THE FLYING SCHOOL
A pupil’s troubles in the early days--How schools
are organised to-day--Types of men who learn to
fly--Amusing things that happen--The stages of
tuition.
In the early morning and in the evening are the flying schools busy, for
it is then as a rule that the wind blows softly; and for his first
flights, when he is new to the control of a machine, the pupil needs
conditions that are favourable. Summer and winter, therefore, directly
it is light enough to see, the instructors bring out their craft, and
practice goes on until all the beginners have had their turn, or perhaps
until the wind rises and prevents further flying until just before dusk.
At the large schools there are now two complete staffs of teachers and
mechanics: one takes the morning spell of work, and is then free for the
day, while the second staff comes on duty in the evening. It is
possible in this way to avoid over-fatigue, and to ensure that both
instructors and helpers are fresh for their work.
It is amusing, nowadays, to look back, say, to the year 1908, and recall
some of the statements that were made about learning to fly. It was, for
instance, when the Wrights began to train pupils, declared impossible to
teach an ordinary man to balance himself in the air. The Wrights could
do it--yes; but they, contended the critics, were altogether abnormal
men. It was argued, indeed, quite seriously, that the brothers had some
phenomenal gift--that they could move far more quickly than ordinary
men; that they were, in a word, two aerial acrobats. But, when put to a
practical test, such arguments were proved idle. The first pupils who
went to the Wrights _did_ learn to fly. They learned easily, and without
accident; and after this, growing in numbers with rapidity, the world’s
airmen were numbered in fifties and hundreds, and then in thousands.
But there were some quaint happenings, none the less, in these early
days. The Wright machine, it will be remembered, ran forward upon a
length of rail before it took the air; and the day came when, after a
number of flights with his instructor, a pupil was allowed to glide by
himself from the rail, and soar upward as gracefully as he could. Some,
being men of a cool temperament, did in fact do just what was required:
they tilted their elevators very gently, and skimmed from the rail with
lightness and ease. But others, nervous and a little over-anxious, drew
back their levers too sharply. The aircraft shot from the rail; then,
robbing itself of forward motion by the abruptness of the ascent, it
came to a standstill in the air and slid back tail-first towards the
ground--much to the discomfiture of the pilot, and generally to the
detriment of its rear-planes. The penalty of a too sudden rise is
illustrated by Fig. 93.
[Illustration: FIG. 93.--Too abrupt an ascent.]
One astonishing fact, however, was soon proved by such mishaps; it was
that one could fall in an aeroplane, and wreck perhaps both planes and
landing gear, and yet in no way damage one’s own person. When many men
came to learn to fly, in fact, and some proved careless or foolhardy,
there were smashes so violent that the novice in the machine was--at any
rate by those who saw what had happened--reckoned to be a dead man. Yet
when the rescuers reached the wreckage, expecting the worst, they found
the pilot crawling from beneath it--looking a little dazed perhaps and
worried, but quite unhurt. What saves a man so often in an aeroplane
fall, is the fact that struts and spars break all around him; and each,
as it rips or splits, absorbs some fraction of the shock. Before the
blow reaches him, therefore, it has lost its force; the breaking of the
woodwork has had a cushioning effect; and if he is well placed in his
machine, and is wearing a safety belt, he may survive without injury
such a smash as may reduce his craft to fragments.
In the first of the flying schools, before a regular fee was charged to
cover all a pupil’s expenses, the breakages he incurred were charged
upon a separate bill; and in some instances, when a man proved clumsy,
these items reached a surprising total. There was one pupil, humorously
inclined, who went to a famous French school in the very early days of
aviation. He was impetuous in handling his machine, and broke landing
gear and propellers with disconcerting frequency. And for all these
breakages bills were sent in to him--long, formidable bills, very
carefully totalled, and with each mishap represented upon them by so
many hundreds of francs. Before long, indeed, regarding these bills with
a rueful smile, the novice had papered the walls of his shed with them;
and there they hung in long festoons, almost in every direction that one
looked. How much it cost that unlucky pupil to learn to fly, none of his
friends could say; but he himself, perhaps humorously, put it at a
figure of several thousand pounds. He declared, in fact, that what he
paid for breakages amounted to a sum sufficient to buy two or three
aeroplanes, all brand new.
But at the present time, should he damage his machine, the pupil need
not concern himself. Before beginning his tuition he pays his fee; and
this is made to include any breakage he may cause. It will insure him,
also, against any claim from a third party--from anyone, that is to
say, who might be injured in some mishap for which he was responsible.
This inclusive fee for learning to fly, at the principal schools to-day,
is represented by a sum of £75; and the pupils who are most numerous are
naval and military officers, who go through their course of training so
as to become eligible for the Government air service. There is, and
always will be, a constant demand for such pilots. At present, having
regard to the strain which is incurred by flying war machines, a naval
or military airman is relieved from active duty after a period of four
years. Then he may join a reserve or--as is now proposed--continue in
the less nerve-trying work of handling airships. Regular air service, in
either the Navy or Army, is reckoned more exacting than ordinary flying,
and for the reason that--say when upon manœuvres or special tests--the
pilot of war-craft may have to make long flights in treacherous,
blustering winds. Frequently, after he has risen upon some special
flight on a stormy day, the force of the wind may so increase that a
pilot runs the gravest of risks when he seeks to alight. While upon one
of his trials, for instance, with a Government-built biplane, a military
airman found that the wind had risen suddenly from 30 or 40 miles an
hour until it was blowing at more than 70. His machine, although a fast
one, was blown to a standstill and occasionally forced backwards; and he
fought the wind for more than an hour, creeping cautiously nearer the
earth, before he could seize upon a lull and make his landing. Another
pilot--this was in the days before “looping the loop”--was blown
completely over by a fierce rush of wind, and descended upside down for
more than a thousand feet--clinging grimly to his machine, and escaping
injury.
[Illustration: _Photo, Topical._
PLATE XIV.--BIPLANE CIRCLING A PYLON.
The machine seen above, a Maurice Farman, is taking part in an air-race
at Hendon, and is “banking” heavily as it rounds one of the wooden
towers that mark the course.]
Naval and military airmen predominate at the schools; but there are many
civilians, also, who come to learn to fly. Some of them, after they are
skilled, become professional pilots, being employed by an aeroplane
company to demonstrate its machines: others, having money to invest,
will buy one or two craft and start a flying school of their own; others
again, after purchasing a machine, will take it abroad with them and
give exhibition flights, visiting places if possible where aviation has
not been seen before. Some men, adopting this plan in early days, had
experiences which were the reverse of pleasant. High winds blew
occasionally, thus preventing them from flying upon the day arranged;
whereupon the spectators, having come long distances perhaps to see a
man ascend, were so furious at their disappointment that they broke from
their enclosures and wrecked the aeroplane in its tent. It happened
sometimes, too, that a man--rendered foolhardy by the clamour of a
crowd--would ascend when conditions were dangerous, and be blown to the
ground and killed. But large sums of money were to be made by
demonstration flights, and so pilots were found ready to run grave
risks--ascending often from cramped and awkward grounds, and making
flights over localities upon which, had their motors failed, they would
have found no safe alighting point.
Among those who meet at a flying school--instructors, pupils, and
mechanics--there is a feeling of friendly regard; and most men, after
they have learned to fly, look back upon their training with a feeling
of regret that it is ended. There is good fellowship in the adventures
of the day--much laughter, too, at the mistakes which are made; and some
of them, without doubt, prove distinctly amusing. It happens
occasionally, for instance, that a pupil will, after being given control
of a machine for the first time, lose his head completely in a panic,
and do just the things which he has been instructed to avoid. In gliding
down from a flight, for instance, the engine should be switched off; but
sometimes the novice--engrossed by his movements of the elevating
lever--will forget all about his motor. Descending at a tremendous pace,
and with the engine still running, he will strike the ground with a
crash and crumple up his chassis; and then no one is more surprised than
he is at what has occurred. It may happen also that a novice, when he is
merely running a machine across the ground, will be seized by panic, or
some form of mental paralysis. Perhaps he may fail to shift his rudder
and so collide with some obstruction or another machine; or he may--as
was the case with one pupil at a well-known school--simply sit helpless
in his seat and allow his craft, with its motor running at full speed,
to charge pell-mell into the fence which bordered the aerodrome. Then,
standing up in the wrecked machine, and staring blankly at those who ran
to him, he confessed that he had forgotten, utterly, each and all of the
things he should have done.
There is an unconscious humour sometimes in a pupil’s remark after he
has met with a mishap. One, attempting too steep a turn, side-slipped
and fell with a crash, wrecking his machine completely. The instructor
hurried to the spot, fearing he might be hurt; but he scrambled from the
wreckage without a scratch. Then walking up to the instructor, he
observed very gravely:
“I say, I’m so sorry: I’m afraid I’ve damaged your machine.”
But it was in the early days, more than at the present time, that
learning to fly proved an adventure. Now it is a business, and one
conducted so admirably that a pupil passes from stage to stage with a
real pleasure. He knows, before he begins his tuition, exactly what his
fee will be. If he wrecks an aeroplane, if he knocks a hole in the side
of a shed, if he rushes full-tilt into another machine--all such
misdemeanours mean nothing to him financially. But it should be
mentioned, incidentally, that such wild deeds are mostly things of the
past; such exploits, for instance, of that of the happy-go-lucky pupil
who, after insisting upon being allowed to use a craft with an
abnormally powerful motor, sprang into the air at his first attempt, and
flew for nearly a mile in a wavering flight--landing eventually, strange
to say, without in any way damaging himself or his machine. Experience
now proves so valuable in the art of learning to fly, that even a clumsy
pupil is safeguarded from accident. A serious mishap at a flying school
is very rare. There are small breakages, of course; but any injury to
pupil, or to anyone else connected with the school, is most
satisfactorily averted: and this safety is gained by so carefully
planning his course of instruction that the novice is doing always
something that is well within his powers.
Matters were entirely different in the pioneer days; then a man was
given a machine, after a little preliminary tuition, and allowed to do
pretty much as he liked--with results, as may be imagined, which were
sometimes remarkable. At one of the French schools, after making a short
flight in a monoplane, a novice sprang from his machine before it had
come to a standstill, and with his motor still running, although he had
throttled it down. His idea was to bring the craft to a temporary halt
by holding it back, and then to turn it round by swinging its tail--and
with its engine still in operation--so that he might leap in again and
fly back across the aerodrome. This daring manœuvre, attempted because
he had not as yet mastered the trick of circling while in the machine,
was quite successful up to a point. Unfortunately, however, while
holding to the side of the hull, and digging his heels into the ground
to check the momentum of the craft, the pupil happened to push over the
lever which controlled the motor. Accelerating rapidly, the engine drew
forward the monoplane with a jerk; the pupil was thrown from his feet
and fell prone, and the machine, without a guiding hand upon its levers,
rushed across the ground and then rose into the air. An extraordinary
flight it made, watched breathlessly by those who stood upon the
aerodrome; first upwards, then downwards, and then sideways, until
finally, losing its balance in a wavering turn, it fell with a crash and
was destroyed.
The first thing one must do in learning to fly, is to become familiar
with the position and movements of the levers of a machine; and these,
as we have explained, are simple. Experience, indeed, after one method
and another has been tried, has brought all systems so that they bear a
resemblance to each other. In one machine a hand-wheel may be employed,
in another perhaps a lever; but the idea underlying all of them is the
same. It is that a pilot’s actions, while he balances his craft, should
be natural and instinctive--that his lever should swing in the direction
he would turn, were he controlling his machine by a movement of the
body. Upon a typical school biplane, such as a pupil learns first to
fly, he has only two levers with which he need concern himself. One,
which he holds in his right hand, controls the rising and alighting and
the balance of his machine; the other, which is in the form of a bar
upon which he rests his feet, swings the rudder and steers him from side
to side. There are, in addition, convenient to his left hand, the switch
and small throttle-lever which operate the motor. The simplicity of the
control is shown by Fig. 94. What the pupil does--as a first stage in
his tuition--is to seat himself in the machine, while it stands at rest
on the ground, and move the levers so that he becomes accustomed to
their action.
[Illustration: FIG. 94.--Control of a School Biplane.]
After this, taking his turn one morning with others who are at the
school, he seats himself behind the instructor and is borne into the air
upon his first flight. In this--and in several subsequent ascents--he
does nothing himself; he is merely a passenger. From his position behind
the pilot, however, he can watch the former’s movement of the levers as
he rises, turns in the air, or descends; and this gives the pupil an
idea as to how far and how quickly a lever must be shifted to gain a
controlling effect. He sees that delicacy is required, chiefly, in the
handling of an aeroplane; and it surprises him to observe that a
movement of a few inches one way or another is all the pilot need make
with his lever. Apart from watching such controlling actions he becomes
accustomed, in these trial flights, to the sensation of being in the
air. It is necessary above all else, that he should learn to feel at
home in an aircraft, and not be flurried by the speed at which it passes
through the air, or by the strangeness of looking downward upon the
ground from a machine in flight. It is important, too, that he should
learn to gauge distances and speed. These, when an aeroplane is in
question, are apt to prove deceiving; it is very necessary, for
instance, that the novice should be able to estimate how far his craft
will travel in a descent, after he has stopped his engine and is
gliding, before it comes in contact with the ground.
Sometimes, through a failure to judge correctly what distance his
machine will glide before alighting, a pupil may find himself in an
awkward position. In one case, for example, switching off his motor
while some distance above the sheds at an aerodrome, the novice began to
plane down, intending to land in the centre of the ground. But he found
as he descended that he had misjudged his height, and was likely to
over-shoot the mark. He steepened the glide, but it was of no avail; his
machine had been much higher, when he stopped his motor, than he had
imagined; and now, instead of alighting where he had planned, he found
himself sweeping rapidly across the aerodrome, still some distance from
the ground, and with trees and other obstructions looming before him.
Down he came till he was about 30 feet from the grass; but his
craft--being a biplane and lightly loaded--seemed almost to resist his
efforts to bring it to earth, and still skimmed through the air in a
graceful glide. He saw now that he could not land in time--that, even if
he managed to touch ground before reaching the end of the aerodrome, his
craft would run on, by reason of its impetus, and collide with a fence
and trees. There seemed only one thing to do--start the motor again,
rise above the trees, and circle round and attempt another landing. But
then the pupil--still sweeping nearer danger--had an unpleasant
surprise: the engine, when he turned the switch, refused for some reason
to start. He fumbled for a second or so, but it was no good; and now he
was rushing upon the trees. Swinging his rudder in a panic, he attempted
to turn. But the pace of the machine had lessened; and, there being no
motive-power behind it, the abruptness of the turn robbed it suddenly of
its forward speed. It wavered, came to a standstill in the air, and
then side-slipped heavily, falling upon one wing-tip, and becoming an
almost total wreck. But the pupil, although shaken, was not injured.
A novice, in landing from a flight, has not only to gauge just where his
machine will touch ground, but must estimate also how far the craft will
roll upon its running wheels before it comes finally to a standstill.
One beginner, alighting correctly but rather too near the rails of an
aerodrome, found that his machine ran forward till it struck them, and
then turned a somersault, pinning him down within his machine, but not
causing him any injury. On some aircraft nowadays, so as to control this
movement over the ground after alighting, a form of brake is fitted
between the landing-wheels, which can be lowered by the pilot from his
seat, and digs a steel prong into the ground, bringing a powerful
checking influence upon the machine. A device of this kind is
illustrated in Fig. 95. Such a means of stopping a machine is often very
necessary, particularly in cross-country flying, for a pilot may land,
say, upon a sloping field, and find that his craft is running downhill
quite beyond his control, and threatening to collide either with a wall
or fence.
[Illustration: FIG. 95.--Ground-brake for aeroplane.
A.A. Running wheels of chassis; B.B. Axle-rods; C. Brake; D. Prong which
plunges into the ground; E. Wire which operates brake.]
After he has flown several times as a passenger, and watched all that
his instructor does while in the air, the pupil reaches the second stage
of his tuition; and in this he is seated alone in a machine, and allowed
to drive it here and there across the aerodrome. The biplane is
adjusted, as a rule, so that it will not fly; and this process of the
training--which is called “rolling” at the schools--is to enable a
novice to handle his craft neatly while on the ground, to learn to steer
to right or left, to keep it when necessary upon a straight course, and
to accustom himself to the starting and stopping and control of his
engine. This practice is important. With his motor giving just
sufficient power to make the controls of the machine effective, but not
enough to lift it into the air, the pupil “rolls” from one side of the
aerodrome to the other; then he turns by a movement of his rudder, which
swings the tail of the machine, and returns again to his starting-point,
striving always to keep his craft from swinging sideways. He finds,
while making these long, straight runs, that the machine shows a
tendency, if the controls are untouched, to swerve a little to the left;
and this is caused by the influence of the propeller, which is revolving
to the left. But the inclination may be checked quite easily by a
movement of the rudder to the right.
With a school biplane, adapted for its work, a novice may soon learn to
steer while on the ground; but with some other types of machine--notably
a fast monoplane--“rolling” is by no means easy. A racing craft, for
instance, when it is moving across the aerodrome, needs most expert
handling: even the smallest error of judgment in the use of the rudder
may send it whirling round upon itself in a violent turn--rather like an
angry bird; while if the pilot attempts to swerve too abruptly, in
avoiding any obstacle before him, the machine may reel sideways and
overturn--and, seeing that it is travelling at a speed greater than that
of an express, the resulting smash may be a serious one.
“Rolling” accomplished, and a facility gained with his control levers,
the pupil is subjected to his first real test. Again alone in the
machine, and with the instructor watching him from the sheds, he
attempts a short, straight flight. There is nothing ambitious about this
journey through the air; those on the aerodrome, in fact, call it a
“hop.” What the pupil does is to accelerate his motor, attain a flying
speed, and very cautiously move his elevator until he is skimming
through the air a few feet above the ground. Then, after flying a short
distance in this way, he pushes forward his lever and descends. He
attempts no turns; rises no height in the air; the idea, indeed, is to
learn the art of ascending and alighting with the least possible risk.
Occasionally, and more often in the early days, a novice has shown an
abnormal skill. One, ascending for the first time and ignoring the
advice of his instructor, passed straight away from the aerodrome,
rising as he flew, and disappeared above a clump of trees, his landing
wheels almost brushing their tops. His instructor, and the officials of
the ground, were naturally perturbed; particularly when, a minute or so
later, the pupil was seen to be returning towards the aerodrome, flying
now so low that he could not hope to clear the trees. Towards them he
came, making no attempt to turn, and those who watched feared a fatal
smash. But then an extraordinary thing happened. Despite the fact that
he was an utter novice, and had made no flight like this before, the
pupil steered coolly for a gap between two trees, and although there was
barely room for his wing-tips, and he actually brushed against the
branches upon one side, he managed to pass through safely and landed
upon the aerodrome without mishap. When the instructor and others came
over to him, expressing their astonishment, he appeared surprised that
his performance should have provoked comment. Quite calm and unmoved, he
seemed to think he had done nothing at all peculiar; although, as a
matter of fact, such a flight between two trees--with practically no
margin for error--would have been a feat considered perilous even by
an experienced airman.
[Illustration: PLATE XV.--VIEW FROM A CRAFT ASCENDING.
In this picture the machine has only just left the ground, and its
occupants, peering down as it rises slantingly, see the spectators below
grow smaller and more remote.]
Once he can make a short, straight flight and land neatly, the pupil is
ready to attempt a turn while in the air. A half-turn to the left is
first essayed, and for the reason that it is more easily accomplished
than a swing to the right. This is due to the fact that the engine and
propeller, revolving to the left, tend naturally to incline a craft in
that direction. The pupil finds as he turns that he must--in addition to
putting over the rudder--move the ailerons at his wing-tips; and he
needs to make this movement because the biplane, while it is in the act
of swinging, begins to heel inwards. The outer plane-ends of a machine,
when it is forced thus upon a turn, have indeed a natural inclination to
“bank,” or rise. This is because, as the craft swings, the outer
wing-tips move more rapidly through the air than do those upon the
inside of the turn; they exercise, for the moment, therefore, a greater
lifting power; and the result is that, with this sudden and extra
“lift,” they force up the outer side of the machine. On a very rapid
turn, if this movement went unchecked, a machine might heel to such an
angle that it slipped inwards and fell to the ground; but there is no
fear of this if the pilot, moving over his hand-lever, draws at the
ailerons upon the side of the craft that is tilting down. This causes
the plane-ends to rise, and the machine swings upon a normal path. Fig.
96 shows a school biplane making a “banked” turn. A certain amount of
“banking” is necessary when turning; it helps a craft to incline
smoothly and prevents it from skidding outwards, as it might do were its
planes not heeling to the swing. Any pronounced degree of “banking” must
not, however, be indulged in by a pupil. In even an acute “bank,” to a
skilled pilot, there is no element of risk; experience has told him, in
a way nothing else could, just what angle may be safe, or what not; but
the beginner, remembering that any steep inclination of his planes may
cause a side-slip, must not venture so to heel his craft. Sometimes,
becoming over-bold, a novice may “bank” steeply once or twice without
mishap; but then perhaps, while attempting to repeat the manœuvre he had
made before, he may pass without knowing it over the danger-line, and
find his craft slipping helplessly beneath him. If flying quite near the
ground, as probably he will be, the mishap may mean a crumpled wing and
nothing worse; and it will serve the purpose of teaching him a greater
caution.
[Illustration: FIG. 96.--Banked turn on a biplane.
A.A. Represent the ailerons, which are drawn down by the pilot to
prevent the machine from heeling too far inwards.]
Although, under favourable conditions, a modern machine requires little
control, and though he meets with few difficulties when he is learning
to fly, a pupil must remember always that no liberties can be taken
while he is in the air; every instant he is aloft he needs caution. The
greatest of the world’s airmen--the Wrights, say, or Bleriot or
Farman--never lost for one moment what may be termed their respect for
the air. A man who is haphazard or careless should not turn to aviation;
he is a danger to himself, and to others also.
After making turns to the left, until he can accomplish them with ease,
the novice attempts a similar manœuvre to the right; but he needs to
remember, while at this stage of his tuition, that a turn must never be
attempted while a machine is ascending. If this mistake is made, and a
craft is swung sideways while its planes are inclined at a steep angle
to the air, it may lose its forward speed and slide tail-first towards
the ground.
When turning to the right, as soon as he attempts this manœuvre, the
pupil finds that his craft has a tendency to rise: this is due to the
gyroscopic effect of engine and propeller, which are revolving in the
opposite direction to the turn. To counteract the influence, however,
which is slight, the pilot should move his elevator so that it is in the
position for a descent. The machine, if he does this, will resist the
gyroscopic motion and maintain an even keel. In early days, when little
was known about this gyroscopic influence, a turn to the right was
considered difficult and even dangerous, and there were men who would
not attempt it if they could avoid doing so. But nowadays, thanks to
greater knowledge and experience, the right-hand turn proves as easy
almost as a similar movement to the left.
Reaching the stage when he can turn with facility either right or left,
the pupil combines these manœuvres in a single flight, and learns also
to stop his motor while in the air and descend in a glide. The point to
be remembered in making a _vol-plané_ is that, when its motor is
stopped, the only force which keeps an aeroplane moving is that of
gravity. If it stands still in the air its planes are inoperative, and
it falls. So, as he switches off the motor, the airman must push forward
his elevating lever, tilt down the front of his machine, and set it
gliding earthward; and, if the speed of his glide is maintained, the
craft is perfectly controllable. The actual landing is a matter of
skill. Just before his craft touches ground, the novice must tilt back
his elevating plane; this checks the glide, raises the front of the
machine, and brings his wheels into a smooth contact with the ground.
Should such a checking movement not be made--and some nervous pupils
have been known to forget it--a machine may strike ground sharply, at an
awkward angle, and damage its chassis. The landing-gear of a school
biplane is, however, made specially strong, and will resist a heavy
shock.
Now the pupil is ready for his official tests. These are conducted by
the Royal Aero Club, which has officials at the aerodrome. Two posts are
fixed in the ground, not more than 500 metres (547 yards) apart, and
round these the pupil must fly, altering the direction of his flight at
each turn, so that he is making in the air a series of figures of eight.
Two such flights is he called upon to make, each of a distance of 5
kilometres (3 miles 185 yards); and he is asked also to ascend 100
metres (328 feet), and from this altitude descend with his motor
stopped. In alighting from each of his tests the pupil must, so as to
show his judgment of distance and speed, bring his machine to rest
within 160 feet of a mark upon the aerodrome that is indicated to him.
The representatives of the Aero Club, when these trials are completed,
send to headquarters their official report; and the committee of the
club, after considering this and finding it in order, issues to the
pupil a numbered certificate, which contains his photograph for purposes
of identification and a printed list of the rules which, as a duly
qualified pilot, he must now observe. Once he has gained his
certificate--or “ticket” as it is called at the aerodrome--the pupil
ceases indeed to be a novice, the period of his tuition ends, and he
becomes entitled to take part in the races at Hendon, or in any other
contests that may be organised under the jurisdiction of the Club.
Naturally, even when he has gained his certificate, the pilot has much
to learn. The passing of his tests does not imply, for instance, that he
is a flyer of experience, able to grapple instantly with any difficulty
that may arise. What the granting of his certificate does actually show,
is that he has learned how to handle an aeroplane, and may be relied
upon to make no elementary mistakes. The art of cross-country flying is
still a closed book to him; and to this, as a rule, he next turns his
attention, first making short trips near the aerodrome, and then
increasing gradually the length and boldness of his flights. Then he
must learn to combat a wind, and to steer by his maps and compass; he
must, in fact, teach himself to be an all-round man. And none of these
stages must be gone through hurriedly. In aviation, more than in any
other art in the world, the whole of a man’s knowledge must be
dependable and sound.