Learning Experiences

A training film pays off

I had a near-death experience in an airplane when I was a Royal Air Force student pilot. Although I had 24 hours total time, I was also on a scholarship at Manchester University, which meant my time had been accumulated over 10 months and my continuity was nonexistent. It was a muggy English summer day, one with enough lifted index to guarantee a late-afternoon rumpus. I was in a de Havilland Chipmunk, WK624, on my first solo sortie out of the pattern, with zero time in adverse weather (and, therefore, no weather judgment) and zero time on instruments. I vaguely knew what the instruments were for, but I had never used them to keep myself right side up.

The flight started to unwind when my instructor, who was required to remain in the tower while a novice was loose in the local area, got nervous about an approaching squall line and called me back to base. From my perch at 5,000 feet, I could see the squall line about 20 miles to the south of the field, headed north with chaotic black clouds boiling into the hazy blue sky. The squall line was not very long and little more than one cloud wide -- I could see almost all the way around it. For 50 miles in every other direction the sky held only scattered fluffy cumulus clouds, the ones that make an English summer's day so lovely. But the squall itself flashed continuous lightning signals that said, if you knew the siren code, "Come to me, I can really hurt you."

Dutifully, I pointed my tiny vessel toward home and scuttled back as fast as her stubby little Chipmunk legs would go. As I spurred her on, we probably made 100 kt, but it felt much slower as the storm bore down on the field with frightening speed. I was losing the race, but as an obedient RAF officer I never questioned my instructor's order to come home. I just took every shortcut I could think of (full throttle, no pattern, no flaps), and hurtled around the final turn. The storm, with a wall of dust leading the way, towered menacingly a few yards to the right as I dived for the ground.

I even came within a few seconds of cheating the great black monster of its intended prey. But, Mother Nature put in a quick burst of her own, and when I got to 300 feet on final, the visible world turned grey, the ground disappeared, and I ran into a wall of cascading water. The wind was howling, the noise was deafening, and in seconds my little fabric-covered box became flotsam on a sea of raging madness. When a bolt of lightning exploded seemingly within a few feet of the aircraft, the unimaginable intensity of its flash disoriented me even more than the maelstrom into which I continued to descend.

Of course, I should have died right there. I was being pur�ed in a tumbling cauldron of swirling foam, just a few feet from the ground, with zero instrument time and a mind that was at best sub-optimal.

By a happy chance (don't you love those?), on the previous day I had seen an old U.S. Air Force training film about spatial disorientation. The film's critical message was "When you get disoriented -- get on gauges." Like a Pavlovian dog responding to the bell, I found myself focused on the artificial horizon (that's what we called the attitude indicator back then) and used it to bring some order to the chaos. First, wings as level as conditions and my skills allowed. Second, realizing that I was still descending (an insight that bubbled up out of the one corner of my mind that was still operational), I added power and raised the nose -- at the time I could not have been more than a few seconds from my unscheduled meeting with Planet Earth. Third, a gentle but jerky left turn toward the last clear air I had seen. Without warning, the clouds spewed me out into the daylight. I was at a crazy angle and about a hundred feet from the ground, but I was free. In short order, the turbulent wind and driving rain were behind me, and I started to breathe again. Although badly shaken, I was still alive, and the trusty little Chipmunk was still flying.

It was with a new appreciation that I looked around at the world and saw how beautiful it all was -- sunshine, green fields, ripening corn, and not a cloud in the sky (at least in the direction I was now headed).

Amazingly, my troubles were not over. After circling for a half-hour while the squall passed, I came back to the pattern again, only to be extended on downwind to let a Vulcan bomber land ahead of me. Guess where the storm was? Downwind, of course. And, still obeying ATC's orders, I stupidly flew straight back into it.

So I executed a 180-degree instrument turn (by now I was an experienced instrument pilot with about 45 seconds of "actual") that led me directly into the traffic following me on the downwind. To add tension where none was needed, I was running on fumes, having been airborne for what felt like a week. On my next attempt, when ATC tried to send me around again to let in another approaching Vulcan, I (at last) summoned enough courage to let ATC know that they could go hang themselves (or words to that effect) -- I was landing, and their big ugly Vulcan could go to hang too. When I landed, I swear there was more perspiration in my flight suit than gas in the tanks.

What did I learn from this? First, in his effort to save me, my instructor had done a fine job of nearly killing me. He should have asked for more information before deciding on the recall. He should have asked me what I saw. With better information on the developing situation, I'm sure he would have waited to recall me until the storm passed, or sent me somewhere else. Second, you are the pilot in command no matter how many hours you've got, and you must have the courage to say no to ATC when necessary. It's your neck on the line, not theirs. You can answer their questions later, but only if you are alive to do so; otherwise you are just another statistical hole in the ground. Finally, be a sponge for knowledge -- you never know where you'll find that little extra something that will save your neck.

The combination of factors operating that day meant my chances of surviving could not have been any better than 1 in 1,000. But I am living proof that miracles do sometimes happen, especially if you pay attention to training films.

"Learning Experiences" is presented to enhance safety by providing a forum for students and pilots to learn from the experiences of others. It is intended to provoke thought and discussion, acknowledging that actions taken by the authors were not necessarily the best choices under the circumstances. We encourage you to discuss any questions you have about a particular scenario with your flight instructor.