THE TRAINING OF AN AVIATOR
It is a rocky road that leads from the obscurity of civilian life to the
glory and achievement of a successful "bird-man." The man--or the
boy--who elects to follow it must be possessed of brains, physical
perfection, and iron grit, for he will need them all if he is to become
one of the "heroes of the air." With one's feet on solid earth it is
easy enough to make mistakes and profit by them, doing better the next
time. The airman seldom profits by his serious blunders, for he is no
longer on the scene when the experts are pointing out what error he was
guilty of. The moment his machine, after a run across the ground,
suddenly lifts and goes skimming off into the blue, he must depend upon
himself. No friend upon the earth can shout to him any advice; his own
unfailing knowledge and quick judgment must dictate in every emergency
and see him through until once more he alights upon this old world.
Fortunately the War has proved that there were many young men able to do
just that--depend upon themselves in situations so critical that the
slightest deviation from the right course, the slightest hesitation
about what to do next, would have cost them their lives, and their
government a costly airplane. Such men have covered themselves with
glory, and have won the love and admiration of their people. But they
did not achieve their daring exploits nor make their marvelous records
in the air until they had passed through a series of tests and a system
of training so rigid that it might well have discouraged the most
stout-hearted.
Why must the aviator be physically perfect? Just imagine for one moment
some of the hardships and perils he will have to face. The higher the
altitude at which he flies, the more intense becomes the cold. In some
regions of the upper air temperatures as low as 80° and 90° below zero
have been recorded by fliers. And rushing through the air at such speeds
as 150 miles an hour produces a strain upon the lungs which only the
strongest and sturdiest can endure. Nor is this all. The tiniest defect
in the mechanism of the inner ear may cost the airman his life, if he
undertakes night flying. If only he were required to fly in broad
daylight when there were neither clouds nor darkness to obstruct his
view of Old Mother Earth, he might manage to get along with a
less-than-perfect ear. But at night,--on a cloudy night at that, when
there are no lights on earth to guide him and no stars visible in the
sky--the aviator faces some of his gravest perils. Strange as it may
seem it is often very difficult for him to tell whether his machine is
in a horizontal position, whether he is flying right-side-up or is
toppling over at a perilous angle. The only thing which helps him in
this extremity is a slight reflex action in the inner ear which warns
him of any loss of "balance." In the same way perfect vision is
absolutely essential to the man who must be prepared for any sort of
aerial emergency. This does not mean merely "seeing well." It means the
absolute working right of the lens and muscles of the eye, their quick
readjustment to normal after any series of loop-the-loops, after a nose
dive or any sort of acrobatic stunt an airplane may be called on to
perform.
So it goes with every one of the physical requirements laid down by the
military authorities for men who would become fliers--they are not just
arbitrary requirements, but are based on long experience of the demands
which flying makes upon the system. In peace times the aviator may be
able to get along with somewhat less than the physical perfection
required of the military aviator, particularly if he takes up flying
merely as a sport, for he will be able to spare himself the night flying
and all the other difficult feats which have been required of the
aviators in the war. But the next few years are going to see many new
commercial duties opening to the airplane, and the pilots who guide
these great ships of peace and industry will no doubt be chosen by just
as high standards as our military aviators.
The room in which the would-be military aviator receives his physical
examination has been jokingly referred to as "the Chamber of Horrors,"
and he reaches it after a short preliminary test of heart, lungs, and
ear. As he sits side by side with his fellow applicants in the outer
waiting room, he cannot help a feeling of "creepiness." At intervals a
doctor appears at the door of that secret chamber and beckons another
unfortunate in. He remembers all the grewsome stories he had heard of
happenings in that room behind the closed door and his knees commence to
shake. Gradually the minutes pass and by a supreme effort he begins to
recover his nerve. Suddenly the door opens and a white faced applicant
rushes out. The poor would-be aviator regrets his rashness in deciding
to learn to pilot one of the big birds of the air. But it is his turn
next, so, appearing as unconcerned as possible, he follows the doctor
in.
He is ordered to sit down in a small chair to the back of which is
attached a bracket for his head. The clamps are adjusted to hold his
head firm, he is told to fix his gaze on a point ahead, and then
suddenly, he commences to whirl around. Round and round he goes, ten
times in 20 seconds. The chair comes abruptly to a halt. He must find
that point he fixed his eyes on before starting. He struggles vainly to
do so, imagining that failure means immediate rejection, but his
eyeballs are turning rapidly back and forth. At last they stop, the
physician calls out the number of seconds to his assistant. The same
experiment is tried in an opposite direction, similar ones follow, and
then the unhappy applicant braces himself for one of the most severe of
all the physical tests.
His head is released from the clamp in which it has been held, and he is
instructed to clench his hands upon his knees and rest his head on them.
This done, the chair begins whirling once more. As it comes to a sudden
halt, he is sharply ordered to raise his head. He has the impression
that he is falling rapidly through space, and a dizzy "seasickness"
almost overcomes him. Finally his eyeballs cease their swift gyrations.
The instructor has timed them with a stop-watch. He is excused from the
room, and, feeling like a man who had been through a siege of illness,
he makes a dash for the open air.
If the applicant for service in the air has passed his preliminary tests
successfully, he may shortly find himself at one of the government's
"ground schools," where his education in airplane science begins. Actual
flight is still a long way off: he must first receive some rudimentary
drill in ordinary "soldiering," and next be put through an intensive
course of training in a positively alarming number of studies, before he
even approaches the joyful moment when he may begin to think of himself
as even a fledgling aviator.
In the next few weeks he must become something of a gunner, a telegraph
operator, a map-reader, a photographer and a bomber; he must make the
acquaintance of the airplane engine in the most minute detail; go
through a course in astronomy and one in meteorology; and learn the use
of the compass and all other instruments necessary in steering an
airplane along a definite course. Aerial observation forms no small part
of his course of studies. Sitting in a gallery and looking down upon a
large relief map whose raised hills, buildings, streams, and trenches
give a very fair reproduction of the earth as it will look to him when
he flies over it in a machine, he learns to pick out the objects of
strategic importance, and to prepare military reports which will help
the staff officers in their work of directing hostilities. Or he may
have to report the results of a mock bombardment, and thus prepare
himself for the duties of the artillery "spotter." In order to be able
to interpret with a fair degree of intelligence the things he will see
as an aerial observer, he must know a good deal about military science
and strategy himself, and this forms one of the subjects in his
curriculum at the ground school. His life here is a strenuous one. He
rises soon after five in the morning, and from then until lights go out
for the night at 9:30 he has all too little time to call his own.
Before he is finally passed out of the ground school the cadet must
prove that he understands thoroughly the principle of flight, the
operation of an internal combustion engine, and the care and repair of a
machine. He will be able to recognize the various types of airplanes, he
will have some skill at aerial observation, and he will be able to
operate an airplane camera, a bomb-dropping instrument and a
range-finder, a wireless or a radio instrument. He will have been
instructed in signaling with wigwag and semaphore, in the operation of a
magneto, in the theory of aerial combat, and in a number of minor
subjects such as sail-making, rope-splicing, etc.
Thus prepared in his "ABC's," the would-be aviator finally makes his
departure for the actual flying school. Here he does not shake off dull
class-room routine and launch forth upon a career of aerial adventure.
Quite to the contrary his intensive training in the technical side of
aviation becomes even more exacting. He takes apart and puts together
again with his own hands various types of airplane engines, he practises
gunnery at a moving target, he assembles an airplane out of the
dismantled parts.
He does, however, have that wonderful experience, his first flight. Some
fine morning he is told that the instructor will take him up, and,
thoroughly bundled up for warmth in a leather jacket, woolen muffler,
heavy cap, etc., with goggles and other little essentials of an
aviator's dress, he climbs into the machine. He expects to acquire
considerable knowledge of the science of aviation on that first flight.
As a matter of fact his mind is so completely overwhelmed by the many
new sensations that come to it, that it is only a long time after that
he is able to sort them out and form an accurate conception of the
adventure. The roar of the motor is deafening as the big bird of the air
goes taxiing across the earth. He does not realize that he has left the
ground, until suddenly, looking down, he sees the solid earth receding
rapidly from beneath him. Then, unexpectedly the machine gets into the
"bumps" and he has a few nervous moments until finally it rights itself
and goes skimming off into the blue. The sun is shining and below the
earth looks peaceful and friendly. He settles himself more comfortably
in his seat and begins to enjoy his little aerial journey. Suddenly,
without a second's warning, the airplane dives downward. The sickening
drop leaves him a trifle paler, perhaps, and he no longer has the
pleasant sensation of relaxed enjoyment. He hardly knows what to expect
next, and the instructor, bent on testing his nerve takes him through
stunt after stunt, climbing, turning, diving. At length the airplane
glides gently to earth. A short run over the ground once more, followed
by a full stop; and the young gentleman who went up a few minutes ago
with a good deal of vim and self-assurance climbs out with a feeling of
relief and satisfaction that his feet are once more on terra firma.
But do not imagine that he has lost his enthusiasm for the air. If that
were the case then he would not be of the stuff of which aviators are
made. At the worst reckoning he has acquired an intense ambition to some
day "try it on the other fellow," and this in all probability he will
do, when, in the course of time he has become an experienced and
seasoned airman.
In the meantime, however, he must first accustom himself to the "feel"
of the air, and next he must learn the operation and control of the
airplane in flight. After a few first trips as a "passenger," he will be
allowed to try his hand at steering the machine. This is done by what is
called a dual control system. Instead of the single control-stick and
steering-bar of the ordinary airplane, the training machine has these
parts duplicated, so that any false move on the part of the student
flyer may be immediately corrected by the instructor. As long as his
movements are the right ones, the instructor does not interfere, but the
moment he makes a mistake the control of the airplane passes out of his
hands. Gradually he becomes more and more adept at guiding the big bird
through the air, and can get along nicely without any interference or
correction. At each lesson he has mastered some new problem. He knows
how to leave the earth at the proper angle after the first short run
over the ground, and how to come down again, how to turn in the air,
when to cut off the power in alighting and when to apply the brakes. He
learns to listen for the rhythmic sound of the engine and to know when
anything has gone wrong with it.
By far the most difficult of his problems is the art of landing. As we
have already seen the speed of an airplane cannot be reduced below a
certain danger line if its wings are to continue to support it in the
air. This danger line varies with different types of airplanes, but in
all of them the engine must be kept running at a fairly high speed or
the whole structure will come crashing to the earth. To bring an
airplane to earth while it is traveling at a speed of 75 miles an hour
is no mean accomplishment. It must not bump down heavily upon the
ground, or its landing chassis will be broken, even if no more serious
accident occurs. It must settle slowly until its wheels just touch,
while all the time it is moving forward at the rate of a fast express
train. This is an art that requires infinite practise to acquire, but
it is one of the most important feats the student airman has to learn.
However, the long wished-for day finally arrives when he can be trusted
to go aloft by himself. Carefully he goes over every inch of his
machine, to be sure it is in A-1 condition. He inspects the engine and
tests every strut and wire, then, satisfied that it is in prime working
order, he climbs into his seat. That is one of the most thrilling
moments connected with his aviation training. In all other flights he
has known that the errors he might make could be corrected by the trusty
instructor. Now he must rely solely upon himself. With a feeling of
mastery and conquest, he goes skimming into the air. He longs to prove
himself. Probably he does, and not long after he receives permission to
try for an aviator's certificate. This is the certificate issued by the
Aero Club of America; it does not make him a full-fledged military
aviator, but it marks the completion of the first stage of his progress
toward the coveted goal.
In order to acquire the aviator's certificate, the candidate must
accomplish two long distance flights and one altitude flight; he must be
able to cut figures of eight and to land without the slightest injury to
his machine. In other words he must prove to the satisfaction of his
examiners that he is able to handle an airplane skilfully, barring of
course any fancy exploits in the air.
He now launches on his advanced course of training. This will require
at least three months of hard work, and during that time he must learn
to fly a number of different types of machines which are used in
military aviation. In the meantime he may perhaps go up for examination
to acquire the much-coveted "wings." But do not imagine that _they_ mark
the end of his education. With the aviator it is very much as with the
schoolboy: when he finishes one grade or stage of his progress he passes
on to a still more difficult. The man who has acquired "wings" is not
immune from the most trying daily routine of studies, which include the
ever important map-reading, photography, aerial gunnery and what-not.
Finally, however, there does come a day when the army aviator may be
said to pass out of the elementary school of classes and instructors
into the broader school of experience. Many young American aviators who
served during the War can look back upon such a day with a thrill. They
had then their hardest lessons to learn. The map-reading, the gunnery,
the trying and tedious curriculum of the aviation school become suddenly
vital issues, and the facts which were learned in the classroom have to
be mastered anew by _living them_ in the air. The experience of one
young airman on his first real assignment goes to show how the problems
which seemed so easy of solution on the ground become unexpectedly
difficult when the flyer is face to face with them for the first time up
there above the clouds. Fresh from his course of training, he had been
ordered to take an airplane from one government hangar to another which
was close up behind the front lines. He knew his "map-reading" pretty
well, but he had never made a long cross-country flight before and the
ground was unfamiliar. Somewhere near his destination he made a false
turn, and the first intimation that reached him of the fact that he was
off his course was the appearance below him of white puffs of
smoke--"cream puffs" as the airmen have jokingly nicknamed them. He
realized with a start that he was over the enemy's lines and was being
fired at. Without losing any time he turned his face toward home, and
this time he succeeded in spotting the lost hangar and making a safe
landing. But he had learned a little lesson in following his map which
no instructor could have taught him half so well.
[Illustration: _Copyright Underwood and Underwood_
A PHOTOGRAPH MADE TEN THOUSAND FEET IN THE AIR, SHOWING MACHINES IN "V"
FORMATION AT BOMBING PRACTICE]
There are many lessons like that which the airman who is new at the game
must master. Gradually he becomes more and more expert and more and more
self-reliant. Then, if he is of the stuff that heroes are made of,
perhaps he may distinguish himself by his daring accomplishments in the
air. The more daring and successful he appears to be, the more certain
it is that he has covered that long road of careful preparation with
exacting thoroughness.
[Illustration: _Copyright International Film Service, Inc._
A GROUP OF DE HAVILLAND PLANES AT BOLLING FIELD NEAR WASHINGTON]