My mind went back in time to when Sid had given me my first take off and landing in a Lincoln. I was glad that I could return the favour, albeit forty years later. For me too, it had perhaps become one of the most touching moments of my life.
I helped Sid out of the plane. Doreen came up to meet him. He held her hand and they quitely walked a few steps away. Sid began to talk to her in a low voice. But I could sense the excitement in it, or was it satisfaction? Exhilaration? Nostalgia? Or all of these and something more too? But for the moment he had flown a plane again after all these years and By God he had flown it well. I slipped away and busied myself with checking the plane before my departure.
We shook hands and said our farewells.. As I was about to step on to the wing to get to the cockpit, Sid touched me on the shoulder. I turned around.
"Thanks for the landing, John", he said softly.
"That's alright, Sid," I replied. "It was a pleasure."
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